Undercover Runner

Anyone who knows me will tell you I am not, by nature, a runner. I don’t have the vibe.

Athletic clothes don’t look chic when pulled over my frame. They don’t even look particularly athletic, unless you consider a frump athletic. I don’t carry a bottle of water everywhere I go, and my sneakers don’t look as though they have been run over by a car multiple times. And, if you see me on a street corner, I will not be running in place in preparation to dart across the sidewalk. I will, instead, have both arms out, wing-like with fingers splayed, in an effort to hold back the child who may or may not be accompanying me. Old habits die hard.

I still look back in horror at the days of the one-piece, polyester, blue-and-white-pinstriped jumpsuit we were forced to wear in PE class. It was the era of the “President’s Council on Physical Fitness Award”, wherein middle-aged jocks with large plastic whistles invoked the memory of JFK to “inspire” children to meet a set of standards set by the federal government. One entire quarter of the school year was set aside for this endeavor, and it quickly became the longest three months of my life.

One day a week we began our day under a cloud of steam emitted by our pre-pubescent mouths. Inside the black asphalt track, the football field sparkled as dewdrops fought the sun’s effort to reclaim them. The runners bounced in anticipation, while the rest of us huddled with arms wrapped around our shapeless midsections, and grimaced against the cold. As the coach approached in his year-round uniform of t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts, featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, I scanned my group of shivering non-runners for the easiest mark, and set my preliminary goal of not coming in last. By the end of the quarter, I had reevaluated. My new goal was, simply, to survive. Recently, though, my experience has served me well.

In the public school system, PE is now treated as an elective that is placed in rotation with Home Economics, Computer Science, and Spanish. So far this school year, my son has learned his way around a kitchen, and mastered at least twenty words in Spanish. He returned from Christmas break full of anticipation for six weeks of PE. His excitement, however, ended when the coach, wearing a t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, raised a large plastic whistle to his lips, signaling the class to run.

Shane is athletic. He has played football for five years. He has excelled in basketball for four years, and fills the time in between with baseball. A couple of weeks ago, I met his descent from the school bus with my usual question.

“How was your day?”

“Crummy.”, he growled.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“PE”, was all he said.

“PE? You love PE! You were looking forward to it!”

“Yeah…”, he began. “That was before we had to run.” JFK may be a distant memory, but the President’s Council on Physical Fitness is, apparently, functioning without him.

I smiled down at my notably athletic progeny before saying, “Let me tell you a story.”

I used to joke that if you saw me running you could be sure someone was chasing me. That was before middle-age, and the realization that a simple change in dietary habits no longer reaps the same reward it did twenty years ago. At this time in my life, physical activity is just as important as logging every morsel of food that passes my lips.

I live just minutes from a park that boasts two well-maintained walking tracks. White concrete snakes over several acres between tennis courts and baseball diamonds, and a “nature trail” winds through towering pines behind the football field. The sound of my hurried, measured footsteps barely pierces the music piped into my ears through tiny, white earphones. By keeping my eyes down, I can get into “the zone”, and walk for miles. But when I raise my eyes, I see them; the runners. Loping by me, their long strides mock as I realize they will probably lap me again before I reach the end of the trail.

I want to run, but find it so boring, so tedious. And there is, of course, the picture in my mind of me running, complete with blue-and-white pinstriped, polyester jumpsuit…

Last week, the sun burned the frost out of the air, inviting me to venture outside in my shirt-sleeves. Exhilarated, I fought my puppy’s gangly legs into his harness and attached the leash.

“Let’s go, boy!”, were the last words I would speak before re-entering the house.

Murphy, my five-month-old boxer, headed out at a dead gallop. I resisted him at first, but, upon seeing the joy in his limited freedom, I followed his lead. And, we ran. We ran downhill, and around corners. We ran uphill in the center of the street. We ran into cul-de-sacs, down to the entrance of our subdivision, and back.

As I repeated the harness process, in reverse, I marveled at how good I felt. I felt loose, I felt fit, I felt athletic! And, the difference was made by my companion. Running on the other end of Murphy’s leash freed me from the inhibitions inherent in my awkward appearance in athletic clothing, and stopping to catch my breath warranted no explanation, as everyone knows running dogs stop every few feet to sniff. The presence of a dog changed the entire premise of the activity while keeping me entertained. I’m not putting myself out there as a runner, I’m just a football-Mom on the other end of a leash.

Confessions of a Spoiled Brat

The goal leading to my latest psychological growth spurt was to better deal with a person with whom I must deal daily, and with whom I have constant difficulty. Isn’t that always the way? We almost never enjoin in any kind of spiritual or psychological journey because of some fault we sense in ourselves. We journey in an effort to relieve pain, to decrease stress, or to “fix” someone else.

Two weeks into my latest exercise, I made an unsettling, yet wonderfully emancipating discovery. I am a spoiled brat. And, true to form, I’m not just your garden-variety spoiled brat. I am a self-made spoiled brat. I studied to achieve this status. I worked at it. Work, though, is too small a word; I persevered.

“Spoiled brat…”

I’m sure I heard these words burst forth from my mother’s mouth, initially, and apparently more than once, as they come to mind fairly easily. My mother was given to name-calling when angry. She had several favorites. I believe “spoiled brat” was used in situations when her use of the word “No!” was met with some complaint, or perhaps when she sensed we were behaving in an ungrateful manner. I’m sure she directed these words at me on more than one occasion, though I’ve never felt deserving, until now.

