Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

Pieces of Me

I live in a 70’s era brick ranch which was built in a time when closets and bathrooms were allowed the same amount of square footage, and neither is generous. The only extra closet in the house is filled, year-round, with suit jackets and winter coats which won’t bear folding into plastic storage bins. So twice a year, once in spring and again in the fall, I make the climb up complaining, collapsible stairs, into my attic to retrieve our stored clothes.

“Changing out the closets”, as I’ve come to refer to this laborious task, is not a chore I enjoy, which serves to explain why I’ve worn the same two pairs of sandals for the better part of the last two weeks. But, as April wanes into May, spring has taken hold with plans to hang around for at least a couple of weeks before summer begins, in earnest. I’ve spent two full days in my shirt sleeves, with no need for a jacket or shawl of any kind. The time has come. It’s a solitary task, affording lots of time to think, and lots of open space for memories to fill.

This year I am especially surprised by the number of shirts I possess that carry the University of Florida logo. I have one fleece vest, three sweatshirts, three long sleeved tees, two baseball jerseys, and countless t-shirts. Over the years, Roger has expressed his relief in the knowledge that when his imagination fails him, he can always go to the sporting goods store to buy my gift. Perhaps I should help him with more hints.

I wavered this year over whether or not to keep the brown suede skirt. It’s cut on the bias, western style, and the one time I wore it I felt a little like Annie Oakley. The only acceptable shoe to wear with this skirt is, of course, a western boot. Fortunately, I own three pairs. Unfortunately, the skirt doesn’t quite meet the boots and I find that swath of skin, hosed or not, unsightly. But, it’s a great skirt. I’m keeping it.

I bought a pair of boots last year on Ebay. They were fawn colored, high-heeled, and designed by Tommy Hilfiger. When they arrived, I found the heel to be just a little higher than I’d imagined, but they were beautiful. I wore them this winter to a lunch date with my father. As the host beaconed me follow him to the corner where I saw my father sitting, I surveyed the twenty feet of uneven stone flooring and prayed I wouldn’t land in a heap at someone’s feet. Each step felt like I was walking on tip-toe on a very slick surface. At the time, I made a mental note to wear them more often to accustom my feet while scuffing the slick off the bottoms. I didn’t. But, I might next year.

A red and white sailor’s top went directly from bin to the charity pile. My sailor girl days are long over…

I removed a gauzy black jacket from the hanger while admiring it, yet again. It is one of my favorite pieces of clothing. Sheer black nylon is accented by the pinks and greens of hand painted flowers on splotches of black velvet. Beads of differing sizes hang from the hem, continuing up both sides and around the neck. I realized today that, at first glance, one might think it a piano shawl. Loath to knowingly perch upon glass beads, I have worn the jacket very little. Perhaps with some alterations, I might find a place to drape it.

When I ordered the black and gold, ruffled blouse, I had no idea it was constructed of netting. It has ridden the rail in my closet for almost a year. I can’t imagine wearing it anywhere other than a dark bar. I can’t imagine myself in a dark bar.

I kept the blue turtleneck, though I haven’t worn it in several years. I don’t like the feeling of anything against my neck. But blue is one of Shane’s team colors, and some of those football games are played in frigid weather. I might wear it underneath something else…

It saddened me to find my blue and pink, argyle sweater. I bought it new in the fall, and wore it just once before it got lost amidst the racks. It really is cute. I wish I’d worn it more. There’s always next year…

And, that’s when the thought popped into my head, “What if this is the last time you pack these clothes? What if the next time this bin is opened by someone else who won’t appreciate the style in your gray patent lace-up pumps, or the cuteness of your sweaters? What if the next person who opens this bin just sees you, the memory of you?”

I allowed myself just a moment of sadness, more for the person left to collect my effects than for me, and then just one more, one more moment to lament my loss; the loss of invincibility. Life, now, is finite. The end, whether it be ten, twenty, or even fifty years away is as real as the breath I’m breathing right now. For the rest of the day I’ll be looking for a place to store that.

