Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

More Than A Calendar Change

I have a thing for calendars….

Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.

It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.

Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.

During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.

The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.

As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.

I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?

And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.

I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:

“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”

I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.

The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.

And, then there was one.

I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.

As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.

At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”

I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.

“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”

And, to my thinking, we did.

My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.

My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.

And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.

And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.

“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson

“Tryin’ To Get The Feelin’, Again”

I love Christmas.
I love the music, the colors, the lights, the smells, the sparkle.
I love children at Christmas; especially young children, who still carry the magic, and spread it, through the light that shines in their eyes on Christmas morning.
I love wrapping paper. One year, when I was greener than I am now, and much poorer, I fashioned wrapping paper from brown paper grocery bags, and a couple of potatoes carved into stamps. The result, when tied with red and green dyed raffia, was rustic and charming. Now, as I rifle through shelves of shiny pre-printed rolls, I prefer a thick, shiny paper that creases easily into nice sharp edges, as it covers a box.
I love Christmas baking. I do a lot of it, not just for our family, but also to give to friends, as gifts. To insure a reasonable amount of freshness, I usually start the evening of the twenty-first. Each night until the twenty-forth I cook three or four different decadent treats; storing them in canisters with sheets of waxed paper between each layer. No one is allowed to sample the goodies until our family get-together on Christmas Eve. And, I love Christmas Eve.

When my older children were very young, they complained, loudly, about the unfairness of their father and me attending holiday parties to which children were not invited. From their perch on the babysitter’s lap, they watched longingly as we left on a wave of sparkling holiday elegance. And, next morning, they plied me with questions about what we did at the party, and what kind of food was served. The actual event could, in no way, match their vivid imaginations; and I would occasionally embellish my story, as I passed out the treats I had secreted inside a gaily colored paper napkin, the night before.
I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I began throwing parties on Christmas Eve for my children; not children’s parties, but parties much like the ones their father and I attended, complete with real hors d’oeuvres and pretty beverages, minus the alcohol. They ate their food from Christmas china on tables covered with seasonal linens, and the candlelight danced in accompaniment to Christmas music which filled the background, softly. Most years saw several friends in attendance, as well, and, while I still brought goodies home, my children never again complained when we went to a party.
The tradition continues today. I began baking, grateful for my daughter’s help. And, when the M&M cookies refused to flatten, leaving me with something more in keeping with an M&M biscuit, it was nice to have someone to laugh with.

Christmas, this year, was a struggle. As Thanksgiving passed, I sought out the radio station playing non-stop Christmas music, and, as I always do, saved it in my presets. In years past, I listened every day to and from work. This year, I tuned my dial to this station just twice, when my son and I were out, Christmas shopping. All the songs sounded the same. There was nothing new; nothing interesting. My commute was fueled, instead, by a favorite CD or Sirius.
Most of my shopping was done online. This is nothing new, though, my approach to it was. I didn’t so much shop, as purchase, having decided on my gifts, in a very matter-of-fact way, much earlier. This proved very efficient, but much less enjoyable. In years past, as the boxes arrived, I took much pleasure from slicing them open to view what was inside. This year, the boxes remained sealed until time came to wrap them.
The day after Thanksgiving is always set aside for Christmas decorating. This year I hung the last wreath three days later. The crèche never made it out of the box, and the garland that usually drapes the fence lay, unlit, on top of a box in my garage.

I strapped on my apron on the December twenty-second, and made all our favorites, but much less of them.
Our Christmas Eve party started, as always, as 6:00 pm. In years past, as the evening wore on, I found myself tired, and looking forward to clean-up, and bed. This year, the house was quiet by 8:00, and I ended the evening with a movie on pay-per-view.
A couple of weeks ago, as I sat alone in my office, I thought about my struggle to feel Christmas. After several minutes of soul searching, I finally decided that the culprit was my commitment to frugality, in deference to a fragile economy. My decision to reign in my expenses had taken all the fun out of the holiday. Choosing Christmas gifts had become a question of money, rather than the receiver’s delight. Holiday cooking became a chore to be completed, rather than an experiment of gastronomic pleasure. My lack of spirit was evidenced by decorations that never left their boxes.
My husband, and I, used to argue about when to take down the decorations. I felt they added sparkle to New Year’s celebrations. He subscribed to an old adage, holding that Christmas decorations, lasting until the New Year, brought bad luck. We quibbled for years, and usually got them down just before the ball began to drop.
Today is December twenty-eighth, and my house is free of Christmas debris. For whatever reason, the spirit never quite arrived, and the remnants of it were just a reminder of what never was. I am not happy in the realization that money has come to play such a large part in my enjoyment of the holiday, and hope to change that in the coming year. I’ll start by saving brown paper grocery bags…

