March to Manhood

“Mom? Are you sure I was supposed to bring a sack lunch?” It is at least the fifth time he’s asked the question.

“Yes, honey.” I try to sound soothing as I open the car door and pop the trunk lid. I fight the urge to heft the bag inside, and stand back as he finds the shoulder strap.

We start the hike across black pavement while I scan the growing crowd of campers for anything resembling a sack lunch.

“Look! There’s one.” I nod my head in the direction of a young brunette leaning against a large, bright green suitcase adorned with large, red hearts. A matching, miniature bag dangles from one hand.

“That’s probably not a lunch. That could be anything!”, he growls. “I don’t think we were supposed to bring a lunch. We didn’t bring one last year. We went to the dining hall.” His rests on his chest while he adjusts the shoulder strap of the larger bag.

I scan again, as we round the front fender of another parent’s car.

“Look! That has to be a lunch. See? You’re ok!”

A tall, thin boy, whose posture repeats the carelessness implicit in the length of his wavy, brown hair, stands between his parents. A small, brown, bag, imprinted with the words “Whole Foods” in large, green, block-lettering sits between his sneakered feet.

I breathe a sigh of relief at Shane’s silence.

We join the crowd, and as Shane searches for familiar faces I unsheath my camera.

“Mooomm! Don’t do that!” His effort to evade attention keeps his volume low.

“I want some pictures.” I explain while checking other parents’ shoulders for camera bags.

“What kind of dog do you think that is?” Shane attempts to draw my attention to a dog of obvious varietal lineage dancing on the end of a leash held by the woman standing next to me. He moves closer to the dog, and I wonder if he feels I’m less likely to photograph him surrounded by strangers.

I snap a shot. He tidies his hair, self-consciously.

“Hey, Shane!” We both hear it.

“Who was that?”

“Nick!”, he answers in a voice that suggests I should have known, while craning his neck in the direction of the sound. “He’s gone.”, he says, leaving “…and its all your fault.” unspoken.

A tide of campers and parents moves in the direction of the buses.

“Get your bag.”, I say as I zip my camera back into the bag, hoping to lessen his stress.

Uncertainty dances through Shane’s eyes as he reaches, again, for the shoulder strap.

“Where are we going?”, his voice mirrors his eyes.

“It looks like everyone is moving towards the buses.” I look back over my shoulder to see him heft the bag.

“Are you sure?”

I take a step back and put my arm around his shoulder.

“Come on.”

He walks under my arm until we reach the crowd gathered beside Bus 2, his bus. Standing much taller than he had when last we saw him, with shoulders and arms that speak of impending manhood; Trexler waits next to his Dad. Shane shirks my shoulder for that of his friend. The two former teammates complete the obligatory bump followed by an offering of all the testosterone they can muster in the form of an urban-style handshake.

“Hey…”, Shane mutters a studied disinterested greeting.

“Your bus?”, Trex points.

“Yeah…”

“What cabin?”

“Ten.”

A lazy smile slides across the taller boy’s face.

“Me, too.”

Shane fails in his effort to control his grin. “Cool!”

The two boys begin to rehash last year’s experience.

“Yeah, we stayed up till six in the morning…” Trexler talks through his grin.

“Don’t they wake you at eight?”, I ask, sharing a smile with Trexler’s Dad, Mr. Curtis, who employs his eyes as his mouth is busied with his coffee cup.

A boarding line begins to form. Shane hefts his bag with renewed enthusiasm, maintaining his place beside his friend. I force myself to take a step back. Trexler’s Dad joins me with a look that pats me on the back.

Minutes later, the line begins to move and so do I. The last thing I see before feeling Shane’s shoulders under my hands is the look of abject horror crossing his face.

“Moomm…”, he moans, softly. I pull away quickly, smiling my understanding, and return to my place beside Mr. Curtis, whose faraway gaze assures me of his willingness to overlook my unfortunate show of emotion.

Unreasonably, I worry that the counselor at the head of the line won’t find Shane’s name on the list. I remember worrying the same worry last year. As both boys board, my companion turns to me.

“Looks like they made it…”, he smiles a salutation and disappears behind the bus on his way to join the workforce.

I strain to maintain sight of the bill of Shane’s cap as he disappears behind the smoky windows of the bus. Despite my efforts, I lose sight of him.

Perhaps he sat on the other side. I walk to the other side of the bus, willing a look of casual interest as I stand in a median in dire need of mowing. After several minutes I am sure he is not there.

I consider leaving. After all, he probably won’t notice if I stay. But, I do.

I cross back the way I came and find a spot I’m sure is visible to anyone sitting on this side of the bus. If he only looks once, I should be here, I reason.

The driver makes ready to leave by lowering the doors of the luggage bins to reveal the bill of Shane’s cap. I stand quietly as he searches. I see him see me.

He raises his hand to his cap, and three fingers repeatedly brush the brim. I wonder at the movement until I see the intensity in his eyes.

I wave back, and we both smile.