Drawing Conclusions

There may be some people who, on the first day of a serious funk, identify it, and set about rectifying it. Would that I were one of those people.

My first instinct is to quash it. A firm believer in the power of positive thinking, I ignore my ennui and go about my days as though nothing were amiss. And, sometimes this actually works. It doesn’t solve anything, of course, but it can help me get to a better place.

The problem with quashing is that when it doesn’t bring about the desired result my angst is doubled. My original problem is now shrouded in a feeling of inadequacy at my failure to meet it, head on. It becomes a true “elephant in the middle of the room”. Quick! Throw a blanket over it!

It is truly amazing how creative I can be without any conscious effort. I have employed a great number of things to prevent my having to actually resolve to make a change, end a habit, or perform a task I dread.

Social networking is my latest drug of choice. Had you told me three years ago that I might spend hours, daily, in front of my computer monitor, accomplishing nothing more important than sending a bouquet of virtual flowers or participating in a virtual food fight, I would have thought you daft and told you so. I am blessed with a group of caring, intelligent, and highly entertaining virtual friends whose constant company allows me to put most anything on the back burner, and I giggle as it boils over.

A nice glass of wine adds a fresh patina to even the most unpleasant day. Several hours and another glass later, all that remains is an easily avoided memory.

My hobbies, too, provide a place in which I can immerse myself. Of late, I have finished two pieces of needlework, completed three jigsaw puzzles, taken numerous photographs, planted several gardens, and begun a large sketch of a nature scene. When I haven’t been posting my answers to “25 Things About Me”, I’ve been busy.

What I haven’t been doing very much of lately is writing. I love to write, but lately, the thought of it makes me weary. Upon recognizing that fact, I accepted it, and as happens so often when I “Let go…”, the reason revealed itself.

Writing, you see, requires introspection. Even when writing fiction, the writer culls from life experience, emotion, and, thus, evaluation. It’s this last part I’ve been avoiding….

A good friend, upon expressing his intense dislike of a photograph of me, asked what it meant to me. I stumbled over several likely answers before he, tenacious as always, asked me to start again.

“And, make it real this time.”

“I was looking out a window…”

“Uh-huh…”

“…because I’m looking for something. I don’t know what it is. I only know it’s not here.”

“Fine. I get that.”

There was no further discussion of the offending photograph, and the answer satisfied me as well, until recently.

As happens quite often when I refuse to deal with my demons, a virus snaked around my wearied defenses, laying me low. For the better part of two days, all I wanted was sleep. When I awoke this morning, the fever seemed to have broken, leaving behind a revelation.

Age, the time I have spent in what seems to have been a circuitous route to nowhere, weighs heavy upon my head. I am the cliché, looking out a window, asking “Is this truly all there is?”

The empirical knowledge that my experience only speaks to my normalcy gives me no more relief than knowing that missing teeth were a normal part of grade school, or that break-outs were expected in puberty. I never aspired to be normal. Normal is boring. I would much rather be me.

And, there’s the rub; because right now, at a time when I really need me, I’m not very happy with me. I’ve ignored me. I’ve abused me. I’ve neglected me and many other people in my life, in pursuit of avoidance.

In truth, what I have here, inside the window, is very nearly picture perfect. I think its time I drew myself back in.

From First to Last

I’ve had occasion, lately, to consider my “firsts”; my first kiss, my first sleep-over, my first job…

Days after completing the survey, I find myself still considering. While applying make-up, my first pair of boots walk through my mind. They were black patent leather, and the sound of those heels on institutional tile transformed me from a twelve year-old, angst-ridden seventh-grader into a confident, edgy, prepubescent force. While driving to work, I hear the sound of horses’ hooves on pavement as I relive my first carriage ride. It was mid-afternoon. We were in Chattanooga, on streets packed with tourists. But, the fact of him beside me dimmed the sun, stilled the crowd, and isolated our love to a single point in the middle of a busy thoroughfare wherein we were the only two souls that mattered.