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….”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Six-Blessings

One Christmas, a few years ago, I completed my shopping, online, with several spirit-filled weeks to spare. Since discovering the ease, convenience, and seemingly endless choices available from the comfort of a chair that has memorized the precise dimensions of my oft-perched ass, I never looked back.
The requisite shipping deadlines, too, work to my advantage. Knowing there are only “five days left to order in time for Christmas delivery” forces me out of my usual procrastination, and while I don’t always match my inaugural performance, I have yet to fall into my former mall-inspired pattern of waiting until the very last minute.
This year, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I clicked the “confirm order” button for the last time two weeks ago, secure in the knowledge that the few, small, miscellaneous items still needed could be purchased locally at a small store free of jostling shoppers, long lines, and the need to invoke “The Secret” in order to obtain a parking space less than a mile from the entrance.
Several days ago, during a lull in workday activity, I sat in front of a different computer monitor, eager to take advantage of another handy online tool. Tracking my purchases not only assures that I have, indeed, met the deadline, but it also provides me with an exact arrival date, allowing me to game-plan the sport of hide-and-seek my delivery man delights in playing.
All but one of my purchases had been shipped, and, to my horror, the approximate delivery date of the errant package flashed in holly-adorned graphics: “For arrival after December 25th.” After several hours spent in impotent outrageous indignation, I returned to the site, cancelled the order, and resigned myself to the reality of jostling shoppers, long lines at the check-out, and a rare winter-time opportunity to break out my hikers. I strengthened my resolve by inviting my son to go along, while reminding both of us that he, too, had some shopping to do.

Lists in hand, we set out early, determined to complete the task well before his 1:00 tip-off. Careful planning set our route, and we finished with an hour to spare, thanks to several very helpful salespeople. We sat down to lunch at my son’s favorite hamburger joint, where the portions are so big that neither of us could finish.
As was his usual custom, Shane had shed his coat much earlier in the day, encouraging his rush towards the car ahead of me in an effort to escape December winds. I aimed my key fob and clicked the locks open. A young girl with dulce-de-leche skin approached in my periphery. She held a cardboard box underneath her needy expression.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft, hesitant; prepared for refusal.
Shane, his hand already lifting the door handle, stopped, and turned.
I looked down at the girl, giving her permission to launch a whispery, mostly unintelligible pitch. My hand went to the wallet stashed in the back pocket of my jeans on finally deciphering nine words of what proved to be a rather lengthy, possibly practiced, speech.
“….so we can buy some presents for my Mom.” Her facial expression never changed.
I handed her a five dollar bill, and selected two plastic-beaded key chains from her boxed collection. Her hand folded the money while heading towards her pocket before she stopped and asked, more clearly this time, “Do I owe you any change?”
Somehow, the values spoken by her words assured me I had done the right thing.
“No, honey. Merry Christmas!”
I barely heard her wispy “Thank you.”, as she disappeared behind another car.
“Who was that, Mom?” Burgeoning masculinity laced Shane’s voice with protectionism.
“I don’t know honey…a girl trying to earn money to buy gifts for her parents.” I answered, distractedly, as we slid onto our seats.
“But, how do you know?” His skepticism surprised me. I stopped and considered my answer.
“You know? I don’t. But, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In this case, she was offering something for sale, and I chose to buy it; whether that be a hand-made key ring, or hope that my contribution may brighten another family’s holiday, does it really matter?”
Shane thought in silence.
“We can’t control what others do with the gifts we give them. All we are responsible for is the spirit in which we give.”
As our seatbelts clicked into place, his silence continued, even as my blessing doubled.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Five-Crazy