Smooth Criminal

The day after Michael Jackson’s death, a local radio deejay made this observation, “In less than a month, we’ve lost David Carradine, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. The seventies are officially dead.” The statement struck a chord with me.

Despite his age, I was surprised to hear of Carradine’s passing. His appropriately thin, zen-inspiring image almost seemed capable of transcending death. It saddened me to learn that Farrah had finally succumbed to the cancer she’d been fighting, valiantly, for years. She seemed to have felt joy in life.

Michael Jackson’s death made me angry.

I watch very little television, and have made no exception for the smothering blanket of press coverage foisted upon us by all the major news organizations. It boggles the mind that CNN devoted nearly two entire days to Michael Jackson, as North Korea perfects its nuclear aim and Iranians continue to die while their president attempts to bully Americans with sophomoric word games. But, I haven’t been able to avoid the travesty entirely.

My son just discovered Michael Jackson’s music last year, when “Fall Out Boy” did a cover of “Beat It”. He asked to hear the original version, deemed it superior, and ended up downloading the entire “Thriller” album onto his IPOD. Thursday evening, while returning home from dinner out with a friend and his mother, Shane heard the news of Jackson’s death on the car radio. He was bursting with the announcement when he came home, and seeing he was affected, we watched some of the news coverage together.

The piece was a retrospective, and when Joe Jackson’s seemingly perpetually angry visage filled the screen, I identified the emotion I’d been carrying for most of the day.

Over the last twenty years, much as been written about Joe Jackson’s alleged maltreatment of his children. And, the maladjustment and/or mental illness apparent in many of their lives appear to bear out the accusations. Michael Jackson’s life, as told by the media, and often in his own words, seems a portrait of tortured misery that began when childish joy urged his feet to dance.

Nothing angers me more, or saddens me more deeply than hearing of violence perpetrated on children by the people they love most in the world, and are most dependant upon. This is one reason I avoid local newscasts. Unfortunately, the stories are common. It is also one reason I struggle with religion and the belief in a benevolent God. I’ve never been able to understand why a child would be born, only to die at the hands of his own parents.

Recently, I discussed this with a very wise woman who put things into perspective. As she explained it, God created man, initially. But man, and the choices he makes through the gift of free will, sometimes creates monsters.

Finding Farrah

As far as I am concerned, Katherine Hepburn was the quintessential woman; the type of woman who could pull on a pair of stove-pipe, worsted-wool trousers under a form-fitting, man-style vest while puffing on the cool end of an unfiltered cigarette and still be the classiest woman in a room filled with skirts.

Farrah Fawcett was no Katherine Hepburn. When “Charlie’s Angels” jiggled across our television sets in 1976, I immediately dismissed the toothy blonde who would soon make history for no greater talent than being blessed with good hair. Kate Jackson caught my eye, at first. Rail-thin and smart as a whip, I loved the earthy gravel in her voice as she shared her unfailing common sense with Bosley, Charlie, and the girls. Later, I grew enamored of Jaclyn Smith. Equal in intelligence to Sabrina, Kelly retained a soft, warm femininity, and she knew how to use it. As I watched the three of them cavort through the mean streets of Los Angeles, Farrah’s character, Jill, elicited nothing more from me than an occasional groan at her rendition of a bubble-headed blonde.

She did some good work in the eighties. I still carry around an image from the movie “Extremities”, in which her character restrains her attacker, caging him under a table before calling her friends for help. The strength of her performance left me wondering if her earlier portrayal of a vacuous bimbo was just as masterful.

Then came her incoherent interview with Letterman, which she followed with a reality show featuring long-time companion Ryan O’Neal. I watched one episode, and was sure I could feel myself leaking brain cells as I watched. But watch I did. It was a train wreck, and it’s always hard to turn away from a good train wreck.

Several weeks ago, purely by chance, I saw Farrah on television again. Her famous mane had been shorn, and her skin looked weathered. Her eyes carried age and pain, but her voice remained unchanged as she read from her journal, chronicling her battle with anal cancer.

Much has been written since the program aired, and especially since her death, about Farrah’s decision to share her journey. But, I’m glad I watched. The hour was filled with images of torturous medical procedures, stomach-churning rides in limousines, and long passages of prose written by Farrah in anticipation of the time when she wouldn’t be around to speak her words. But, this is not what remains with me.

I remember the love; the love rained upon her by her companion, Ryan O’Neal, the love she inspired in her care-takers, the love she felt for her errant son, and, her love of self.

Farrah Fawcett was a simple girl from Texas who was blessed with great teeth and better hair, and in the end, none of that was important. In the end, it was all about strength and love.

And, I’m grateful for the lesson.

No!

I am given to excess…

Once, when I was fairly young, maybe eleven or twelve, I ate enough chocolate to elicit an allergic reaction. Details of the event are lost in a blessedly selective memory. I know my mother had spent the better part of an afternoon baking what I remember to be cupcakes for someone’s birthday or a school party, or some such. I know she was called away by the telephone, probably to run her leg of a car-pool. And, while she was away I ate. Upon her return, we met each other red-faced; she from anger, while hives competed with embarrassment upon mine. I’m sure she was angry that I had wasted her efforts, but the subject of her tirade focused more on the effect than the cause.