My epiphany arose from a single question; “Did he mean to hurt?”

At the risk of sounding simple, I must admit I had never considered this part of the equation before. The question was aimed at a woman detailing her husband’s latest transgression. It seems he had forgotten to take out the trash, or something equally heinous. Then came the question, and I lost my sense of hearing as my brain began to whir, filled with misdeeds I had logged over the years. As they flashed before my eyes, the question repeated; “Did he mean to hurt?”, and inevitably, the answer was “no”.

It was an amazing exercise, and I recommend it to everyone. It’s hard to comprehend how much room is taken up by imagined slights. As I took out each hurtful memory and held it under this light, it disappeared, leaving me lighter, freer, happier. I began to experience people differently and give more of myself as the part of me that had been holding onto hurt was available for real interaction.

Strangely, though, as the hurt peeled away, I noticed a disturbing recurring pattern in my thinking. Roger called to ask if I could come to the gym a little early. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The dog trainer called to say she couldn’t make our Thursday evening appointment, but Saturday afternoon was open. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. Shane asked if I could swing by the school after work to pick him up, so that he could stay for the basketball game. My first thought was “I don’t want to.”. The point is not whether I did these things, because I almost always do. The point is that my thinking immediately turned to what I wanted, and, chances are, if I did do the things I had already decided I didn’t want to do, my demeanor displayed my reticence.

I also became aware of how much of my quiet time is spent in thinking about what I want. Rush hour is prime time for this kind of ruminating. Usually, by the time I get home, my evening is planned according to my desires, and I don’t appreciate interruptions that divert me from my chosen endeavors.

The natural response to uncovering such a distasteful aspect of one’s character is to ask “why?”. The answer came easily. It was survival, really. My divorce left me a working, single mother of four children. Circumstances leading to the divorce left me ill-prepared for this, or any other challenge. After a pity-party that lasted several weeks, I looked around and realized five people were counting on me, and only me…for everything. I pulled up my boot-straps, just as my father had taught me, and forged ahead. In the process, as I felt the pressure of four sets of eyes trained solely on me, my eyes, too, focused inward. Somewhere along the way, I had come to equate strength with doing things my way. This may have worked, then. It may, in fact, have been the only way. But, blessedly, circumstances have changed, and that kind of self-interest is no longer in my best interest.

It will take some time to change a habit I worked so hard to develop. Awareness is the first step. This evening, as I sat amidst hundreds of other weary commuters, my cell-phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line suggested a diversion from my well-thought-out plan for the evening. My first thought was “I don’t….”.

That’s as far as it got…

And, that’s a start.

Game Face

I loved those Saturday afternoons. Dad was asleep by half-time, but magically, some kind of internal clock woke him in time to watch the final play. His snores leant a softness to the crowd noise and announcers’ banter.

Later, I married an avid University of Alabama football fan. He hung flags, wore his special game-day shirt, and God help you if you were misguided enough to ask him a question while the ball was in play. While watching with him, I met and fell in love with the Florida Gators.

I graduated from a school whose founder chose as its mascot the White Owl. I believe this to be the reason they were denied the right to field a football team. So, with my back to the wall, I punted, and adopted a team. For the last ten years, the only occasion upon which I’ve missed a televised Florida game, found me sitting in the stands, watching my son play.

When Shane was about four, a complete stranger approached us at a local “Chili’s” as we waited to hear the tell-tale sizzling, announcing the approach of our fajitas.

“Is this boy playing football?”

Managing to speak despite a mouth gone slack, I answered, “He’s only four!”

“Oh! Well, he’s a big boy; got offensive lineman written all over him! See ya’ in two years!”

I don’t know if he was there, but we were. Three nights a week, I hurried home from work to dress my first-grader for football practice. It had never occurred to me, during all those years of coaxing nylons up my own leg, that the experience would benefit my son. Spandex is so unforgiving….

Shane trotted gamely onto the field, as I scanned the row of peopled, nylon-covered, folding chairs, unaware that the spot I chose would, for the next several months, be designated as “my spot”. Fortunately, I chose well. Aluminum fencing, separating us from the boys, served as an adequate footrest, and my neighbor was an interesting man who, at 50, had just reenrolled in school. I found him to be somewhat aloof at first, until he explained he had no hearing in his right ear. From that point on, I leaned in to talk to him, and realized he hadn’t really been ignoring me, after all.

Six year-olds in football helmets look like Atom Ant. They just do. And there is nothing more entertaining than watching twenty-five Atom Ants run (mostly into each other), and kick, and catch. Shane learned a lot that year, and the experience inspired his father. Roger has coached Shane’s teams, in one capacity or another, every year since.

The first year with Roger at the helm was abysmal, or as we have come to call it, “a learning experience”. The team won only one game. Fortunately, it was the last one, and the fervor experienced in that triumph encouraged the parents to give him another chance.

Year two brought in new talent, and we won every game, including the county championship. Riding this wave, we beefed it up for the boys in year three. A parent/policeman arranged for her co-workers/motorcycle-club-members to escort us to the county championship. A show of bravado like this is so much more effective when you actually win the game. Instead, we suffered our first loss in two years, and the boys learned a very valuable lesson. We cleaned it up a bit, but the moral went generally like this; “Don’t let your mouth write a check your ass can’t cash.”

