>Moving this up to the front because I heard it and realized it is still one of my very favorite pieces of music…and because, this is where I am today…
Author: Stacye Carroll
Drip Castles
I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.
My mother loved to sunbathe, and spent most mornings on the beach, supine, on a generous towel, until overwhelming heat forced her into the surf, where she stayed for a few, precious, minutes. Now, as a mother, myself, I realize that having four children attached to her floating limbs probably precipitated her quick exit.
And, sometimes, she built castles.
It started with a hole. As is true about anything worth having, a good sand castle requires work, in the form of a very deep hole. My mother supervised as one of her daughters manned the shovel. Mounds of pristine white sand piled, as the hole was dug, until water began to seep in from the bottom, forming a permanent well.
And then, we dripped. Each of us, in turn, thrust our hands inside the hole, to remove a dripping mass of grayish colored sand. We dripped turrets, we dripped landscaping, we dripped roofing. Tiny, pea-sized mounds of sand, built, one upon the other, as we dripped, and the castle grew higher and higher, and more and more elaborate.
Construction could take hours, but we had no concept of time. For each of us, it was simply one-on-one time with Mom, and we sat there until she gave the sign it was time to stop, as she rose, and strode, purposefully, towards the surf. As she bent to lower her hands into the warm, jade-colored, water, we mimicked her action, until she left us to return to her towel. And, as she lay back against the sand, we broke for our rafts, and the water.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
>Drip Castles
>
I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.
My mother loved to sunbathe, and spent most mornings on the beach, supine, on a generous towel, until overwhelming heat forced her into the surf, where she stayed for a few, precious, minutes. Now, as a mother, myself, I realize that having four children attached to her floating limbs probably precipitated her quick exit.
And, sometimes, she built castles.
It started with a hole. As is true about anything worth having, a good sand castle requires work, in the form of a very deep hole. My mother supervised as one of her daughters manned the shovel. Mounds of pristine white sand piled, as the hole was dug, until water began to seep in from the bottom, forming a permanent well.
And then, we dripped. Each of us, in turn, thrust our hands inside the hole, to remove a dripping mass of grayish colored sand. We dripped turrets, we dripped landscaping, we dripped roofing. Tiny, pea-sized mounds of sand, built, one upon the other, as we dripped, and the castle grew higher and higher, and more and more elaborate.
Construction could take hours, but we had no concept of time. For each of us, it was simply one-on-one time with Mom, and we sat there until she gave the sign it was time to stop, as she rose, and strode, purposefully, towards the surf. As she bent to lower her hands into the warm, jade-colored, water, we mimicked her action, until she left us to return to her towel. And, as she lay back against the sand, we broke for our rafts, and the water.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Watching….and Waiting
Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.
Whereas her words were not particularly polished, neither were they foolish, as she stumbled through her efforts to give the appearance of answering a question, while directing as many barbs as possible at her running mate’s opposition. I became bored quickly when it became apparent she would say nothing I could use as fodder around the water-cooler next day. But, I didn’t change the channel, or turn off the set.
In my ennui, I noticed her appearance. Her perpetually carefully coiffed hair lacked it’s usual luster, as it hung below her shoulders in strands shaped by the length of her day. Dark eyes, known to sparkle and snap, appeared somewhat dull behind the glare on her designer glasses. Her voice was tired, and her posture strained.
I began to reflect on the many faces of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin, wife, may have had an argument with her husband, just before sitting down for another, in a long line of interviews. Sarah Palin, mother of 4, and soon-to-be grandmother, may have just had to bandage a knee, or discuss a report card, or quiet the histrionics of her pregnant daughter, or settle an argument between siblings, or diaper her baby. She may have come from an appointment with her son’s doctor, and the news may not have been good. Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, may have had to deal with unhappy legislators, or worse, disgruntled constituents. She might have just flown cross country after attending a ribbon-cutting, or spent hours shuffling through official government documents requiring the governor’s signature. Sarah Palin, Vice-Presidential candidate, may have slogged through all of these things; a disagreement with her husband, fights between her children, insecurity in her daughter, dirty diapers, doctor’s appointments, complaining constituents, cross-country flights, and reams of paper, only to end her day in a cheap vinyl chair across from a news reporter asking impossible questions. Because Sarah Palin is all of these things; Wife, Mother, Governor, and, Vice-Presidential candidate.
And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.
As the interview ended, the anchor teased the following segment which was to detail the cost of making Sarah presentable, and, in a country whose primary source of entertainment is contained inside digital video recorders, we sat through commercials to watch an unprecedented piece. And it is unprecedented, because we, as a nation, have never been in this place before.
Kicking her gender aside, I wondered as I waited, why they hadn’t done the same kind of piece on Joe Biden, and then I remembered. Joe Biden has been presentable, and present, forever. I ticked through a list of others who might have been profiled, and realized that none actually qualified for this kind of attention. Given that, and the marketability of her gender, which was, after all, the motivating factor in her choice as a candidate, I feel the piece was fair.