Much later, I worked with a friend who took prescription diet pills, which she generously parsed among her closest friends. Solid food didn’t pass my lips for a solid week. There simply wasn’t any time as I had never perfected the art of eating while smoking, and smoking was really all I was interested in doing. Well, smoking and talking. I talked a lot that week. Understandably, our supply dwindled quickly, forcing us both to go cold turkey. After two days spent sleeping, when I wasn’t standing in front of the refrigerator, I called to tell her my speed-freak days were over.

I never suffered from morning sickness when pregnant. I was sick all day, particularly with my first child. The only food I could stomach was green grapes. Looking back on it, I’m sure this had something to do with the fact that grapes have no odor. You see, it wasn’t so much the sight of food as the smell of it that set my stomach to churning. Most nights, I met my husband at the door. As he fought to free his backpack from an over-ambitious screened door, I took the large, shrink-wrapped package of grapes from his over-burdened hand, consuming most of them before he emerged from the shower.

By my third pregnancy, I had learned to use vitamins and minerals to conquer my nausea, allowing me to eat as I liked. I was pregnant, after all. I was eating for two! Pringles had just introduced a new flavor, cheddar cheese, and after stowing the rest of the groceries away, I settled our girth onto a sagging couch cushion in front of one of my mother’s soap operas, and began to crunch. Immersed as I was in the drama of beautiful people saving the lives of others while seemingly incapable of solving the riddles of their own, I reacted with horror when my fingers were met by the hard, cold, metallic bottom of an empty Pringles can. Hours later, as I pressed my fevered cheek against the putrid coolness of bathroom tile, I silently vowed to never touch another Pringle’s potato chip as long as I lived. And, I never have…

At last count I own over one-hundred pairs of shoes, and those are just the ones I wear in summer. Untallied, the winter shoes were packed away.

Two drawers of my dresser are filled with frilly, feminine, lounge-wear, and yet, I almost always pull an over-sized, well-worn tee-shirt over my head after a bath.

It occurred to me today, that I have fallen under the spell of excess, yet again.

One of the best things about being a “woman of a certain age” is the freedom inherent in the experience we carry on our faces, in our hearts, and on our minds. I read recently that many women first learn to use the word “no”, comfortably, after the age of forty. I can relate to that. I never failed to speak a “no”, but I have spent a considerable amount of time wondering at the wisdom of the word. Time has taught me that most “no’s” are of little, or no, consequence.

And yet, I find myself reveling in the opportunity. I don’t wear make-up, because I don’t have to. I spend little or no time choosing my clothing because it really doesn’t matter. The tiny voice inside my head, who longs to see musculature ripple underneath my increasingly crepey skin, speaks loudest first thing in the morning. Rush and routine quiet her. And my diet remains relatively sensible until lunchtime, when a co-worker routinely waves warm tortillas in front of my face. I admit it…I’m a sucker for fresh salsa.

Many minutes of every day are given over to self-deprecation, to no avail.

On my way home, when much of my very best thinking is done amidst a multitude of carbon footprints, I realized I have taken saying “no” to a new level. “No!”, I don’t care to smear false skin-tone upon my sun-kissed face. “No!”, I really don’t care to spend precious minutes, otherwise spent sleeping, standing in front of a closet filled with the same clothes that hung there the day before. “No!”, I will start a new work-out program tomorrow. And, “No!”, I really don’t want the “Lean Cuisine” I deposited in the break-room freezer this morning.

Mid-life has turned me into a recalcitrant child. The music that inspired the dance I’ve danced since childhood has ceased, only to be replaced by a cacophonic, rebel yell inspired by the word “No!”.

I really can’t abide bratty children…

No Air

Stagnant air hung hot and heavy around our heads as we squirmed inside metal chairs in an effort to find a modicum of comfort.

“Sorry! Didn’t get the air on soon enough. It’s kinda stuffy in here.” Madame Secretary scuttled back into the main room, taking her chair beside Madame President at the head table.

As we waited for the usual stragglers, a general moan filled the room.

“I had to sit down before I opened my power bill.” Janet sat two chairs away, and spoke as she rifled her purse for her “personal fan”.

“How much was it?” Several of us turned to look at Debra as though to challenge, “Did you really mean to ask that?”, and then swiveled just as quickly in anticipation of the answer.

A general conversation ensued amidst the waving of notebooks and the whir of hand-held air-movers. During a break in the complaining, I spoke.

“I haven’t turned my air on yet.”

Quiet befell the room. Newly arrived stragglers stopped in mid-stride. The clock ticked, and fans whirred over held breaths.

“Really?” Debra composed herself first.

“Yes, really.” I stirred in my chair, uncomfortable under the spotlight.

“Aren’t you hot?” Debra challenged.