Shane has played football for five years now. Besides the obvious physical aspects of the game, he has benefited in many other ways. Youth sports offer a social “in”, as it introduces boys to others in their peer group they might not otherwise have met. Most importantly, though, youth sports build confidence. And, it’s not just about winning games. The confidence boosters live in the small things; a successful block at practice, the ability to run three laps around the field in one-hundred degree weather without stopping to vomit and/or cry, and being part of a group relying upon one another to complete a task. Add to this, the vision of Mom in the stands sporting the team colors, holding a sign with your name and jersey number on it, and the possibilities for positive self-esteem are endless.

Five years ago, at the age of thirteen, my nephew expressed an interest in football. He had excelled in baseball and soccer, and his parents had hoped he would continue. Football came out of left field. My sister, Laura, was especially skeptical, mostly due to the violent nature of the sport.

For the last four years, Andrew has held the starting safety position on his high-school football team, and his parents have never missed one game. Three years ago, as I sat in my pajamas, enjoying a rare Friday night at home alone, Laura called to say Andrew was playing at a local high-school just minutes from my house. I reluctantly drew on some jeans, pulled a fleece over my pajama-top, and arrived just as the third quarter began. It was my sister’s turn to don the colors, wave the pom-poms, and cheer. Her husband, too, felt his creativity enhanced by his son’s show of athletic prowess. The hats he designed for us to wear at the Championship game were comically supportive, and the cooler he lugged into the stands, packed with assorted hot beverages and warm spicy muffins. Andrew’s team ended the year as State Champions, and I have missed few games since.

Despite our living about forty minutes apart, I don’t see my sister very often. Her son’s football games provided us with an opportunity to share a passion, to laugh, and to connect. I came to relish our time.

I learned the basics of the game from watching it on television, and the nuances by watching my son and nephew play. I learned what splits are, the difference between free- and strong-safety, and how to guess a penalty call by noticing where the pretty, yellow bean-bag is thrown. It is a bean-bag, you know; a bean-bag wrapped in yellow cloth. The only flags in football are those flapping at the edges of the field.

I love American football, and my various experiences with it have left me well-versed. My son and I watch games together, and when he gushes after a particularly gutsy play, I get it. The guys at the office, misguided Georgia Bulldogs all, include me in their pre-game and post-game discussions, and through this experience I have perfected the art of “talking smack”. Ok, I pretty much had that one down already. I just aim it in a different direction now.

As they have for the last four years, my son’s team made it to the semi-finals. This year we lost, but there’s always next year. Shane made a name for himself as the best center in his age group, and his kicking coach has offered to take him to Kicking Camp at Appalachian State this summer.

The Gators won a national championship this year, and I have a tee shirt to prove it. I wear it to work on the occasional “Casual Friday” just to see those Bulldogs bare their impotent teeth.

And my Steelers won the Super Bowl! You’re thinking, “She’s from Atlanta and she’s supporting the Steelers?” Two words: Troy Polamalu.

I may know the game, but I’m still just a girl…

"Teach Your Children"

I wasn’t sure the car would stop. The street held remnants of an earlier rain, and the ball rolling into it, was a surprise. Even more startling was the young child who followed, despite a large group of variously aged family members congregated in his driveway. As I braked, I turned to look at his family, hoping someone would see the boy, and come to his aid. Several of them turned, looking in his direction.

Blessedly, the car did stop. As I sat, allowing the child to retrieve his ball and move well clear of the car, I turned again to look at his caretakers. Some continued to watch him, while the more oblivious of the group continued talking, and laughing, and jostling; no one moved, no one called out. The boy snagged his ball, and grazed me with dark, dancing eyes, before darting back into his driveway.

My son’s presence in the garage meant he had something to tell me that wouldn’t wait.

“Mom!” His inflection confirmed my suspicion.

He burbled as we carried my things inside.

“Science class was so cool today! Mr. Patterson, you remember him, right? Well, Mr. Patterson said he’d been waiting for a rainy day to tell us this story, right?”

He freed his hands by setting a bag on the kitchen table, and began using them to bat at the puppy, whose excitement on seeing his friend come inside was just as exuberant as it had been the first time, about thirty minutes before.

“It was about a witch. Well, not really a witch. Well, she WAS a witch, but now she’s a ghost, right? I mean, it’s kinda like “Blair Witch”, but not really.”

He continued to share his story, as I moved about the kitchen. Some of his words were lost in the sounds of cans scraping along shelves and refrigerator bins opening, but I understood the crux of his story. The long and short of it, was that Mr. Patterson had set aside the business of beakers and microscopes to take advantage of a rainy day, by regaling a roomful of eleven-year-olds with his stories of adolescent close-encounters with beings from “the other side”. Unfortunately, in arriving at this decision, Mr. Patterson had forgotten his role as authoritarian. He had underestimated his own importance by sharing a frightening story with children who are directed, daily, to listen to him, and to remember every word he utters.

The next morning, I awoke to a pile of blankets on the floor beside my bed. And, somewhere in that pile, lay my frightened, sleeping son.

Shane held his cell-phone behind his back.

“Mom? Can I go to the movies with Koran?, he stage-whispered.