I wish I’d appreciated my “firsts” more. I wish someone had reminded me, before I turned back to make sure no one was watching through a front window, that I would be allowed just one first time to surrender to Jimmy’s embrace. I wish someone had been there to whisper in my ear, “This will be your only first date.” It would have been helpful if, before placing her into my arms for the first time, the nurse had looked at me knowingly as she said, “This is your first, and only, daughter.”

I’ve reached the age when thinking of “firsts” leads, naturally, to consideration of a growing number of “lasts”. I’ve birthed all the children I will ever bear. I will never again feel the sweet pull of infant lips upon my breast, or feel the rush of emotion in realizing the miracle inherent in our relationship.

Since the age of twenty-one, sex has been a repetitive act. And, while each encounter offers a new and wonderful experience, nothing is like the first time; the virgin time. As synthetic fibers scratched against my bare back, I wish I’d had the wisdom to consider; is this the right place, the right time, the right man? Are you ready to be a mother?

What if, before you first stepped onto your college campus, a guide stopped you, taking you by the arms? “Stop!”, he might have said. “Stop, and look around. This is the only first time you will walk upon the ground that will change your life. Your next step will forge your destiny. The decisions you make now will determine your life course, because tomorrow will be your second time.”

I enjoyed driving my first car, but might I have enjoyed it more if I knew that I’d never see another one like it? Would I have relished the feeling of pumping the clutch, and finding the gears, if I knew I’d never feel that again?

I will never again reap the harvest from my first garden. I can never again get my first perfect score in English, or Math, or Spanish, or bowling. I have already baked my first birthday cake.

I know there are more “firsts” ahead of me; my first stress test, my first colonoscopy, my first AARP card. And, I hope for more; my first published book, my first trip overseas, my first healthy dill plant. I can’t grow dill. I’ve tried, and tried.

One day, I know I’m going to find just the right spot…

Same As It Ever Was

“I’m a table sitter, just like my Mother.”

Knowing she wouldn’t be joining me allowed me the freedom to stretch out on her well-worn sofa.

Hallie eased herself into her usual spot next to a blinded window. A heavy sigh accompanied the release of her weight onto a vinyl captain’s chair, and the years washed away in my anticipation of her next move. Both hands went to her head, grasping at gossamer wisps which had rudely escaped the band she’d swept them into that morning. Another sigh and her hands went to the tabletop. Her lips pursed as her hands moved about the table, straightening a pencil against the edge of a writing tablet, carefully lining up book spines along their mitered corners, and touching each of three small stacks of paper.

As she took assurance in the precision of her surroundings I remembered rows of pencils, sorted by color and length, lying alongside a notebook in the laboratory where she worked. On quiet days, and sometimes just during a lull, I took particular delight in flicking one end of the pencil closest to me and watching the others careen like pick-up-sticks. She feigned disgust, but I understood the satisfaction she took in realigning her environment.

As she sighed, and sorted, and sorted, and sighed, I searched her face for change. Other than a slight gravitational pull around the corners of her mouth, there was none. Despite her claim of green, her eyes had always been of indeterminate color. They snapped just as they always had, behind eyeglasses whose shape demanded the word “spectacles”. The freckles that had always danced across her cream-colored skin were just where I’d left them, and her small, colorless mouth pursed between spurts of speech enriched with invectives.

“Remind me to give you a blow job later!”

It was the fall of 1992, the year the Braves won the pennant. Both of us had followed the Braves throughout the season. We knew stats. We referred to the players in such a way as to suggest we might have had them over to dinner the night before, and each of us had our favorites. John Smoltz was mine. We both agreed he bore an eerie resemblance to my wayward husband, who Hallie described as “poetic looking”. Hallie appreciated the talents of the wiry Otis Nixon and the second baseman, who she referred to as “Little Lemke”.

Sometime over the course of the Championship series, we had begun to watch the games together, by telephone; she ensconced inside her cozy duplex less than ten miles away from my little farmhouse, filled by the sounds of soundly sleeping children. The call usually came sometime after the seventh-inning-stretch.