“Well, we do have an attic fan…” Unheeded, the words formed an apology.

“Yes, but…” Debra finally failed to find the words.

When I woke this morning, I thought today would be the day. For the first time since I turned the heat off, I didn’t feel the need to add another blanket in the middle of the night. This afternoon, as I greeted the sitter while warding off the advances of my hundred-pound puppy, I marveled at the coolness in the air.

I live in “Hot-Lanta”. It’s the middle of June. And, I haven’t turned on my air yet. The power bill I paid last Friday was the equivalent of a bill I usually receive during the autumn months. I could get used to this…

As economic uncertainty ruled the airwaves, the print media, our over-filled heads, and our war-weary hearts, I made a decision to return to what I knew. I haven’t poured crystallized soap into the soap dispenser of my dishwasher in several months. Every night I bathe stoneware, glassware, and plastics bought in an effort to actually have drinking glasses despite housing a prepubescent boy. I love results oriented tasks, and nothing is more results oriented than wiping the remnants of a spaghetti dinner off my favorite set of dinnerware to reveal the hand-painted artwork underneath.

The clothesline Roger reluctantly strung between two stalwart pines is filled daily. Sheets whip, towels undulate, and blouses dance with pants in summer breezes.

As a comment was made about my decision to live in a house filled with summer breezes, I remembered the first house I lived in. It was small by today’s standards, and encased in red brick. Air-conditioners might have purred in other neighborhoods, but we subsisted on the air God gave us.

And, we did just fine…

Outta My Head

It seems to me that those with an artistic bent tend to dwell within themselves much of the time. Sometimes painters paint what is before them, but very often they wash the canvas with colorful memories. Musicians in training are directed to focus on past emotions so as to imbue their notes with meaning and feeling.

Writing, though, may be the most selfish art. Personally, I find it difficult to write amid activity. It is, in fact, the one time when music can distract rather than accompany. For months in the not too distant past, I found myself constantly scribbling words on pieces of paper that rode in my pockets until I made my way back to my desk, and my computer. Everything that happened around me was fodder. A sentence, spoken by a co-worker, could set off a series of ideas that zinged across my mind until I made a conscious effort to wrangle them and discern if the group could become one thing. The top of my desk often looked as though someone had emptied a wastepaper basket upon it.

Today, my desktop is decorated by one IPOD and two sets of ear buds, a tiny flash drive, my watch, and all the obligatory stuff that usually lives atop a desk. There is but one scrap of paper amid the debris; a business card, with the names of two musicians and one song title I was determined to remember.

At first, I attributed my lack of desire to write to the fact that my PC went on the fritz. Two weeks into that odyssey, I bemoaned the fact to a friend who reminded me that people have been using paper and pen to write for centuries. I knew that. I had even considered it, for a few seconds. I used to write on legal pads. And, I have been known to compose an entire poem while sitting in rush hour traffic, on a page in a spiral notebook I carried everywhere for just such a purpose. Somehow, the thought of scrawling my thoughts on paper just didn’t appeal to me, despite the mocking that went on inside my head. “If you were any kind of writer…”

Ironically, my computer required a new mother board. Two weeks and six hundred dollars later, Roger reconnected me with my blog. Since that time, I have only posted twice.

I’ve thought about writing. I’ve chastised myself for my lack of discipline. I’ve conjured words of positivity in an effort to bolster the thesaurus inside my head. I’ve sat in a focused posture and attempted to will ideas into my brain, and failing that, shuffled my mental “tickler” file to no avail.

Today, as I hung laundry out to dry, I reminded myself to write. I plucked weeds from my garden and twisted the cultivating tool back and forth while wondering if I might have tucked a scribbled idea into the side pocket of my bag. As I returned from the patio where I had sipped a glass of lemonade after mowing the lawn, a thought whispered to me, “You’re not writing because you’re not living inside your head.”

Two weeks of living without a PC had freed me for more tactile pursuits, and in that short amount of time, I switched gears. The realization, however, only begs more questions. Isn’t this a good thing? Aren’t your relationships benefiting? Aren’t you getting more done? You’re always saying you want to be more active. Aren’t you more active? Do you really want to see, again, the looks of disappointment when you say “I’m sorry, honey, I can’t. I’m writing.”?

It is a good thing. My relationships have benefited, and I have accomplished much, including rediscovering a more active lifestyle. And still, I will see just the hint of a pout as I close the door to my office.

A friend shared a photograph that spoke to me, and I promised him a story…

Huddled Masses

The telephone had yet to be connected in our apartment, prompting my roommate and I to stop at a local convenience store featuring a bright-blue payphone on an outside wall. I had been in Athens just a couple of days, and I knew my parents would worry.

“Dad!”, I exuded. “It is so cool here! They have these little tin houses that look just like boxes, and people live in them!”