I’m not bothered by the fact that Republican supporters footed a $4000.00 bill for her coiffure, or shuffled her off to Neiman Marcus with a blank check with which to purchase her form-fitting suits. Realistically, one could not expect them to trot out an Alaskan housewife/hockey mom-turned Governor without a little sprucing up. It is, after all, the American way, and “when in Rome….”
Pundits, and even John McCain, himself, have been quoted as saying Sarah Palin was brought on board to breathe new life into the Republican party. Some are even going so far as to say she is the “new face” of the Republican Party.
Pundits aside, I am convinced that Sarah Palin, wife, mother, Governor, and Vice-Presidential candidate, has breathed new life into a Presidential campaign that had already gone on too long before she became involved. And, regardless on what side of the aisle we sit, SHE is why we are still watching…
>Watching….and Waiting
>
Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.
Whereas her words were not particularly polished, neither were they foolish, as she stumbled through her efforts to give the appearance of answering a question, while directing as many barbs as possible at her running mate’s opposition. I became bored quickly when it became apparent she would say nothing I could use as fodder around the water-cooler next day. But, I didn’t change the channel, or turn off the set.
In my ennui, I noticed her appearance. Her perpetually carefully coiffed hair lacked it’s usual luster, as it hung below her shoulders in strands shaped by the length of her day. Dark eyes, known to sparkle and snap, appeared somewhat dull behind the glare on her designer glasses. Her voice was tired, and her posture strained.
I began to reflect on the many faces of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin, wife, may have had an argument with her husband, just before sitting down for another, in a long line of interviews. Sarah Palin, mother of 4, and soon-to-be grandmother, may have just had to bandage a knee, or discuss a report card, or quiet the histrionics of her pregnant daughter, or settle an argument between siblings, or diaper her baby. She may have come from an appointment with her son’s doctor, and the news may not have been good. Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, may have had to deal with unhappy legislators, or worse, disgruntled constituents. She might have just flown cross country after attending a ribbon-cutting, or spent hours shuffling through official government documents requiring the governor’s signature. Sarah Palin, Vice-Presidential candidate, may have slogged through all of these things; a disagreement with her husband, fights between her children, insecurity in her daughter, dirty diapers, doctor’s appointments, complaining constituents, cross-country flights, and reams of paper, only to end her day in a cheap vinyl chair across from a news reporter asking impossible questions. Because Sarah Palin is all of these things; Wife, Mother, Governor, and, Vice-Presidential candidate.
And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.
As the interview ended, the anchor teased the following segment which was to detail the cost of making Sarah presentable, and, in a country whose primary source of entertainment is contained inside digital video recorders, we sat through commercials to watch an unprecedented piece. And it is unprecedented, because we, as a nation, have never been in this place before.
Kicking her gender aside, I wondered as I waited, why they hadn’t done the same kind of piece on Joe Biden, and then I remembered. Joe Biden has been presentable, and present, forever. I ticked through a list of others who might have been profiled, and realized that none actually qualified for this kind of attention. Given that, and the marketability of her gender, which was, after all, the motivating factor in her choice as a candidate, I feel the piece was fair.
I’m not bothered by the fact that Republican supporters footed a $4000.00 bill for her coiffure, or shuffled her off to Neiman Marcus with a blank check with which to purchase her form-fitting suits. Realistically, one could not expect them to trot out an Alaskan housewife/hockey mom-turned Governor without a little sprucing up. It is, after all, the American way, and “when in Rome….”
Pundits, and even John McCain, himself, have been quoted as saying Sarah Palin was brought on board to breathe new life into the Republican party. Some are even going so far as to say she is the “new face” of the Republican Party.
Pundits aside, I am convinced that Sarah Palin, wife, mother, Governor, and Vice-Presidential candidate, has breathed new life into a Presidential campaign that had already gone on too long before she became involved. And, regardless on what side of the aisle we sit, SHE is why we are still watching…
Frou Frou
Working on another project tonight…
So, I’ll leave you with this. Discovered it this weekend, and I like it!
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
>Frou Frou
>Working on another project tonight…
So, I’ll leave you with this. Discovered it this weekend, and I like it!
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Some Things Just Never Go Away….
It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.
She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.
“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”
“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”
As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.
Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.
Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.
The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.
He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.
Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.
I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.
“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.
I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.
“Yes?”, I whispered.
“Take this.”, he offered.
Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.
Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.
I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.
“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…
“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.
I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.
It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.
Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.
“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.
Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.
“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.
>Some Things Just Never Go Away….
>
It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.
She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.
“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”
“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”
As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.
Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.
Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.
The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.
He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.
Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.
I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.
“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.
I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.
“Yes?”, I whispered.
“Take this.”, he offered.
Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.
Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.
I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.
“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…
“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.
I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.
It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.
Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.
“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.
Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.
“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.
My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps
Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.
Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”
Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.
“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”
Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.
Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.
“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.
She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.
“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.
“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.
Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.
“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.
“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.
She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.
A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.
“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.
“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk
Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.
“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.
“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.
“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.
She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.
“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”
She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.
Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?
“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.
One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?
The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.
“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.
“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.
More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.
“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.
There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.
“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…
Are We There Yet? 
