>Almost Touched

>I live in hot, and now arid, Atlanta. A city that moves at the speed of light, and barely notices that it hasn’t rained in months or snowed in years.
A much-needed break in our drought came some time around November, and the rains fell. The lakes are still wanting, but reservoirs are filling, allowing the lakes to hold their precious raindrops a little longer.
Today, it snowed. The weathermen were right, for once, and it snowed! As I sit in my tiny car, forced upon me by the length of my commute and soaring gas prices, I idle, as I do every day at this time, waiting for other weary commuters to pass on an adjacent roadway.
The snowflakes dancing across my windshield are a miracle only a true southerner could enjoy, and I muse as I watch them fall and melt, fall and melt. I enjoy the whiteness of them, their fluffy, irregular shape, and their rarity.
Glancing to my left, I see a small bespectacled boy, buckled snuggly into the backseat of his mother’s Mercedes. As my gaze lands on him, he spies the swirling miracle outside his window and stretches one pudgy hand towards the window in the kind of pure joy only a child can experience. His swarthy face breaks into a crooked grin as he turns towards me. His smile glows brighter as he discovers someone to share this miracle with, and he gestures wildly with his hands as if to say “Look! Look at that! Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?!” His mouth moves, and he must have made some noise, because his 30-something mother turns in her seat. She sees the joy in her child’s eyes and her face, too, breaks into a smile. She looks across to me and acknowledges my presence in her child’s miracle. She waves and mouthes something I’m sure would have warmed my heart even more had I been able to hear, as she softly wraps her child’s waving hand softly inside hers. And the light changes from red to green.
In a city like Atlanta, where so many are wrapped up in their own agendas, and schedules, and stresses, 3 people stopped at a traffic light, and enjoyed a snow flurry, and almost touched.

A True Patriot

We had spent 2 days in a continuous dripping sweat as we toured the injured city of Mobile, Alabama. A climb of “the battleship” as we Southerners like to refer to her followed by a car tour of a hurricane scarred Dauphine Island had left us worn and dehydrated. Unsatisfied after a dip in the hotel pool, we set out on a late night search of the ultimate summertime refreshment, ice cream.
It is a little known fact that your neighborhood Walgreen’s stocks an outrageously tempting freezer full of ice cream treats. We made our selections and returned to the car as quickly as the thick night air would allow us. As the car reversed to leave the parking lot, a window sticker on a neighboring vehicle caught my eye. I starred in wonder at the simple square sticker and insisted my companion circle the parking lot to get a better look. As we approached the other car, I squealed with delight as my second look confirmed what I had originally seen. I pointed and urged my companion to look as well. The sticker was small, about 4 inches square, and black with simple white block print forming a large letter “M”. But this was no ordinary “M”. This was a clever “M”. This was actually a “W” turned upside down. And not just any “W”. This was THE “W”. The one we all saw on the backs of gas guzzling SUVs everywhere during the last election. And beneath the “M” where formerly one might have read “The President.”, this sticker said simply “The Moron.” I was completely enchanted. Not only was the sentiment right on the money but using the moron’s own propaganda against him was nothing short of genius! I decided then and there that I simply must have one. And then I decided I had to have more than one because this was just too good to keep to myself.
The stickers arrived and went from envelope to rear window in a matter of seconds. I took another to a fellow Bush-hater at work. Within hours, a red-faced, trembling, eye-popping Republican, who happens to me our boss was standing at my desk. With much effort, he spit out his displeasure and warned me not to give my co-worker “offensive” stickers for her to “display in her cubicle”. The “display” was the top of her desk where she had lain it in preparation for adhesion to her car.
In relating this story to an aquaintance, I was quickly reprimanded with “Oh, you shouldn’t criticize our leader. Don’t you know that is unpatriotic?” The friend assured me he made this statement in jest, but his statements mirrored those spoken by people like my boss whose ire at merely seeing the sticker rendered him very nearly speechless.
Today I began to think about the concept of patriotism and the definition of a true patriot. Usually when one thinks along this vein, an image like that of Patrick Henry or Samuel Adams appears, unheeded, on the brain. It was that image that revealed to me the irony of our times. Those men, and other leaders of their time, not only spoke out against their leaders, they wrote long treatises detailing their complaints and Ben Franklin was only too happy to print theirs right beside his own in his newspaper. It was through learning about the founders of our country that I formed my idea that a true patriot is patriotic to his country and speaks out against anyone who would do her harm, whether he be leader of not. When did our idea of patriotism shift from allegiance to our motherland to unwavering support of an unelected public official, especially when that public official is bring harm to our homeland?