I asked all the usual questions; what, when, where, and gave my consent. As he ran, grinning, back to his bedroom to change, my cell-phone rang. It was Jill, mother of Alex.

“Is Shane going to the movies with Koran?”

“Yes. Is Alex?”

“Did you know that they are dropping the kids off? There will be no parents…I don’t know.”

Anger crowded my embarrassment.

“No, I didn’t know that. Let me call you back.”

I called Koran’s father, who back-pedaled furiously when questioned. I thanked him for the invitation and called Jill to tell her Shane wouldn’t be going. Her sigh spoke her relief, and I thanked her. We watch out for each other…

Laughter breached the closed door to the playroom as Shane and two boys who live next door played video games.

“Lunchtime!”, I called, imagining myself in belted shirt-dress, high heels, and pearls. June Cleaver’s got nothing on me.

Six hands vied for space under the bathroom spigot before the boys barreled into the kitchen to ham and cheese on wheat, Sunchips, and milk.

“Is there mayonnaise on this?” Ray studied his sandwich without touching it.

“Mayo and mustard.”, I answered, still in character, before resuming wiping the counters.

“Mom?” This was my son.

“Yes?”

“Do we have any vanilla stuff? You know, for the milk? They don’t drink plain milk. They like vanilla.”

I turned to find my storybook lunch decimated. Shane, his back to me, munched contentedly on the contents of his plate. To his left, two slices of discarded bread messily decorated the outskirts of a plate, while his friend held the formerly sandwiched slice of ham to his mouth. To his right, Ray had finally found the nerve to touch his food, removing all traces of mayo, leaving a slice of bread topped by mustard and ham. Both glasses of milk remained untouched.

“No, I’m sorry. And, I’m sorry you don’t like your lunch.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Shane rushed to my defense. “It’s just that they don’t eat brown bread. They like white. And Ray doesn’t like mayonnaise, and their Mom always puts vanilla in the milk. But, that’s okay.”

That evening, the boys’ mother returned the favor, inviting Shane to dinner.

“What did you have?”, I asked on his return.

“Chicken nuggets.”, he answered. “They always have chicken nuggets. That’s what they like.”

Somehow, I can’t imagine the boys’ father braving the hazards of a drive across town in Atlanta traffic, thinking, “Mmmm, chicken nuggets!”

My sister will be late to her own funeral. This was my thought as I rested my head against the gaily colored mural adorning the wall of the local “Rio Bravo”. The trill of a cell-phone caught my attention, and seeking the sound, my eyes came to rest on a girl of about six. She flipped the phone open with one perfectly manicured hand, while the other rested on the denim-clad knee of a man I supposed to be her father. She brought the phone to her ear and turned, revealing a powdered face, featuring painted lips, carefully placed glitter, and several coats of black mascara. I’m sure my mouth fell open.

One tiny foot rocked back and forth on the tip of a stacked heel as she talked. The pink polish on her nails matched, perfectly, the hue of a sweater that clung to her board-flat chest before falling over expensively tattered jeans. Her future flashed across my eyes, leaving me with a feeling of profound sadness for her squandered childhood

Shane’s cell-phone had rung at least twenty times over the course of an hour.

“Who is that?”, I asked, irritated by the sound of my mother’s voice coming from my mouth.

“Valerie…” Shane’s voice, too, sounded stressed. He took advantage of a break in the noise to go outside, picking up a basketball on his way towards the goal.

When the offending noise began again, I picked up the telephone, intending to tell Valerie to cut back on her calls before I was forced to have a talk with her mother.

The Caller-ID bore her mother’s name and cell-phone number, but the voice on the other end of the line was Valerie’s. I made no such threat.

His efforts at whispering drew my attention.

“I know, but we’re changing plans in June. It doesn’t make sense to buy a new phone now.”

The span of his silence suggested his wife’s increasingly shrill voice.

“He can use my old phone.” These words were louder, more forceful, in keeping with a man with a plan.

Another silence ensued, and when conversation continued, it went on for some time, though he spoke few words.

Later, he visited the office across from mine.

“My son lost his phone.”

“Can’t he just use your old one until we change plans in June?” , his sensible friend asked. “Buying a new phone now would just be a waste of money, because it won’t work with the new plan.”

“She wants to get him another Razor. She’s worried what his friends will think.”

His friend’s derisive chuckle spoke volumes.

“I told her we’d just use mine.”

Later that afternoon, his loquacious wife, with children in tow, came by to pick him up on their way to purchase the Razor.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked, as the clock ticked towards four, and our two-day pass.

“I’m taking my son to a birthday party at the Roxy.”, came the bored-sounding answer.

“The Roxy?”, I asked, incredulous. “THE Roxy? The concert hall downtown? A twelve year-old child is having a birthday party at the Roxy?”

“Yeah…it’s to make up for all the bot-mitzvahs.”

I had no answer for that.