“There is a reason you’ve never seen those before.” The tone of his voice invited no further query, and it wasn’t long before I uncovered the stigma attached to those living in what I came to learn were “mobile” homes. Both of my parents had always described apartment dwellers as “itinerants”. As I reasoned the significance of the usually rusted metal hitch sprouting from one side of each of the carefully aligned boxes, I could only imagine how the people residing inside might be described.

Prejudice, fear, and an emphasis on keeping up appearances had proved a remarkably effective shelter.

Shortly after I married, and before I discovered my husband’s addictions, we spent many Sunday afternoons driving around town before heading out into the countryside. Gasoline was cheap then, and we had money for little else. As we headed back into town after a long afternoon spent cruising down country lanes, he asked if I minded if he stopped at a friend’s house on the way home. Several hundred feet after turning off the main road, I saw another form of box-shaped building; row upon row of brick encased boxes with tiny yards featuring an occasional patch of green that passed for grass. Each box looked exactly the same, down to the rusted, ripped screen door that hung tongue-like from its frame.

Ricky steered his prized vintage Cougar into one of the short cement drives.

“I’ll be right back.” The car shook with the force it took to close the extra-long car door. I looked around as I waited, and wondered at the plainness of my surroundings. Except for the occasional hardwood, there was little in the way of greenery, as though nothing would grow in this environment. Crowds of young adults congregated on various corners seemingly oblivious to the squealing children darting between their legs. Many people walked along the streets, calling my attention to driveways inhabited only by rusted tricycles and aged basketball goals that appeared to have sprung from the cracked concrete beneath them.

My husband emerged followed by his friend, a tall, thin African-American man with an amiable face. Ricky grunted with the extra effort required to open the antique car door before introducing him.

“This is Boysie.” He waved his free hand in the direction of the taller man’s smile.

“How ya doin’?” Boysie’s smile grew wider as he spoke, bending at the middle in an effort to see inside our small car.

The two men conversed for several minutes before Ricky slid into the driver’s seat with a “See you, man.”, and the engine roared to life.

As we headed back the way we had come I wondered what my parents would think if they knew I had visited “The Projects”; and, at night! It never occurred to me to wonder what we were doing there. I had no frame of reference. Months would pass before I realized Boysie was my husband’s dealer.

Later, long after I had come to terms with, and rectified, the mistake I’d made in marrying a man I hardly knew, I went to work managing a midwifery practice that served mothers without insurance. Some of the women were Boysie’s neighbors, and many of those that didn’t live in a housing project were on a waiting list.

It was my job to screen patients for eligibility. Lack of insurance was just one requirement. Income and family size were also considered. Most of the women were already receiving government benefits that, at the time, grew with each successive birth. A woman who knew how to work the system might receive child support from more than one man, food stamps, Medicaid for herself and her children, WIC (another government supported nutritional program), and free or nearly free housing. It was no wonder that, very often, the clothes worn by the woman I was interviewing were much more stylish, and expensive, than mine. The benefits paid by our government to women who knew how to work the system gave a whole new meaning to “expendable income”. And who could blame them? In most cases, they had been raised in the same environment, just had their mothers before them. And, it was so easy…

Occasionally, I counseled a woman struggling to support her family on minimum wage. Ironically, the pittance she brought home as a reward for dirtying her hands doing a job most wouldn’t even consider, left her ineligible for assistance of any kind, and usually these women, too, joined the welfare rolls months before thier babies were born. Very soon, I came to think of this situation as “government induced poverty”.

During this time, the Olympic Games were held in Atlanta, and Athens was to host some of the competitions. Much was said about the state of public housing in the area, and the need to clean up before the world came to visit. I was heartened to think that some of our patients’ homes would be receiving much needed repairs, until I realized that the plan was to erect facades crafted of aluminum siding over the fronts of their homes. By the time the torch arrived, the ugly brick boxes had been transformed into quaintly crowded cottages. Flowers had been planted along the borders of newly laid sod. But inside, gaping holes marred many kitchen and bathroom floors in which rusted faucets dripped continuously. Unsightly window air-conditioning units had been removed, as had the rickety screen doors, leaving the inhabitants inside with no relief from ninety-degree heat. It seemed governments, too, were invested in keeping up appearances.

Last week, bulldozers razed the last remaining housing project in Atlanta. Upon hearing this, my first thought was of the residents. Had they been provided for? Did they have homes? Where did they go? It seemed like a heartless act perpetrated on a helpless population.

Upon reading an article in the local paper, I learned that, in 1936, Atlanta was the first city in the nation to erect public housing. I know a lot about my city. Somehow, this inauspicious fact had escaped me. The article went on to suggest that Atlanta is now the first city in the nation to abolish public housing. I continued to read, in hopes that a solution had been offered, and learned that displaced families will receive twenty-seven months of various types of assistance, with a goal towards self-sufficiency.

Further down the page the housing authority’s executive director was quoted as saying that the demolition “marks the end of an era where warehousing families in concentrated poverty will cease.”

Every now and then, we get it right.

Granting Wishes

Sometimes, I wish we could go away.

Not far, and down an oft-traveled road, but away.