It was the bottom of the ninth, and the Pirates were up two to zip. In an era free of steroid controversy, we thought nothing peculiar about the guns on Ron Gant, as he took the plate with the bases loaded. He sacrificed, making the score two to one. Brian Hunter popped up, leaving us with scant hope as a little-known pinch-hitter, named Francisco Cabrera, loped towards the plate. He singled, scoring David Justice, and an oft-traded, unlikely hero named Sid Bream. As Sid slid into home, securing the pennant, Hallie shouted her reminder into the receiver. I remember collapsing with laughter, and would recall little else about that game, or the ensuing World Series.

“I thought you were bringing Shane!”

Hallie stood on the steps leading to her front door.

“This can’t be Shane! Shane’s just a little guy! Who is this tall boy you brought with you?”

Color seeped into Shane’s cheeks as he shut the car door and walked, sheepishly, in the direction of my friend.

“Hi, Aunt Hallie.”, he said into his chest.

He walked, obligatorily, into her waiting arms and hugged her back. There was less than two inches difference in their height.

Gathering the few things I needed before leaving in search of a hotel room, I left the car and replaced Shane’s body with mine. My arms embraced her shoulders as hers encircled my waist. Time had carved precious inches from her already diminutive stature.

“Come in, honey.” She always calls me “honey”. “Be careful with that door. I need to fix the latch.”

Our love for each other spans twenty years, one birth, two marriages, two divorces, and the deaths of two children, both our mothers, and her beloved Aunt Flo. As I study her face for change, I realize mine is the one that is different. I am where she was when I left her to start over, again. Her changing was done. Mine had just begun. I shifted against the soft fabric of the sofa I rested upon, uncomfortable with the knowledge.

“I see you’ve changed your hair.” She made no effort to hide the disdain in her voice. “You’re wearing it like everyone else; like you haven’t combed it in days.” Ill health forced another sigh. “I don’t know why you want to do that. You have such nice hair. I liked it when you flipped it back.”

The fingers of her left hand weaved themselves into my hair.

“Oh, it’s very soft. It doesn’t look soft. It looks hard, but it’s very soft…just like it always was.”

And, it is…just like it always was.

“You’re my touchstone…”

Skin Deep

“What was that?” Hallie’s voice, bristling with indignation, scraped along my ear canal.

“What was what?” Most of our conversations start somewhere in the middle, and usually, I can pick up the thread. This time I had no clue.

“That picture!” Horror replaced indignation, quickly melting into dismay. “I don’t know what you were thinking. You are so photogenic! There are so many good pictures of you!”

I let the inaccuracies in her statement lie, in an effort to discern the source of her distress.

“Honey? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What picture?”

“On the blog! That horrible picture on the blog!”

“Oh, you mean the one in the bathrobe?”

“No! There was no bathrobe! Just your face; your tired, haggard, sick looking face! Why would you do that, honey?”

“You must be talking about the one in the bathrobe. I took it as a favor to a friend. It fit where I placed it in the blog.” My voice reflected the fatigue I felt at having to explain, yet again, why I had taken the picture.

“No! There is no bathrobe!”

“Ok, do you mean the one at the beginning? The one where the little boy is shaking his fist?” I struggled to remember the boy’s face. Could he have resembled me?

“No! There is no little boy, and no bathrobe; just you, looking tired and hurt and ready to die!”

The conversation ended with my friend promising to send me a copy of the offending photo, and it was as I had thought, my early morning picture.

Later that evening, another friend shared his opinion. Where she saw tired and haggard, he saw quiet and pensive. Instead of current illness, he saw tempered strength brought about by obvious wounds. He liked the picture, he said, because he felt it a true reflection.

For a time, I was struck by this difference of opinion between two people who know me as well as anyone, until I realized they both saw the same thing. The difference was acceptance.

Hallie’s view mirrored my own. I am seldom satisfied with a photograph of myself. On a recent occasion in which I was called upon to provide a current photo, I took fifty shots before settling on one I felt was passable. I can always find something wrong. My eyes don’t look right. The lines around my mouth are too obvious. My hair isn’t messy enough.

But it’s really not about physical appearance. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about being stripped down, and allowing the real to show.