What will become of our children? It seems every passing day presents me with another horrifying example of adults who have seemingly forgotten their role. A young child is allowed to follow a ball into a rain-soaked road in front of an oncoming car, and they watch. A science teacher, whose words are expected to form the minds of our children, spends an entire class period convincing them that witches and ghosts are not just the stuff of Halloween charades. A group of eleven year-old boys and girls are invited to a Sunday afternoon movie by parents who can’t be bothered to chaperone. A Harvard educated mother feeds her children a diet so consumed by frozen, fried chicken and vanilla flavored milk, that sandwiches on whole-grain, accompanied by organically produced milk, appear exotically disgusting. I shared a restaurant waiting room with a six-year-old whose make-up was applied more professionally than mine. A mother, apparently, never questions her daughter about hundreds of calls made from her cell phone to a boy she sees, every day, in their sixth-grade classroom. A boy’s father caves to his ranting mother, by spending money on a cell phone that will be useless in less than six months; in an effort to retain pre-pubescent social status. And, an entire concert hall, complete with seating for several thousand, is rented in honor of a twelve-year-old girl who had the misfortune of being born to Christian parents.

How long before the odds play out? Who do our children have to look up to? When did outings and fancy electronics replace structured caring and responsibility? When did children begin making decisions that affect an entire family? As they cry through smeared mascara, who will explain objectivism to our girls? What is left? What will they have to look forward to; to work towards? How will they define “special”?

Oh, My Darlin’…

“You wait!” A familiar sneer leant my mother’s words an equally familiar tone of acridity. “You wait! You’ll wish you had this time back! Time moves faster the older you get. Why, at my age, a year goes by in a blink of an eye.”

As a kid, who had probably just bemoaned a yawning three week wait until Christmas, her admonition had no more effect than her frequent wishes for my future.

“I hope you have children, and I hope they cause you just as much trouble as you’ve caused me.”

As it turned out, she was right, on both counts.

I have heard the month of January described as meaningless after the hustle and bustle of a holiday season that now seems to span several months. There is, of course, an introspective aspect to January, coming as it does, after weeks of economic, gastronomic, and even alcoholic depravity.

New Year’s Day dawns on millions of hung-over, antacid-swilling Americans, who greet the day holding a television remote control. Football-filled hours pass in a semi-upright position, interrupted only by the odors of foods said to be infused with magic powers on this day, and this day only. More often than not, it is while we are pushing collard greens around the perimeter of our plate, that someone floats the topic of New Year’s resolutions. As we anticipate finally being able to access a beer without encountering a well-maintained eyebrow raised by the “time police”, we attempt to discern a recognizable image in the smattering of cornbread crumbs stuck in gravy remnants before answering.

And, no matter the answer, we finally manage to pull from the refuse that is our dinner plate, one thing is sure; by January thirty-first we will have forgotten it. This is the stuff of January.

Recently, though, I’ve discovered other reasons to mark January.

January is the month of the Clementine. In case you are not familiar with this delectable nugget of sugary citrus, a Clementine is cousin to the tangerine. A friend tried, for years, to sell me on their merits, but to my discerning eye they appeared nothing more than a miniature tangerine at twice the price. I couldn’t imagine anything about them being worth double the money…until my son tasted them.

Usually imported from Spain and neighboring regions, these tiny, orange morsels are sold almost exclusively in crates. This feature originally, prohibited me from buying them. This year, after tasting one provided by my friend, I decided to chance unloading a crate of citrus on a family usually partial to meatier fruits such as apples, pears, and melons. Within days, my son was urging me to return to the store for another crate, and when I tasted one, I understood why.

That was three crates ago, and on Saturday, I carefully placed one of the last three available into my grocery cart. Clementine season is winding down. We’re treating this crate as though it will be our last, because it just might be.

This weekend, I discovered another reason to mark the passing of January. My Christmas cacti, inaccurately named as they begin blooming just after Thanksgiving, are waning. I have, over the years, collected a virtual grove of cacti by taking advantage of post-holiday plant sales. At present I nurture eight, in varying shades. This year, for the first time, all of them bloomed.

My grandmother raised Christmas cacti, and I loved one of them, especially. It was at least two feet in diameter, and bloomed in a lovely, deep, shade of pink. Visits to her house were warm, due in part to her attention to the thermostat, but also because of our shared interests. She knew I loved plants, and she loved to share. Every time I visited, she pinched off shoots of any plant I admired, urging me to root them. And, I did.

Today, my largest Christmas cactus, started as an offshoot of the one I so admired, measures over two feet in diameter. She is old. There are unattractive striations upon her leaves, and yet she blooms, gloriously, year after year. When others tease, putting out buds that never come to full fruition before the foliage shrivels; she blooms, and blooms, and blooms. I fertilize her, in warmer months. I water her, judiciously at first, until the buds begin to squeeze from her succulent fronds, whereupon I strengthen her by plying her with liquid. And she responds to my ministrations, year after year, after year.

Withered blooms fell into my watering can yesterday. The show is nearly over. As I looked around the sunroom, I enjoyed, possibly for the last time, each and every bloom; bright pink, salmon red, and white, with just a trace of pink lining each petal.

And I marked January, wondering where the time had gone.

Broken Circles

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

An aching silence sucked the air out of her, making it impossible to breathe.

“Which is it? Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

Challenge rode in, on words spoken matter-of-factly, without malice.

“For some reason you felt you had to settle. For some reason you felt like you weren’t good enough. Which was it?”

Unspoken words sparked the air, clenching her teeth, as she fought an overwhelming compulsion to cover her ears. She knew what was coming, and wasn’t sure she could hear it again.

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

She whimpered, softly.

“Who was it? Who was the bad guy?” Kindness and compassionate appreciation tinted words spoken barely above a whisper. “Was it your mother? Your father?”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, closest to her nose, as she felt, at once, relieved to have been given permission, and desperate to maintain composure. And, even as she battled, she recognized that the fight, too, was a problem.