Today was a “crazy” day; not “crazy” busy, not “crazy” good, just crazy.
Some days are like that, especially since I stopped using chemicals to block feelings. It doesn’t happen often; not nearly as often as it used to, but it does happen. It comes without warning, and without reason.
I feel it as soon as my head leaves the pillow, while remaining ensconced in a cloudy murk that makes everything just a little more difficult. Sound seems muffled, and my vision unsure, as I try to focus on too many things at once. Dressing for work becomes a chore to be completed as quickly, and with as little effort, as possible, as I shrug on the first thing I lay my hands on, and barely notice stacks of fabulous shoes on the way to my sneakers. I give a passing glance to a wall-sized mirror while brushing my teeth, and twirling my hair into a clip atop my head. The curling iron remains cold.
I trudge into the next room, content in my decision to embrace my lack of affect.
My day progresses in much the same manner as any other, with one difference, obvious only to me. On days like this, it is as though I am of two minds. There is the side of me who cares about nothing, who efforts to speak, while noticing, with some incredulity, the rhythmic, slow, even, effortless act of breathing.
The other side watches her, labeling her as “ugly” while giving her permission to remain so, for as long as necessary.
As you might expect, patience is not a virtue easily exercised on days like these. And, as so often seems to be the case when I am least capable of paying attention, challenges become more frequent.
The voices in my headset seemed more dim-witted than usual today. A snarky coworker managed to get most of one hand under my skin before I noticed, and bit back my next equally obnoxious response. As the workday ended, I found myself alone with a person whose political views could not be more different from mine; and, she was itching for a fight.

“I heard an interesting point of view the other day about Obama’s healthcare plan…”
She spoke to my sweatshirt covered back, as my face was buried, dully, in a computer monitor, giving me the opportunity to shift my features into an attentive mask before spinning, slowly, in my chair.
I listened, as in measured, saccharine tones, she shared the views of one of her favorite right-wing talking heads. My legs were crossed, as were my hands, allowing the serenity in my face to spread composure on my mind.
When it was my turn to speak, I appreciated her argument before explaining its mistaken context. My words were succinct; spoken calmly, leaving no room for further argument; and the side that watches congratulated silently.
It wasn’t until later, as I sat in shopper-enhanced traffic, that a swell of recently unused, yet remarkably familiar feelings, filled me, and with them, the realization of how, despite my inertia, I had overcome this day. Before taking the proffered chemical pathway to non-feeling, I had managed my emotions with acceptance. As is the case with most things practiced over time, the ability had been there when I most needed it, and the feeling of accomplishment brightened both sides of my fractured mind. I had gotten through what could have been a very difficult day with only a modicum of discomfort that was appeased, for the most part, by avoiding mirrors.
I rolled into the grocery store parking lot on a cloud of self-acceptance that drew a hint of a smile upon my otherwise colorless face. Gratitude had spread emotion just beneath my skin, as I would realize while standing in the self-checkout line with others whose needs were minimal.

A boy occupied the space in front of me. I studied his anxious expression as he monitored the movements of those at the check-stands in front of us. The pillows riding his flawless cheeks told me he was probably about the same age as my son. Cradled carefully in his arms were eighteen styrofoam-covered eggs and two generically-wrapped packages of chemically prepared cheese-food. Tears came to my eyes as I realized I was looking at his dinner, while my son awaited pizza delivery inside our warm, carefully decorated home. I turned away, unwilling to show him my pity.
When I turned back, the boy was moving forward, hesitantly, with one eye over his shoulder; prepared to be deemed unworthy. I shoved him forward without moving, envisioning my son’s face above those precious eggs, and when he reached the counter, I saw it; a single, small container of the very best brand of chocolate milk, and, this time, my tears came with a smile.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Four-Surrender