>A True Patriot

>We had spent 2 days in a continuous dripping sweat as we toured the injured city of Mobile, Alabama. A climb of “the battleship” as we Southerners like to refer to her followed by a car tour of a hurricane scarred Dauphine Island had left us worn and dehydrated. Unsatisfied after a dip in the hotel pool, we set out on a late night search of the ultimate summertime refreshment, ice cream.
It is a little known fact that your neighborhood Walgreen’s stocks an outrageously tempting freezer full of ice cream treats. We made our selections and returned to the car as quickly as the thick night air would allow us. As the car reversed to leave the parking lot, a window sticker on a neighboring vehicle caught my eye. I starred in wonder at the simple square sticker and insisted my companion circle the parking lot to get a better look. As we approached the other car, I squealed with delight as my second look confirmed what I had originally seen. I pointed and urged my companion to look as well. The sticker was small, about 4 inches square, and black with simple white block print forming a large letter “M”. But this was no ordinary “M”. This was a clever “M”. This was actually a “W” turned upside down. And not just any “W”. This was THE “W”. The one we all saw on the backs of gas guzzling SUVs everywhere during the last election. And beneath the “M” where formerly one might have read “The President.”, this sticker said simply “The Moron.” I was completely enchanted. Not only was the sentiment right on the money but using the moron’s own propaganda against him was nothing short of genius! I decided then and there that I simply must have one. And then I decided I had to have more than one because this was just too good to keep to myself.
The stickers arrived and went from envelope to rear window in a matter of seconds. I took another to a fellow Bush-hater at work. Within hours, a red-faced, trembling, eye-popping Republican, who happens to me our boss was standing at my desk. With much effort, he spit out his displeasure and warned me not to give my co-worker “offensive” stickers for her to “display in her cubicle”. The “display” was the top of her desk where she had lain it in preparation for adhesion to her car.
In relating this story to an aquaintance, I was quickly reprimanded with “Oh, you shouldn’t criticize our leader. Don’t you know that is unpatriotic?” The friend assured me he made this statement in jest, but his statements mirrored those spoken by people like my boss whose ire at merely seeing the sticker rendered him very nearly speechless.
Today I began to think about the concept of patriotism and the definition of a true patriot. Usually when one thinks along this vein, an image like that of Patrick Henry or Samuel Adams appears, unheeded, on the brain. It was that image that revealed to me the irony of our times. Those men, and other leaders of their time, not only spoke out against their leaders, they wrote long treatises detailing their complaints and Ben Franklin was only too happy to print theirs right beside his own in his newspaper. It was through learning about the founders of our country that I formed my idea that a true patriot is patriotic to his country and speaks out against anyone who would do her harm, whether he be leader of not. When did our idea of patriotism shift from allegiance to our motherland to unwavering support of an unelected public official, especially when that public official is bring harm to our homeland?

Serenity

It occurs to me, today, that serenity is truly a “one day at a time” kind of occurence. I am as unsure of what will bring her as I am of what will take her away. She sneaks up on me unannounced. As the day unfolds a quiet moment whispers gently, “This is it, this is serenity.” My breathing quiets as I intentionally feel the peace the moment holds. I smile as I recognize the gift I have received and I silently give thanks.
There is no announcement on her leaving. In the midst of a new day, my brain clangs with cacophonous doubt and only after I stop to observe the noise do I realize she has gone. I know there is nothing I can consciously do to bring her back. My only responsibility is to know when I hold her and appreciate that time.

>Serenity

>It occurs to me, today, that serenity is truly a “one day at a time” kind of occurence. I am as unsure of what will bring her as I am of what will take her away. She sneaks up on me unannounced. As the day unfolds a quiet moment whispers gently, “This is it, this is serenity.” My breathing quiets as I intentionally feel the peace the moment holds. I smile as I recognize the gift I have received and I silently give thanks.
There is no announcement on her leaving. In the midst of a new day, my brain clangs with cacophonous doubt and only after I stop to observe the noise do I realize she has gone. I know there is nothing I can consciously do to bring her back. My only responsibility is to know when I hold her and appreciate that time.