Feelings rushed in on the image of her mother’s face; a scowl, a smirk, a sneer. She tried, for years, to find a smile, one smile; a smile of doting adoration, a smile of gentle understanding, a smile of quiet gratitude, a smile of genuine enjoyment. There were no smiles; not for her.

And, the words came; sharp words, strong words, words children shouldn’t speak, and can’t understand; “Idiot”, “Stupid”, “Imbecile”. And, even as they repeated, in her mother’s voice, inside her head, she wondered if, in some bizarre way, she should thank her. Did epitaphs flung at her school-aged head, in some warped way, spark an interest in vocabulary, a love of words, a need to understand? Did the constant state of confusion, mixed with a certainty of her valuelessness, spur, in her, compassion?

The vision she conjured was one of abject submission, as the picture of her mother, hate-filled sneer firmly in place, loomed down at her, hands on hips. She never understood what she did, or how she did it. She never understood the hate, the sadness, the feeling that her mother would rather be anywhere else.

With time, the feelings became memories she only had to feel on the drive down at Christmas, or Easter, or some other holiday. Placing one hand on a doorknob she’d turned thousands of times before, she held her breath, allowing her features time to compose a practiced mask of confidence, strength, and composure. She stood tall, holding her mother’s jade-infused eyes with hers, brown, and snapping, until a slumping of her mother’s shoulders, or a look of proud dismissal, gave her permission to move into the next room, where, at last, she exhaled.

The vision comes again, and, this time, she sees her own childish face; open, innocent, and needy. Questions fly around, inside her head, as she gazes down upon her own countenance.

“Why couldn’t she love me?”

“What could I have done?”

She feels the pain she felt then. She recognizes it. She honors it. She validates it.

It’s not that she hadn’t realized that she’d never had a mother.

But, it doesn’t help to be reminded.

She wonders if the scars will ever heal, as an image of her own daughter flashes across her mind.

And, she smiles through tears that never fall, secure in the knowledge that the cycle ended, with her.

Eleven

“Mom?” About three feet behind me, he begins to trot, in an effort to catch up. The movement, in the corner of my eye, reminds me of so many seasons of football and the characteristic way he exits the field.
“Mom, you’re lucky you’re a girl, you know that, right?” Extra effort pillows his words in gusty breaths.
“Well, I think so.” I turn and smile at him as he reaches my side.
“You want to know why?” He puffs, as we climb the cement incline leading to the book store.
“Why?” I stow my keys and check for my wallet.
“’Cause at school? All the girls have like lots of presents and stuff. I mean, they open their lockers, and there’s just all this STUFF in there, and they’re always giving each other presents, and guys just don’t do that, you know?” The extra effort required to breathe doesn’t slow his characteristically swift speech pattern.
We reach the door, which he hurries to open.
“Yeah.” I answer thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Come to think of it, guys don’t really give each other a lot of presents do they?”
“So see?”
He pushes his point home, as a coffee table book featuring a shiny, red, vintage car catches his attention.
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.”
The last word disappears between the pages.

“Mom?”
I insert one finger into the loamy soil supporting a prized cactus before lifting the watering can.
“Yes?” I watch the pot fill.
“Would you still love me if I was gay?”
I remember to take a breath, before continuing my perusal of the plant.
“Sure, honey. You know, there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I love you.”
“What if I was?”
I breathe again, lower the can, and turn.
“What if you were?”
“I mean…how would I know?” He watches his feet as he shuffles them against indoor/outdoor carpeting.
“Well, it’s a little early….” I clear my throat before continuing in my best educational voice.
“You know, I believe that a gay person is born gay. Gay is not something you become; it is something you are.”
I pause, hoping for absorption.
“It’s like having brown hair, or blue eyes. You don’t choose it; you ARE it. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“Would you wonder if I would love you if you had blonde hair?” I search his face for his eyes, which he finally turns to me.
“No.” The word is quiet.
“It’s the same thing.”
We both breathe.
“And, its way too early for you to worry about that now, you know.” I force casualness into my words as I move to refill the watering can.
“Yeah.” Relief adds color to his words and a spring to his step. “I’m gonna go shoot hoops.”

“I didn’t have a great day.” I hear his feet as they crunch against the pavement.
“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re feeling bad?” I walk to the lobby to better our connection, and my chances for privacy.
“This guy kinda picked on me today. See? We were at the lockers, and, he was like saying all these racist things, like calling me “white boy”, and he like shoved me against the locker, and I was like “Stop!”, but he just kept on. I mean, it didn’t really hurt.”
“Well, it kinda hurt. And, these black girls where there, and, they were like laughing. And then he was like hitting my face. I mean, not really hitting, you know. Just kinda like punching at my face. And, I could feel it turning red. And, I was like “Stop!”. And, everybody thought I was like embarrassed, but I was just really wanting to hit him, but I knew if I did I would get in trouble, and you would be disappointed, so, yeah…I didn’t hit him.”
A canine welcome played in the background as he entered the house, and I pictured his face; lowered, with bright spots of color in his cheeks.
“Did you tell the teacher?” I asked, hopefully.
“No.”
His book-bag hit the floor with a crash, unsettling a kitchen chair. “She wouldn’t DO anything.” Dejection flowed over his words.
“But, you have to tell her, Shane.” I pause, deciding to take the conversation outside. “If you don’t tell her, I can’t do anything. Because if I go to her, and tell her about this, her first response will be, “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”. Do you get that?”
“Yes.” He says the word, but doesn’t feel it.
“So, you have to tell her.”
“It won’t do any good, Mom…It’s ok. He didn’t hurt me.”
The sound of hinges squeaking tells me he is at the back door.
He fills my pause.
“Well, it kinda hurts; just where his knuckle hit my chin.”
I picture his hand rubbing the spot.