The eyes don’t look right because they are sad. The lines around the mouth tend to drift unflatteringly, and messy hair provides a pleasant distraction from the rawness of a well-traveled face. And, all of this is difficult to show and unpleasant to see.

The friend who saw sick and tired, knew the pain first-hand, and couldn’t bear being reminded. The friend who saw quiet and pensive, viewed with accuracy, from a distance.

And, both are right.

Gathering Scraps

She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.

“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.

Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.

“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.

Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.

“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.

“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.

The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.

She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.

“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.

“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.

She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.

She smiled her most welcoming smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”

As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.

Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”

The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.

“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.

Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.

Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.

Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.

Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.

The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.

The Joy of Cooking

At age eighty-three and counting, Joy has rediscovered the culinary arts.

Last week…

“I bought the most amazing pot roast at the market yesterday!” This would have been said on a Thursday, as Senior Discount Day is Wednesday, and Joy never misses Senior Discount Day.

“I bought potatoes, and carrots, and onions, and I’m going to throw it all in the crock-pot.” Despite my disdain for pot roast, her exuberance was almost contagious.

“Sounds good!”, I lied.

“So, I’m wondering…” Her five-foot-two body began to bounce on the tips of her rubber soled feet. “…what types of herbs should I use?”

Allowing for a moment to wonder why she considered me an expert in cooking herbs, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“Garlic, of course. Salt, pepper, about a half cup of red wine…” I searched my brain as I stated the obvious.

“…and thyme!”, I announced proudly. “I like thyme with meat.”

“Thyme! Yes!” Joy clapped her diminutive hands for emphasis. “I’m cooking it this weekend, and if it turns out, I’ll send you the recipe!”

This morning…

Grasping both zippered sides of one of a collection of woolen cardigans she purchased during a tour of Slavic countries, Joy hurriedly entered my office.

“The pork chops were delicious!”, she proclaimed.

Spinning my chair to face her, I asked “Pork chops?”

“Oh, yes! Pork chops in the crock pot!” She dropped the sweater to clasp her hands with glee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever cooked pork chops in a crock pot.”, I mused. “I’ve fried them, and baked them, and….”

“Oh, we usually barbeque them!”, Joy interjected with a bounce.

“Yes.”, I agreed. “I’ve grilled them…”

The expression on Joy’s face was familiar to me. It was the same expression Shane wore after scoring the winning run, or making a clutch catch with the sun in his eyes. I knew what to do….

“Tell me about it.”

“It called for mushroom soup!” And, she was off. “I know some people don’t like mushroom soup. But this had just half the sodium of most mushroom soup. And, I left the bouillon cube out. I love bouillon, but have you ever noticed how much sodium is in a bouillon cube?” She paused for just a moment, inhaling deeply for effect. “It’s terrible!”

“I like cream of mushroom soup.”, I offered.

“Well, I did something different.” Ignoring my comment, she leaned in conspiratorially. “I lined the bottom of the crock pot with onions!”

“The recipe didn’t call for onions?”, I asked, with just a hint of dismay.

“No, but they added so much to the dish!”, she crowed proudly.

She went on with her list of ingredients, ending with tapioca.

“Tapioca?” This time my dismay was genuine. “Tapioca, with pork chops? I don’t like tapioca. Doesn’t it have those little balls in it?”

“I know…”, Joy nodded. “I know…Well, if you don’t like tapioca you could use something else. But, it thickened wonderfully!”

I wrestled with the image of pork chops swimming in mushroom-flavored tapioca, while Joy detailed the rest of her meal, and the conversation turned, again, to herbs.

“Dick loves cauliflower.” Her frown said she didn’t. “I put a little thyme on the cauliflower.”

Her forehead wrinkled under steel-hued bangs. “Was it thyme?”

I opened my mouth to help just as the correct herb came to her.