The water under our deck chairs would absorb our words, whetting our appetites for more.

Sometimes I wish you had more ambition.

Sometimes I wish I had more ambition.

I always wish there was more living in making a living.

Your voice blows against me as we follow the same path in different directions.

But sometimes I watch you talk, and as the words fill the air between us I reacquaint myself with your nose, sitting just a little to the left, and your eyes, the softest shade of jade, and your mouth, which even when you speak turns up slightly on one side as though amused.

I’m in the garden, and out of the corner of my eye I see you hanging my clothes on the clothesline you wish you’d never strung between two trees you wish you had cut down, long ago.

And, I stop what I am doing, and come to you.

Bookings

I was asked, recently, to list fifteen books that had “stuck with me”. The only directive given was that I not to take too long to answer, but instead, record the first fifteen that occurred to me. It wasn’t an easy task. I never read a book more than once, because I can’t stand the feeling I get, somewhere around the twentieth page, that I know exactly what is going to happen when the protagonist rounds the corner. I like to think this is the reason I struggle to recall book titles, and worse yet, author’s names. What I do remember is plot, storyline, and bits and pieces of the tale that spoke to me as I read.

Compiling a list proved a challenge, but I resolved to follow the rules, and when a title or author escaped me, I searched online with what little information I had retained. The end result proved eclectic, and even as I listed the books, I silently bemoaned the omission of many of my favorite authors. But on that particular day, their books did not stand out, and there was a rule…

Upon reading it over, there were a couple of books I resisted the urge to remove. There is a romance novel on the list. I read romance novels, as most girls did, while in high school. There is a book that enjoyed Oprah Winfrey’s favor before the author was found to have fabricated a story his publisher chose to market as a memoir. As always before posting anything publicly, I considered the reactions of those I care about, and those whose opinions I care about. The two groups do not necessarily overlap. Finally, I reminded myself of the author’s urging not to belabor the list, and posted it as it stood.

On reading it over, I am struck by the number of unique experiences and feelings I associate with each book. Some of them were particularly striking…

One truly would have had to live under a rock to avoid the media surrounding Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love”. At some point I came to feel that, as a woman, this book was required reading. I was hooked before the end of the first chapter. Elizabeth was a woman like me. Actually, she had a lot more money than I have. Other than that though, she paints herself as an “ordinary Jane”, who overcame the kind of desperation most women have felt at one time or another. I am completely cognizant of the fact that had she not enjoyed her apparent wealth, her experiences might not have been possible. Still, I am grateful to her for sharing them, for absorbing the cool of bathroom tile into her cheek right alongside me, and for helping me to believe that complete metamorphosis is possible.

To the best of my recollection, “The Scarlet Letter”, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, was required reading in the seventh grade. It is the first time I can remember being truly affected by a book. I felt such pity for Hester Prynne, who had given herself over to her emotions, and in so doing, sacrificed her life and that of her “bastard” child. The lessons of this book were particularly poignant to a thirteen-year-old girl who seemingly went out of her way to be different, while praying no one would notice.

A friend loaned me her CD version of Anne Lamott’s “Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith”. Being an avid reader, I had never thought to “listen” to a book, but I do have a long commute and my friend was adamant that I would enjoy it. I listened to it four times through before I returned it, and immediately bought a copy for myself and a friend who I knew would experience it just as I had. Four days after I dropped her copy into the mailbox, my telephone rang, very early, on a Saturday morning. My friend was driving in a rain that obscured her eyesight even more than the tears I heard in her voice. “Thank you!”, she sobbed. “I had to pull over. I’m on my way to pick up my son, and the dog just died, and thank you. Thank you so much for sharing this with me.” I knew the dog she spoke of. I too had shed tears, more than once, upon hearing Anne describe the scene in her bedroom, as she brought her son in to see their beloved pet one last time.

“The Reader”, by Bernhard Schlink was literally forced upon me by my friend Joy. In her mid-eighties, Joy still consumes a book a week. As she described the plot, I heard only the word “holocaust”, and immediately decided this book was not for me. Joy insisted, pressing the small volume into my undesiring hands. I was immediately struck by the darkness of the setting, the hopelessness of his characters, and the need.

“Loving Frank”, by Nancy Horan, details the turbulently forbidden love affair between Mamah Borthwick Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Cheney seemingly had it all; beauty, intelligence, a career, a loving husband, and adoring children. At one point, she worked as a translator for a Swedish feminist, in hopes that her benefactor’s doctrine would take hold in the United States. A chance meeting with Frank Lloyd Wright’s wife served as the catalyst that would change all their lives, leading to a violent end for Mamah and one of her children. There are so many aspects to Mamah’s character to which I can relate. And I know, from personal experience, that there is a Frank Lloyd Wright for all of us…

I know the disease of alcoholism, first-hand. My grandmother and mother “drank too much”. My father, though now sober, is an alcoholic, as is his brother. My grandfather was an alcoholic. I married two of them, and now my second son struggles with his legacy. Though living under this cloud all my life, I never truly understood addiction until I read the book “A Million Little Pieces”, by James Frey. Strangely enough, the passages that meant most to me had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. Instead, the main character, who resides, yet again, in a rehabilitation facility, finds himself unable to control his appetite for food. His description gave me real clarity as to the meaning of addiction, the way it works, and how it feels. I shared the book with my son, and replaced it when he lost it in one of his many moves. I hope, one day, it will speak to him as it did to me.