Weighing my options

For once in my life, I seem to be right on track. Having used up a good portion of my “40’s” and peaking around the corner at “50” one question rolls round and round my head. The neon marquee reads “Is that all there is?” Great song! Peggy Lee, I think.
Since birth, I have heard, “This is your one chance, make it good!”. True, it’s often an inner voice, but a voice all the same. A voice that sometimes screams louder than the one in my ear.
I read of women. True pioneers. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gertrude Stein, and even Ellen Burstyn. Yes! Ellen Burstyn! What a life! A life filled with adventures created by a will to live and experience all. A life unfettered by conventions and restraint. Lived without compromise or apology.
And I am that woman. Deep down inside, squashed by years of other people’s beliefs, I am that woman. Gazing down that last long stretch of road, I see an opportunity, no, a mandate to break some of the bindings others would use to hold me. I understand the importance of filling my memory bank with experiences and adventures, that in my waning years will warm me when my bones are cold and my skin too thin to ward off drafts. I want to be the crone sitting in the corner of the rec room with Madonna’s smile playing across her lips. All the others, the ones who played it safe and lived it boring, will sneak glances in my direction and wonder “What did she do?” My derring-do will bring me wisdom to share with grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will pat my powdered arm even as they marvel at my saltiness.
The choices I make will benefit those unknowing of my plans. As we slog through every day in the same murk we slogged through yesterday, my spirt will lighten our load and I will know that there is sunshine at the end of my trench.

>Weighing my options

>For once in my life, I seem to be right on track. Having used up a good portion of my “40’s” and peaking around the corner at “50” one question rolls round and round my head. The neon marquee reads “Is that all there is?” Great song! Peggy Lee, I think.
Since birth, I have heard, “This is your one chance, make it good!”. True, it’s often an inner voice, but a voice all the same. A voice that sometimes screams louder than the one in my ear.
I read of women. True pioneers. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gertrude Stein, and even Ellen Burstyn. Yes! Ellen Burstyn! What a life! A life filled with adventures created by a will to live and experience all. A life unfettered by conventions and restraint. Lived without compromise or apology.
And I am that woman. Deep down inside, squashed by years of other people’s beliefs, I am that woman. Gazing down that last long stretch of road, I see an opportunity, no, a mandate to break some of the bindings others would use to hold me. I understand the importance of filling my memory bank with experiences and adventures, that in my waning years will warm me when my bones are cold and my skin too thin to ward off drafts. I want to be the crone sitting in the corner of the rec room with Madonna’s smile playing across her lips. All the others, the ones who played it safe and lived it boring, will sneak glances in my direction and wonder “What did she do?” My derring-do will bring me wisdom to share with grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will pat my powdered arm even as they marvel at my saltiness.
The choices I make will benefit those unknowing of my plans. As we slog through every day in the same murk we slogged through yesterday, my spirt will lighten our load and I will know that there is sunshine at the end of my trench.