A pure, white-hot flame of injustice combusts in my chest, as I listen to my child relate a story of racism perpetrated against a child who has never seen color; who, until the age of nine, referred to all African-American people as brown; because they were. My mind fills with all the things I would say to his perpetrator were I to run into him on the street. I picture my hand on his collar, and the look of terror in his pre-pubescent face. I feel the satisfaction of eliciting fear; before I stop.

There are so many things I want to tell him….starting with;
“You’re not alone…Look around! Everyone you see feels just like you, at least some of the time. It’s who you are! It’s where you are supposed to be!”
“And, it is temporary.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel like a person, again. I know you don’t believe this, but I promise; it WILL happen.”
“I’ve been there, and I got through it. I raised three before you. They all got through it. We all do!”
“You are an amazingly intelligent, outrageously witty, deeply thinking, strikingly handsome boy! You have everything going for you, and the only thing stopping you, is you.”
“And…when you feel like you can’t go on. When it’s too much…when there’s no way out…when you feel bad, and you just want to cry…”
“You can. You can cry. Its okay to cry. Go to your room and cry; and when you’re done, it’ll be better; maybe not right away, but it will. It will be better.”

And, I do. Clothed only in flannel pants, left-over shower droplets dot his shoulders as he lays, prone, upon the bed. Both arms crunch the pillow under his head as he watches the words flow from my mouth.
And, as I speak, a trace of a smile dances across the corners of his mouth before he remembers to hide it.
And, as we close, I move into the next room with his warning ringing in my ears.
“Ok…” Laughter tinges both syllables. “I’ll try it, but I’m telling you…if it doesn’t work….”

Oh, Christmas Tree!

Large, multi-colored lights, strung around the perimeter of the lot, winked at us for the last mile of the ride. My sisters and I occupied both rear seats, the one facing forward, and the one facing backward, in the woody “Vista Cruiser” station wagon my mother usually piloted. On this night, as on any occasion on which my father accompanied us, she rode the passenger seat.

For many years, our girlish chests swelled as we glimpsed the large, blue and white, wooden sign announcing our arrival at “Big John’s Christmas Trees”. The only “Big John” we knew, was my father, also known as “Mistah John” and “Mistah Howl”. He allowed us our sin of pride until we were old enough to know better.

As we disembarked the Buick, clay dust rose from the bottoms of our sneakers as we raced to be the first to breach the string of lights; and the search was on.

A plumbed line of Frasier firs stretched in either direction, as far as our young eyes could see, tethered at the top with a piece of simple cotton string. Each tree stood separate, tall, and full, allowing my father to reach inside and give the trunk a turn, as my mother stood apart; arms crossed, eyes squinting. A simple wave of her hand signaled my father to turn again, and wait, while she searched for “holes”. With her “No…” we moved to the next row. In the meantime, calls of “Here! Over here!” rang out from all corners of the lot.

After mounting the carefully chosen tree in the rickety metal stand, my father left us to complete the task. My mother took her job of lighting the tree very seriously, employing a step-stool to clip bulbs to the tallest branches. When she was done, she assumed a familiar stance; arms crossed, eyes squinting, looking for “holes”, until, satisfied, she dragged large, worn, brown paper boxes into the middle of the floor signaling it was time to hang the ornaments.

“Ohh, look at this one!”

“I made this!”

“No! I made that in kindergarten, I remember! Didn’t I Mom? I made that in kindergarten, remember?”

For the next couple of weeks, I spent countless hours on a living room couch that still carried the scent of the furniture store from which it was purchased. I laid and “watched” the tree…and dreamed.

“Mom!” The word was accompanied by a tug on the end of the shirt that was hard-wired to my heart.

“Mom! When can we get a tree?”

Shrugging on my coat, I felt inside the pockets, assuring my gloves were still where I left them, and I saw dust rising under my sneakers.

Horror diverted my attention as my oldest son entered the room, wielding a small, yet toothy, saw. Reaching to retrieve it, I sent him to get his coat.

Covered, from head to toe in an assortment of colorful, warming fibers, we began our trek. The woods behind our little farmhouse offered an assortment of acceptable firs. One year we found a perfectly shaped, five-foot scotch pine. The next, we settled for a scraggly cedar. And, then there was the year of the table tree; as we decorated, Snoopy played piano inside my head.

For the last ten years, the day after Thanksgiving has been set aside for Christmas decorating.

We roll to a stop in a parking place in front of a big-box hardware store that offers trimming and bagging at no extra charge. Tying our jackets about our waists, we head towards a pile of meshed Frasier firs in our shirt-sleeves. We stand them. We twirl them. We look for “holes”, with eyes wide open. The orange-aproned employee mounts our selection atop my car, securing it with bungee cord I provide.