As challenges go, today rates right up there…
Beth Hart wailed me to a good start, and as I exited my car in a driving downpour in order to pump gas, I anticipated the opportunity to “fluff” the raindrops into my hair, accentuating the “bed-head” look I had embraced on hearing the weather forecast.
Rhonda Byrne purred in my ear, between guitar riffs, and time stood still, once again.
The morning went swimmingly. As a controlled chaos persisted in my periphery, I was neither needed, nor involved, and managed to complete a trying Sudoku while ferrying telephone calls.
Curry, for lunch, was the perfect antidote to the dreary landscape outside the office windows. I finished, with fifteen minutes of my self-imposed time limit to spare, and used the time to check in on friends.
And then it began…

As my chair rolled to a stop in front of the telephone, it began to ring, and the noise didn’t let up for the next three hours. As soon as I disconnected my head-set with a promise to fax requested information, the ringing began, again. A yellow legal pad/desk blotter/armrest filled quickly, with the names and demographic information of prospective clients, and, as I struggled to keep all their balls in the air, the “right” side of my brain appreciated the interest, while the “wrong” side wondered when I would have time to satisfy all their demands.
One particularly eager client called five times in less than an hour. I memorized his telephone number, without effort, as it repeatedly paraded across my Caller ID, and, on seeing it, yet again, I squelched the desire to tell him he had absolutely no chance of qualifying; choosing, instead, to press “hold” as I collected my positive wits about me.
As the “big” hand on the clock over my desk creeped towards freedom, I turned my thoughts to the evening, and my son’s basketball game.
“Got a game tonight!”, I called through a co-worker’s open office door. “I’m hoping for another double-digit game!”
“Cool!”, he answered without raising his head. “Good luck!”
Pewter colored clouds, floating overhead, promised more precipitation, as I rolled to a stop, in rush-hour traffic. I remembered the forecast, and hoped the dark clouds would hang around long enough for the temperature to drop, while making a mental note to warn my northernmost friends of the darkness blowing their way. And later, while riding the passenger seat, on the way to the gym, I clutched my jacket about me, while thrilling at the obviously plummeting temperature, and the continuing chance of snow.
Sharing a spot along the gym wall with friends I hadn’t seen since football season ended, I readied my camera. As I positioned it, in anticipation of a “moment”, my friend leaned in to point out how short our players were in comparison to the other team. I smiled, benignly, while setting up the shot.

Play ensued, and our sons’ challenges became quickly apparent. Unfortunately, they had nothing to do with height. The score became lopsided, long before the halftime break, and I cringed at the expression on my son’s sweaty face, while determining to remind him of the importance of positive leadership after the game was over.
As we exited the gym, I drew my jacket closer, and lowered my head against what I hoped were snow-bearing winds. My son and I danced anxiously, outside the SUV, while his father/coach gave a trite-ridden, post-game speech to a supportive mother.
Three car doors slammed with emphasis, obscuring the first few words of my son’s post-game diatribe. A team-mate, touting an as yet unproven pedigree, had loudly announced his intention to quit the team. I listened as the two of them shared their experiences and opinions on the night’s activity.
A jar of peanut butter sat beside a sheaf of buttery crackers on the holiday-themed placemat in front of him. My son’s hand disappeared inside the peanut butter jar as I took a seat at the table beside him, while his father retraced his steps, in search of his jacket. Their conversation continued, as though uninterrupted, as I waited for a pause.

“Found it!” Roger’s call came from an adjacent room.
“You need a defense.”, I ventured.
Shane chewed as his father re-entered the room with purposeful, rubber-soled strides.
“Do you run plays?”, I asked. “I didn’t see plays. Do you have any?”
Roger’s head dropped to one hand as he slid onto a padded wooden chair.
“They won’t do it.”, he answered. “I tried. They won’t do it. Did you hear me calling “three”? That’s a play.”
“It’s a “pick-and-roll”, right?” Shane’s voice begged for confirmation.
“What about half-time?”, I asked, while re-running visions of seven aimless eleven year-olds, heaving the ball at the goal, in a game of “Me, first”.
“You can’t introduce plays at half-time!” The face Roger lifted from his hand was florid. “There’s not enough time! You don’t do that!” He paused to reposition his head inside his hand, while moving, from frustration, to defeat. “I tried.”
“Ok, so it’s only the second game of the season, and you’ve given up trying to teach plays?”, I asked.
“Mom!” This time, Shane spoke through a mouthful of butter-coated crackers. “He stopped after the second practice!”
“They don’t get it.”, Roger finished.
“I’ve seen it done.” My voice was resolute; full of experience, positive, and sure.
“When?” Roger rose up, placing his hands upon the table.
“Mandledove.”, I answered, simply, sedately; invoking the name of a former coach.
Rising to his full-while-seated height, color filled his face, and his voice, and frustration, flowed from his mouth.
“I’m sick of hearing about Mandledove! So, I suck!” He sucked a breath. “I suck at coaching.”