The Place Where My Heart Lives

It’s a desolate stretch of highway that connects western Georgia with Alabama. The stark white of concrete stands in sharp contast to the large metal boxes posted every few feet, affording stranded motorists a chance to call for help. Undecorated exits veer off endlessly and the occasional fellow traveler is a welcome break in the horizon. The time spent is filled with peaceful anticipation.
Perched on the same corner for over 50 years, the Smoky Pig in Phenix City, Alabama doubles as our “Welcome Center”. The small, concrete block building makes no attempt to hide it’s decay and despite it’s uninviting appearance, the tiny, crumbling parking lot is always filled with cars driven by those enticed by the pork-scented smoke billowing from the back of the building. Inside, the menu is mounted above the heads of family members scheduled to work that day. The choice is easy as long as you realize that each of the 5 or 6 items offered, including the cole slaw, will be coated with barbeque sauce. With a pound of pork and a bottle of sauce secured under each arm, we are ready to resume our journey.
Once out of the city, the roadways are old, narrow, and winding. Rural beauty peeks out from behind the mobile homes and barbeque stands that seem to line the pavement like rebel soldiers. Entrepeneurs offer “boil peanuts”, artistic tin renderings, exotic southern plantlife, and the usual used clothing and household goods. Even the putrid smell emitted by the paper mill is a welcome reminder.
The road widens into a “bullahvaard” as we enter Eufaula. Grand, stately mansions fill carefully landscaped green carpets striped with walkways. As we pass, each whispers her story. Soon the sound of hooves striking cobblestone and the whine of rusty carriage wheels fill my imagination. Silky hoop skirts swish over oriental carpets. A shadowy widow’s walk looms high above the house that holds her and keeps her secrets.
Miles later, as we pass the tiny, white clapboard church, I strain to see the totem pole bearing the names of those who belong here. Pavement gives way to granite studded red clay as we bump and wind our way toward the lake. Wild azaleas dot the landscape in varying shades of pink and purple and water birds dart and swoop.
The house is large and imposing, not really a cabin at all. She is surrounded on either side by an eclectic mix of quaint white cottages and sturdy metal buildings, all patiently waiting for their occupants to return. Dark and cool, the interior is decorated in circa 1970’s with it’s inevitable rusts, avocados, and golds. Cotton throws rest casually on the backs of chairs; a guard against the plastic cushions. The large paneled bar on one end of the room looks out of place until one remembers why we are here. The only rule here is that there are no rules.
The lake calls, glad to see we are back. As I walk the winding path toward the dock, she ripples in anticipation. Creaking, groaning, and swaying across the shore, I reach the platform that will serve as our playground. A deep breath fills me with all that I love about being here; earthy, sweet contentment.
Mornings are best. Cool fog blankets everything in softness. Rythmic water sounds accompany the birds, squirrels, and occasional stray dog laying claim to the lake. It is a beautiful sort of quiet that one not dare disturb. Steaming coffee and flannel provide warmth against the watery air as I observe from my plantation rocker on the screened-in porch. This is my sanctuary. This is where I worship. This is where God lives.
The rising sun spreads her warmth with a swiftness that always surprises me. As she climbs over the horizon, squirrels scatter, birds quiet, flannel is shed, and bedcovers become cloying. Wake-up sounds come from inside the house. The worship service is concluded.
Now is the time that memories are created; canoe rides that begin in fits and starts as the shore sucks voraciously at the bottom of the metal craft, catfish that fight mightily and then cry like newborns when wrested onto the dock, golden brown piles of those fish on platters and learning that the crispy tail is the tastiest morsel, flying high into the air and bouncing higher still with the next jump onto the trampoline, enormous quivering azalea blossoms dappled with dew, and a large, furry stray who smiles as he walks towards you and promises to always be your best friend.
Nights belong to the adults. As dinner concludes, the blender grinds, and children are settled for a welcome rest. Music plays and the fun begins. Rocking and laughing on the porch, we are lit by the reflection of the moon on the lake. Hours pass as we reminisce. Drink flows, as do bodies, in spontaneous dance. Board games are brought out and never finished. As laughs settle into yawns, we wander towards sleep.
On Friday, the ageless owner/hostess of the “Hungry Fisherman” shows us to an antiquated wooden table set with condiments. Year after year, the same faces take our orders and point with pride at the salad bar, complete with bagged salad and grocery store dressings. “All You Can Eat” catfish and shrimp, with a freshness that belies their setting, bring us here. The only change to the decor in the many years we have enjoyed our dinners, is the big screen TV in the corner. Having gone days without that convenience, the canned noise and colorful images it emits are almost welcomed.
As is always the case, we are happy to arrive and happy to leave. As clean-up begins, “real” life intrudes with thoughts of work, and home, and obligations. With the last towel folded, and the last bag loaded, I take one last walk towards my watery heaven. The sun tickles the surface and bounces against my skin. She promises to wait for me. Always.