I own a couple of different volumes of the “Tao te Ching”, but Stephen Mitchell’s is the first that came to mind. Basically described, the book outlines the basic principles of Daoism, an ancient religion of Chinese origin that first piqued my interest during a college history class. I am most impressed by the simplicity of the doctrine and abundance of love inherent in it. I garner inspiration from its verses and keep a copy near me at all times.

“We put thirty spokes together and call it a wheel;
But it is on the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the wheel depends.
We turn clay to make a vessel;
But it is on the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the vessel depends.
We pierce doors and windows to make a house;
And it is on these spaces where there is nothing that the usefulness of the house depends.
Therefore just as we take advantage of what is, we should recognize the usefulness of what is not.” (chap. 11, tr. Waley)

“The Metamorphosis”, by Franz Kafka, made a tremendous impact on me as a college student who didn’t even realize dung beetles existed. I remember researching them online, after reading about Gregor’s transformation. Familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of their existence did nothing to quell my horror. Gregor’s existence as a pariah, whose family actually felt relief at his demise, spoke to me.

The last book on my list was “Shanna”, by Kathleen Woodiwiss, a sultry, romance novel featuring the standard red-headed, high-strung heroine, and her dark, tortured suitor. I thought, long and hard, before letting the title stand. I know I was in high school when I read this book because I was, at the time, working afternoons at Dunkin’ Donuts with a woman twice my age. I know this because it was actually this woman that left the impression.

She was slight, almost pixie-like, with a voice to match. Her name escapes me, but I will never forget her face. For reasons she never revealed, she shaved her eyebrows, and trimmed her eyelashes because they were “too long”. I had worked with her for several months, when on her afternoon off, she brought her daughter in for a mid-afternoon snack.

Shanna was about three, with long, wispy, platinum hair and trimmed eyelashes, just like her mother. I remember standing mute, as my co-worker explained the need for trimming. All I could think of was the proximity of a sharp object to the eyes of a child not yet in full command of her body. It was my first encounter with a “single mother”, a “bastard child”, and many other social circumstances my parents would rather I not have encountered. This beautiful child, through no fault of her own, carried an ugly label, suffered needless danger to her eyesight at the hands of a mother obsessed the lash length, and, worst of all, was named for the heroine in a romance novel.

Shanna would be over thirty years old now; her mother, near sixty. I wonder occasionally if Shanna still clips her lashes, and if, as I’ve always heard, they actually grow in longer for the trimming. Did she follow in her mother’s footsteps? Does she paint on her eyebrows every morning? Does she pour coffee while sharing a laugh with the same five men each morning? Did she ever query the origins of her name?

Inevitable

I’ve written, before, about Miss Lucy…

She was among the first patients assigned to me when I began work as a hospice volunteer. As I recall, I fell in love during our first visit.

Miss Lucy loved flowers…all flowers. Most appreciated was the large pot of mauve hydrangeas I tucked into a corner of her window last spring. She liked the curtains opened.

There was a small, unattended bird feeder just outside the window. I always wondered if birds would perch there if I filled it. I bought the seed, tossing it into the trunk of my car amongst an assortment of variously filled, environmentally friendly grocery sacks. I wonder if it’s still there…

Miss Lucy died two weeks ago. Ironically, after a year of service, she had been removed from hospice care about a month before.

After completing a six-week hospice volunteer course, the director presented me with a pre-printed “Certificate of Completion”, asking that I hold still while her photographer shot smiling stills of the occasion. A couple of weeks later, a glossy newsletter appeared in my mailbox. I made the cover.

None of the available assignments were convenient, so I accepted the least burdensome; three women housed in a nursing home thirty minutes from my house. Adding to my convenience, two of my patients shared a room.

Ms. Blackmon occupied the far bed, though until the last, I only saw her bent double in a wheelchair. The director cautioned me not to expect too much. Ms. Blackmon was uncommunicative. I watched as she spoon-fed Bible verses, and cranked the volume on gospel music acquiesced to through silence.

The next week, I visited the girls’ room alone, bypassing her sleeping room-mate in my approach to Ms. Blackmon. Remembering the sneer pinching her chapped lips as Jim Nabors crooned “How Great Thou Art”, I ignored the CD player and began to talk.

“How are you today?”

“Did you eat your breakfast?”

“Was it good?”

“No? Well, it wasn’t like it was at home, was it?”

The next week I plucked Shane, ripe from the football field, to join me.

“How are you today?”

“Did you eat your lunch?”

“This is my son, Shane. He plays football. Do you like football?”