“No, it was basil! Basil is very good with insipid vegetables, you know…”

Older People

I try to avoid labels, all labels. But, I particularly dislike the label we apply to any human blessed with longevity. The term “Senior Citizen” is a misnomer on a number of levels. After all, an older person may not be “Senior” at all. He might be a junior. And what is the significance of “Citizen” here? Aren’t we all citizens? We don’t call babies “Newborn Citizens”. We wouldn’t refer to a forty-year-old as a “Midlife Citizen”. The mere idea sounds awkward and ludicrous.

I have heard the argument that the term “Senior Citizen” was borne out of respect for a person’s advanced age, but I’m not buying it. I believe the term to be market driven, much like the terms “Soccer Mom”, “Gen-Xer”, and “Baby-boomer”. Unfortunately, as the media makes use of these catch-phrases, the terms become part of our collective consciousness, morphing images born as marketing tools into stereotypes with inherently negative connotations.

I don’t like the word “elderly”, either. As soon as it reaches my ear, it becomes another word entirely, registering in my brain as “feeble”. Left with few options, due to my own semantic prejudices, I refer to those “of a certain age” as “older”.

I enjoy older people. I always have. As a young child, one of my best friends was our next-door neighbor, Earl Witcher. I wish I had a dollar for every time my parents told the story of my running, with arms out-stretched, from our driveway to his, shouting “Ale! Ale!”.