Numbers floated across the surface of my mind as I struggled to decide, at which point in puberty, his maturation had stunted.
“You’re a good coach, Dad.” Shane’s voice, free of buttery debris, remained weak, and indecisively supportive.
And, I watched, as a fifty-year-old man gave up, while an eleven-year-old boy struggled to determine the difference between what was real and what was important; and, I learned.
I learned that a positive outlook must be desired before it can be obtained.
And, with that, I raised my hand, in the universal sign of surrender, before training my eyes upon my son.
“Two minutes until shower time.”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Three-Hope

Upon my arrival in Destin, no matter who is accompanying me, my first order of business is a trip up two flights of concrete stairs that lead to my father’s condominium. After hours of mindless, sedentary driving, the sprint is welcome, as is the artificially cooled air that greets me as I reach the top, pushing open the storm door that separates him from heavily humid ocean breezes. He is, almost always, ensconced in an ergonomically perfect chair, placed strategically, in front of a flat panel television. Salt infused sunlight pours through vertical blinds meant to defray it, highlighting a conglomeration of books at his burnished bare feet.
The titles range from bestseller to obscure, dogmatic non-fiction, and he will read from each of them before the sun sets.
If reading is his favorite hobby, golf runs a close second. Philosophy ties both of them, and anything else important to him, together.
Marking my birthday, his celebratory telephone call has become a ritual. He delights in reminding me of my age. And, every year, I react in the same way.
“Well, if I am old, what does that make you?”
He laughs, as though considering the question for the first time, before answering.
“Really old!”

Over the years, our telephone calls, regardless of original intention, almost always stray onto another subject; something deeper, an arguable point, an opportunity to wax philosophical. And, as we talk, my father leafs through all the knowledge lying at his feet, and shines.
Today, after discussing my sister’s recent hospitalization, our conversation meandered into the state of our economy, and despite the horrific landscape, my determination to remain positive won the day.
“You want to know what I think?”, I ask, rhetorically.

“What do you think?”, he answers, automatically, through a smile.
“I think things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” I pause here, for emphasis. “I think next year could get really rough, and, I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were. And, you know what?”
“What?” The word carries appreciative anticipation.
“I think that’s ok.” I pause, for the sake of argument.
“You might be right.” I picture him shifting inside ergonomic perfection.
“You know? I look at my son. And, he’s not alone…I look at my son; he’s eleven years old, and trotting out onto the football field. He’s got $200.00 worth of padded plastic on his head. Another $200.00 sits beneath his jersey, in the form of shoulder pads. His shoes cost $125.00. And, his gloves! He wears $30.00 on his hands, and he’s eleven years old! Add to this, the cost of registration, and the expense of fuel, required to travel back and forth to the practice field and games, which can be as much as twenty-five miles away! All told, Pee Wee football costs almost a thousand dollars to play!”

“Yeah….”
“I’m not involved in the expense. I leave that to his Dad. But, he’s not alone. This is what is expected…And, I look at all that money and think about what it could do!”
“Yeah…I understand.”
“So, I think it could be a good thing to get back to real values, you know? Obama talks about caring for our fellow man, and he’s labeled a socialist. I just think it would be a good thing if this economic crisis forced us to take a look at our excess, and reminded us of what’s really important.” Another breath.
“Truthfully?”, I ask, without waiting for an answer. “Crazy as it sounds, I welcome the challenge!”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right…I know.”
And, I feel good. Not just because my father allowed me to win the point; there is more. I welcome the realization that instead of worrying I am welcoming. Instead of wringing my hands, I am going forward; with an open mind, and, more importantly, an open heart; confident in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass, and, with any luck, we’ll come out better on the other side.

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.