All at once, Ms. Blackmon’s back straightened, slightly. Her eyes, under a blue, hand-crocheted skullcap, sparkled.

“I like football.” And, just as quickly, her back regained its inquisitory posture.

Her room-mate, Savannah, had given up. Her family was present during my first visit. Savannah sat on the side of the bed, leaning slightly against her daughter’s prominent shoulder, as she raised a spoonful of pabulum in the direction of her mother’s mouth. As we approached, Savannah managed a weak, drooling smile, while her daughter encouraged us to call her “if you ever need anything”. In the seven months I visited Savannah, it was to be the only time I ever saw her daughter.

In the interest of jumping the highest hurdle early, I always crossed to Ms. Blackmon first. As her head descended again in the direction of her lap, I smoothed the blanket covering Savannah, before perching, gingerly, on the edge of her bed. Often, an untouched tray of food crowded my perch.

“Savannah?” She always appeared to be sleeping.

“Savannah? It’s Stacye. Your lunch is here. Wake up and let’s eat some lunch, ok?”

She always woke with a smile, preceding the same three words.

“I’m so tired.” Pernicious anemia stole the volume from Savannah’s speech.

“I know, honey. Should I let you sleep?”

Sometimes she didn’t even bother to answer, turning into her pillow with drawn eyes. Sometimes, though, she tried.

A slight lift of her bonneted head from the pillow was my signal. Taking her shoulders, I helped her up before swiveling her kneels into a sitting position beside me. Savannah was a fan of iced tea. She ate very little, but her tea glass was almost always drained.

Miss Lucy lived in the same nursing home on a far hall. I usually saved her for last. For one thing, the “Alzheimer’s Hall” was on my way. For another, I chose to end my visits on a positive note…and Miss Lucy was sunshine.

Sometimes I found her sleeping. After several such incidents, I left her that way. More often though, I found her with her good eye trained on whatever television program her caretakers had chosen for her.

”Hey, Sweetheart! How are you feeling today?” Miss Lucy occupied the bed closest to the window, allowing me ample time to finish my greeting before reaching her bedside.

As my hands went to the curtains, she answered. Most days, bright sunshine lit her oiled face before she finished.

“Oh….I’m alright…” Years of protecting the mound of snuff, deposited in front of her bottom teeth, had trained her speech.

We had a ritual. Immersing the flowers I brought her in water, I brought them close to her right side, her good eye.

“Look what I brought you!”

“Oh…they are so pretty…” A succession of strokes had robbed her of movement, but I still saw her hand as she raised it to touch the blooms.

On good days, she regaled me with tales of earlier times; her daughter’s triumphs on the basketball court, bus-rides across town to work in the “white woman’s house”, and her “no count” man. And, good days were frequent. Bad days were only designated “bad” because I chose not to interrupt the rhythmic rise and fall of her slight chest.

Ms. Blackmon was the first to go. One Saturday I gingerly pushed the latest copy of “Sporting News” under her perpetually bent head. The next, I found her writhing, senselessly, in her bed. The sweats she had worn since I’d known her had been replaced by a worn hospital gown. And, minus the cap, her gray plaits were sparse and haphazard. I looked around for assistance, and finding none, dialed my director. Savannah worried the lip of her blanket as I listened.

The director encouraged me to find Ms. Blackmon’s nurse who took one look, and seeing nothing out of place, returned to her desk. I left thinking dying shouldn’t be so hard, especially when anticipated.

Much less dramatic, Savannah’s exit began just weeks later. I entered a room crowded with family, and remnants of the previous night’s vigil. They were happy to see me, beating a quick retreat. Occasionally, I felt that she heard me. Regardless of my pertinence I continued to talk.

Two nights later I entered a room empty except for Savannah, whose bed had been moved against the wall. She lay in a quiet I chose to honor, employing touch in place of words. The pallets that had decorated her room on my previous visit remained. I left, assured by their caring. It took Savannah two weeks to die.

Two down, one to go…

Miss Lucy thrived. During one visit, despite her inert state, I felt compelled to restrain her as she threatened an orderly who deigned to suggest she give the pummeled green beans another go. Her weight was up. Her spirits soared, and after a solid year of hospice care, her insurance company refused to renew. A month later, she died.

I’m not suggesting a relationship. I’m not implying any culpability on the part of her insurance company. But, I am struck by the irony…

My inspiration to become a hospice volunteer sprung from experience. During the final days of his life, my ex-husband’s journey, and more importantly the lives of our children, was greatly eased by the angelic presence of a hospice volunteer. As I watched her minister to those I loved, I vowed to give back.

Last weekend, I stowed my name-badge in the back of a dresser drawer. My yen to volunteer is colored by my insistence that Shane participate, and the sights and smells of a nursing home are too much for him. There is a food-bank across town in need of volunteers.

I am left with the knowledge that death, even when anticipated, is not easy; that there is a pattern, even in the final days.

And, no matter how hard we try…some things defy planning…