>The Place Where My Heart Lives

>It’s a desolate stretch of highway that connects western Georgia with Alabama. The stark white of concrete stands in sharp contast to the large metal boxes posted every few feet, affording stranded motorists a chance to call for help. Undecorated exits veer off endlessly and the occasional fellow traveler is a welcome break in the horizon. The time spent is filled with peaceful anticipation.
Perched on the same corner for over 50 years, the Smoky Pig in Phenix City, Alabama doubles as our “Welcome Center”. The small, concrete block building makes no attempt to hide it’s decay and despite it’s uninviting appearance, the tiny, crumbling parking lot is always filled with cars driven by those enticed by the pork-scented smoke billowing from the back of the building. Inside, the menu is mounted above the heads of family members scheduled to work that day. The choice is easy as long as you realize that each of the 5 or 6 items offered, including the cole slaw, will be coated with barbeque sauce. With a pound of pork and a bottle of sauce secured under each arm, we are ready to resume our journey.
Once out of the city, the roadways are old, narrow, and winding. Rural beauty peeks out from behind the mobile homes and barbeque stands that seem to line the pavement like rebel soldiers. Entrepeneurs offer “boil peanuts”, artistic tin renderings, exotic southern plantlife, and the usual used clothing and household goods. Even the putrid smell emitted by the paper mill is a welcome reminder.
The road widens into a “bullahvaard” as we enter Eufaula. Grand, stately mansions fill carefully landscaped green carpets striped with walkways. As we pass, each whispers her story. Soon the sound of hooves striking cobblestone and the whine of rusty carriage wheels fill my imagination. Silky hoop skirts swish over oriental carpets. A shadowy widow’s walk looms high above the house that holds her and keeps her secrets.
Miles later, as we pass the tiny, white clapboard church, I strain to see the totem pole bearing the names of those who belong here. Pavement gives way to granite studded red clay as we bump and wind our way toward the lake. Wild azaleas dot the landscape in varying shades of pink and purple and water birds dart and swoop.
The house is large and imposing, not really a cabin at all. She is surrounded on either side by an eclectic mix of quaint white cottages and sturdy metal buildings, all patiently waiting for their occupants to return. Dark and cool, the interior is decorated in circa 1970’s with it’s inevitable rusts, avocados, and golds. Cotton throws rest casually on the backs of chairs; a guard against the plastic cushions. The large paneled bar on one end of the room looks out of place until one remembers why we are here. The only rule here is that there are no rules.
The lake calls, glad to see we are back. As I walk the winding path toward the dock, she ripples in anticipation. Creaking, groaning, and swaying across the shore, I reach the platform that will serve as our playground. A deep breath fills me with all that I love about being here; earthy, sweet contentment.
Mornings are best. Cool fog blankets everything in softness. Rythmic water sounds accompany the birds, squirrels, and occasional stray dog laying claim to the lake. It is a beautiful sort of quiet that one not dare disturb. Steaming coffee and flannel provide warmth against the watery air as I observe from my plantation rocker on the screened-in porch. This is my sanctuary. This is where I worship. This is where God lives.
The rising sun spreads her warmth with a swiftness that always surprises me. As she climbs over the horizon, squirrels scatter, birds quiet, flannel is shed, and bedcovers become cloying. Wake-up sounds come from inside the house. The worship service is concluded.
Now is the time that memories are created; canoe rides that begin in fits and starts as the shore sucks voraciously at the bottom of the metal craft, catfish that fight mightily and then cry like newborns when wrested onto the dock, golden brown piles of those fish on platters and learning that the crispy tail is the tastiest morsel, flying high into the air and bouncing higher still with the next jump onto the trampoline, enormous quivering azalea blossoms dappled with dew, and a large, furry stray who smiles as he walks towards you and promises to always be your best friend.
Nights belong to the adults. As dinner concludes, the blender grinds, and children are settled for a welcome rest. Music plays and the fun begins. Rocking and laughing on the porch, we are lit by the reflection of the moon on the lake. Hours pass as we reminisce. Drink flows, as do bodies, in spontaneous dance. Board games are brought out and never finished. As laughs settle into yawns, we wander towards sleep.
On Friday, the ageless owner/hostess of the “Hungry Fisherman” shows us to an antiquated wooden table set with condiments. Year after year, the same faces take our orders and point with pride at the salad bar, complete with bagged salad and grocery store dressings. “All You Can Eat” catfish and shrimp, with a freshness that belies their setting, bring us here. The only change to the decor in the many years we have enjoyed our dinners, is the big screen TV in the corner. Having gone days without that convenience, the canned noise and colorful images it emits are almost welcomed.
As is always the case, we are happy to arrive and happy to leave. As clean-up begins, “real” life intrudes with thoughts of work, and home, and obligations. With the last towel folded, and the last bag loaded, I take one last walk towards my watery heaven. The sun tickles the surface and bounces against my skin. She promises to wait for me. Always.

Concerning calves

I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.