A single-construction plastic stand screws on in minutes, and the tree is placed in front of the living room window. Carols, old and new, flow from wall mounted speakers as we begin decorating. Twenty minutes, and two boxes of ornaments later, the sound of a video game wafts in from the next room, and I realize I am hanging ornaments, alone.

And I remember; “Big John’s”, squinting eyes, sibling rivalry, “watching” the tree, tugging children, toothy saws, table trees, and Snoopy’s music.

Pride and Joy

“I Am
By: Shane Carroll

I am a football fool
I wonder what I’ll be when I grow up
I hear crickets chirping in my front yard
I see football clouds in the sky
I want to be rich
I am a football fool

I pretend to be Peyton Manning
I feel like I have my team on my shoulders
I touch the moon
I worry about my Mom
I cry when I’m sad
I am a football

I understand I need help in math
I say I love school but sometimes I don’t
I dream I’m Peyton Manning
I try hard in football
I hope I’m rich when I grow up
I am a football fool”

“Kirkin’ of the Tartans”

Joy was hard to find amongst the throng of worshipers gathered in the narthex of the church. Standing at 4’11”, in her sensible shoes, and colorful tartan skirt, her painted lips broke into a smile as we rounded the pair of taller men blocking our view. Her arms flew wide in my son’s direction, and he fell into them, as expected. As he pulled away, she retained her hold on his arms, looking him almost eye-to-eye, and exclaimed her delight at seeing him. Turning towards me, she fussed with the vest she’d squeezed beneath her jacket as I complimented her skirt.

She’d seen the pastor’s wife, so she was relatively sure the pastor had arrived as well, but she hadn’t seen the bagpiper. We discussed seating. She hoped it would be alright if we sat near the front. “I can’t sit too far back. It’s hard to hear…”

Three rows from the front, she sidled into a pew, allowing just enough space for our three bodies. Joy likes to touch. I could smell her perfume.

She’d been to the opera since I’d seen her. Rossini was one of her favorite composers, but she’d not seen this performance before. She described it as beautiful, light, and airy. She’d liked it very much.

The pews around us filled as I refreshed my memory of the sanctuary. Fashioned from gracious blonde wood, the ceiling arched high to accommodate and enhance the majesty of organ music, and the builders had preferred graceful curves to corners, giving the room a fluid feel. There was little decoration, save for a table on the rising in front of us, holding a single round of bread and a silver goblet. Behind the table, a three-piece band readied itself for the service, opposite a large, tartan-draped pulpit.

I sat, appreciating the warm simplicity of my surroundings, as my son surveyed the crowd of strangers. I wondered what he was learning. I complied with Joy’s request for a stick of gum.

And the music began…very softly at first, as though far away; a single bagpipe playing a familiar refrain. Placing my hand on his leg, I directed my son’s attention, and we turned to look behind us.

The piper was a sturdily built, older woman dressed in traditional Scottish garb. Heavy, utilitarian boots covered thick woolen socks that met her kilt, the plaid of which was repeated in the sash that partially covered her black woolen jacket. Her reddened cheeks alternately expanded and deflated as she sucked for air between blows, and I was immediately struck by her effort.

Behind her, a stately procession of tartans flowed in on tall poles carried by practiced, stern-faced parishioners. Each pole featured a symbol, and the name of a clan, above their corresponding plaid, and, as they passed, the large swatches of colorful material fluttered at us, gracefully. The music resounded against graceful blonde arches above us, and as the procession continued, my eyes filled with its proud beauty.

The musician took her place to one side of the rising as the tartans flowed in and around her, coming to rest at their designated spots along the thoughtfully curved walls, until we were surrounded by ancestral colors, the haunting strains of a lone bagpiper, and synchronicity.

The speaker, an older man of Scottish descent, and one-time pastor of this church, took the podium, proudly wearing the kilt of his clan. He began his address by explaining Jewish tradition, and, at first, I found myself captivated more by his soft, brogue-enlaced speech, than his message. His focus was on the concept, and importance of, “we, first-person plural…”. He credited early Jewish tradition with introducing the concept, and early Presbyterians with embracing it. He related the history of the “Kirkin’ of the Tartans”, and the prohibitions and ensuing violence that his ancestors had survived. As he spoke, I surveyed the proud plaids lining the walls behind him, and I understood.
We rose, as directed, and I added my voice to the others, as we sang “Amazing Grace” to the accompaniment of a single bagpipe….

As a child, I attended church every Sunday. The car rolled to a stop, and my mother unlocked the doors to let us out. As an adult, I attended for many years until politics monopolized our Sunday school lessons, souring me. World history classes, required by my major, officially debunked most of the Bible, assuring me that my soul was, indeed, in my own hands. Since that time, my attendance in church has been sporadic, and usually socially driven.

My choice to attend today was fueled by a desire to provide, for my son, an experience. The emotion I experienced was unexpected. As I sat in the sanctuary, surrounded by parishioners, and tartans, and history, I came to understand why they were there. I felt their belonging.

The bagpipe began to whine again, announcing a reversed procession. The plaids fluttered in the opposite direction, and I watched through tear-filled eyes. The music faded as the last tartan passed, before growing stronger again, causing me to turn, again, towards the front of the church.

She stood, singularly; framed by double doors. Sunlight rained upon her and the unlikely instrument, and after several minutes, the music continued as she turned, proudly, and walked away.