As a young mother, I was blessed to live next door to Ruby Kitchens, a hard-scrabble, deeply southern woman of indeterminate age, though her tight, pewter-colored perm suggested at least sixty. Ruby loved babies, which was lucky as I proved to be a prolific bearer. She loved to hold them, sing to them, and make faces at them. And, I enjoyed a rare empty lap as I watched her love them. For eight years we shared a driveway, and our markedly divergent lives, becoming dear friends. When the walls began to close in on my burgeoning family, visits were less frequent, but no less enjoyable. The children she helped me to raise are adults now, and Ruby has been gone for many years, yet I still think of her several times a week.

~~~

Joy is a spritely eighty-five, though if you ask her, she isn’t a day over eighty-three. Lucie turned eighty this year, passing the day in the hospital bed she has occupied since she was seventy-eight.

Joy came to work in our office three years ago, and within weeks had become one of my favorite things about weekdays. Last February, Lucie was the first hospice patient assigned to my care. I fell in love on sight.

Joy runs circles around most of the much younger employees in our office, coaxing productivity out of office equipment most of us have never learned to use, and doing it with a smile. Lucie is paralyzed, from the neck down, as the result of a stroke. She lays, a helpless, horribly contracted heap, in the center of her twin-sized world. She is completely dependent on others to meet her needs, and she doesn’t mind telling you what they are. I rarely visit without a small container of vanilla ice-cream.

Joy hums. You don’t so much look for Joy, as listen for her. The one time Joy isn’t humming is when she is talking, and she loves to talk. Her conversations usually surround some form of culture; she might recommend a book she’s just finished reading, or review a night at the symphony or an afternoon spent at the museum. An avid “Dancing with the Stars” fan, she loves to rehash the latest episode while stirring hot chocolate mix into a cup of steaming hot water.

Lucie’s eyes are usually closed when I enter her room. I’m careful to bend close before I say her name quietly, while softly touching one tiny, bony shoulder. Despite her efforts to open them, her right eye never fully cooperates, prompting my perch on the left side of her bed.

“Miss Lucie? It’s Stacye…” I encourage her to wakefulness.

“Hey!” She exudes enthusiasm in a voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s Saturday, Miss Lucie, February twenty-first, almost spring-time! How are you doing today?” I slide one hip up onto the bed, feeling the egg-crate mattress beneath its thin cotton covering.

“Oh…I’m alright…” She answers every time.

I stand, and move to draw the drapes.

“You want these open, don’t you Miss Lucie? Look at that gorgeous sunshine!”

I return to the side of her bed.

“Are you eating?” At last check she weighed less than seventy pounds.

“These people don’t cook right.” She answers with a lop-sided sneer and averted eyes.

“It’s not what you’re used to, is it?”

“It sure ain’t!” Images from an earlier visit, remnants of camouflage-colored puree decorating thick, institutional stoneware, fill my head.

White noise, from the television she insists must play at all times, accompanies our words. Sometimes I carry the conversation. Raised by a father whose green thumb was more of a necessity than a hobby, Lucie loves to hear about my garden.

And, when she’s up to it, Lucie has stories to tell. Hours, spent at her bedside, have taught me much about life in pre-integration Atlanta, as she takes me along on the bus ride across town to “care for a white family”. Most interesting, though, are her ruminations on Lucie; Lucie the daughter, Lucie the independent woman, Lucie the single mother. The injured cadence of her voice urges me closer, as she shares her disappointment in the father of her only child who “…left, and never came back”.

Two framed photographs provide the only break in the institutional green of our surroundings. Lucie’s grandson smiles through an eight-by-ten rectangle of glass. And, just underneath, hangs a six-by-four photo of his infant son, also known as “the baby”.

“Did your grandson bring the baby to see you this week?”, I ask as I dab at the unbidden tear falling from an eye that won’t quite open.

“Nah…”, she answers. “He’s busy…”

“Well, I bet he’ll be here next week!” I rise to leave, readjusting the blankets displaced by my hip.

Bending, I kiss her shiny, cocoa-colored forehead.

“I’m going now, Miss Lucie. I’ll see you next week…”

“Alright…”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

What is Love?

As a child, love meant racing to be the first to greet Dad as he pushed through the screen door.

As a teenager, I shared confidences with girlfriends, building a love that protected our vulnerably emerging selves.

As a young adult, it was all about the chase; romance, flowers, stolen embraces, and the fever pitch of emotion that tied the rhythm of my heart to the sound of a voice.

Mother-love is unlike any other; constant, sweeter, deeper, purer, and ever-growing.

One of the gifts of this time in my life is the ability to integrate all these different kinds of love, and to see how they build, one upon the other. And, with this cache of love stored away as reference, I now see love in places I had never considered looking before.

Love is a progression. I remember the first time I really heard the following lines, the way they moved me, and the promise in them. They were read by my ninth-grade Sunday school teacher, and many years later, served as my marriage vows.

“1 Corinthians 13:1-13

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels,
but have not love,
I have become sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains,
but have not love, I am nothing.
And if I dole out all my goods, and
if I deliver my body that I may boast
but have not love, nothing I am profited.
Love is long suffering,
love is kind,
it is not jealous,
love does not boast,
it is not inflated.
It is not discourteous,
it is not selfish,
it is not irritable,
it does not enumerate the evil.
It does not rejoice over the wrong, but rejoices in the truth

It covers all things,
it has faith for all things,
it hopes in all things,
it endures in all things.
Love never falls in ruins;
but whether prophecies, they will be abolished; or
tongues, they will cease; or
knowledge, it will be superseded.
For we know in part and we prophecy in part.
But when the perfect comes, the imperfect will be superseded.
When I was an infant,
I spoke as an infant,
I reckoned as an infant;
when I became [an adult],
I abolished the things of the infant.
For now we see through a mirror in an enigma, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know as also I was fully known.
But now remains
faith, hope, love,
these three;
but the greatest of these is love.”

Later, I discovered the writings of the ancient poet, Rumi.

This is Love

“Love is reckless; not reason.
Reason seeks a profit.
Love comes on strong,
consuming herself, unabashed.

Yet, in the midst of suffering,
Love proceeds like a millstone,
hard surfaced and straightforward.

Having died of self-interest,
she risks everything and asks for nothing.
Love gambles away every gift God bestows.

Without cause God gave us Being;
without cause, give it back again.”

A steady mist fell as I drove into work this morning. The light changed, and as I rolled to a stop, I noticed a flurry of activity to my right. A young, heavy-set, African-American man, clothed in ill-fitting blue jeans and Arizona Cardinals football jersey, filled the wet sidewalk. Drawing my attention was the huge bouquet of heart-shaped balloons impeding his progress. Blinking silver and red, they danced and bounced above his smiling face. As he wrestled with the large, red bow serving as his hand-hold, I thought, “Now THAT is love.”