“So from the beginning the fight we were winning…”

We are not, generally speaking, a family of tradition…

Quilts and afghans, created by my great-grandmother, out of a sense of need rather than an expression of creativity, draped the top of a battered box of castaways, labeled for curb-side pick up. Decades-old ceramic dinner plates, depicting a green-hued scene of men in powdered wigs and frock-coats, were discarded as soon as the cardboard box containing geometrically patterned stoneware was opened. My favorite jelly glass, the one depicting Fred Flintstone piloting his ragtop, is gone.

For years, we shared holiday dinners with a family of Chicagoan transplants, who preferred butter over margarine, and felt like pickled peaches were a viable food choice. Until, we didn’t.

Understandably, I was flummoxed, when upon herding my burgeoning family around the massive, dark-stained dining table of my youth, a request was made for a show of gratitude. One-by-one, each anticipatory diner rattled off an item for thanksgiving. A furtive glance told me I was fourth in line. My mind fractured; one side struggled with personal performance, while the other hoped my children wouldn’t embarrass me, or, worse yet, themselves. Blessedly, we all managed to extrapolate an acceptable offering, and I made a mental note to never come unprepared, again.

For several years, we took our seats and racked our brains, as steam wafted off the stuffing. Until, we didn’t.

Today, as I danced about my kitchen to a soundtrack only I could hear, I adjusted my earphones with one hand, stirred a cheese sauce with the other, and found myself wishing someone would ask the question. For once; I am prepared.

This has not been an easy year for me. In March, I lost my best friend. He had red hair, and a goofy smile, and, as far as he was concerned, the sun rose, and set, in my eyes. He died peacefully; but, he died. Hundreds of dollars spent to insure his comfort afforded me little solace as I stood over him, willing that breath not be his last.

Two of my sons lost their jobs, and their home, in one fell swoop. For a mother, it doesn’t get any harder than this. The fact that their change of fate was hastened by a cherished family member only sweetened the blow….

I began work as a hospice volunteer this year. Within two months of my first visit I had lost two patients. Death is not an easy thing to see. “Natural causes” render a person to a most unnatural state.

Personally, I continue to ride a roller coaster I seem to have ridden so long, that the foam-enhanced seats carry a permanent imprint of my ass. And still, I grab the roll bar, finger rusty metal exposed by fidgeting fingers chipping paint, roll my lips back, and meet the rushing wind, helter-skelter.

And..it’s alright….

The roller coaster is mine to ride, or not. No matter how many times I stand on queue to ride it, it always stops. Sooner, or later, it rolls to a stop, laden with fading screams; and, as I dismount, it is my decision whether or not to rejoin the queue.

After two months of ambivalent effort, I took a leave of absence from hospice work. I have only one patient of the original three, and, some days, I am sure she will outlive me. As I stop to focus on other things, I pray she will know me upon my return.

Both of my sons found new careers. One is happy, and one, his mother’s son, works hard at it, every day.

And, tomorrow, Murphy comes to live with me. He won’t be Otis. He couldn’t be. But, he might be my best friend.

Twelve years ago, I was handed a prescription for anti-depressants, which I immediately filled with all the enormity the diminutive, curly-locked doctor imported.

“Bad” days became less bad.

“Good” days, became colorless.

I’ve tried, many times, to handle life on my own terms, only to find her overbearing…until I didn’t.

He Said, She Said

He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.

“Have you thought about marriage?”

I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.

My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.

“Is this what you really want?”

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.

Waiting for the Light to Change

Twenty years old, I sat at a traffic light in a tiny yellow Datsun whose compact size barely accommodated my girth. I was eight months pregnant.

I wasn’t employed at the time, so I must have been heading home from a trip to the grocery store. I remember it was a Friday; payday. The light couldn’t have been long. I lived in a small town, but, it may have been rush hour. There were several people ahead of me, and more behind.

The tears came, unbidden; followed by an incredible rush of feeling unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or since. And, it filled me, starting in my feet, before rushing upwards. My hands, on either side of my mercilessly swollen belly, felt warm, and alive. Love, for an unborn child who kicked, ferociously, at the most inopportune times, making the sheer act of breathing difficult, overcame me, as I fought to remain cognizant of the mundane world around me. And the light changed….

“A person who loses a spouse is called a widow. A child, who has lost his parents, is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who has lost a child.”

Chicken Cheeks

“Mom, you haven’t changed in ten years!” The words, which bubble out of him in a cascade of filial adoration, are punctuated by the slamming of a car door.

My oversized bag slides off my shoulder, catching in the crook of my elbow, as I juggle grocery sacks, my cellphone, an over-burdened key-ring, and supper. After much maneuvering, the key turns, and I push the door open with my knee.

“Oh, honey, of course I have.”

Loudly, I drop the bags to the table and drag my free hand through my hair.

“You just don’t notice because you see me every day.”

He molests the bags in search of chicken while two pairs of canine eyes study him, lending support. He withdraws the box he’d been seeking, and wisely places his body between it and the closest dog.

“Go on, Chevy…”, he murmurs to the most aggressive of the two.

Moving to the cabinet, he chooses a plate as I shelve the groceries.

“Ok to use a washable plate?” I like his description.

“Sure, honey.” My voice echoes off rows of cardboard, aluminum, and glass.

As I emerge from the pantry, he looks up from his dinner and finishes chewing, in a hurry to offer his insight.

“Ok…” He swallows. “Maybe your cheeks…a little.”

“My cheeks?” My chuckle comes from behind the refrigerator door.

He swallows again before clearing his throat and blurts, “Well, not those cheeks!”

I smile into the vegetable crisper, knowing he has no idea that it really doesn’t matter which ones he meant.

Sunday Night

Dusk sits just below the horizon.

A waning sun robs the evening air of warmth, allowing autumn’s fingers to slide under jambs and between panes. Candles, as she walks through the house lighting them, thwart their progress.

Music plays; good music, new music, soulful music, punctuating the air with an invitation to dance.

And she does. As she peels shrimp; tossing their casings into a pan. As she chops vegetables, and chooses seasonings. As she sips…

The slamming of the door accentuates a guitar chord, and she moves to the window.

She watches as he stands, helmeted; his college-style jersey swallowing his mesh shorts. On his feet, two different shoes, one white, and one black; in homage to a game they watched together, the day before.

“The kick is up….and it is good!” The crowd roars!

He trots in the opposite direction in his mismatched shoes; chest out, arms raised. He hears the roar of the crowd. He feels the admiration of the fans. And, as he returns to his imaginary sideline, he shoves his helmet to the top of his head, not totally off, and definitely not on, in admiration of Sunday’s warriors.

And she smiles, and gives silent thanks for all that is hers.

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

To Tell…or Not to Tell…

On first sight, his cerulean eyes put me in mind of an open sore, compelling me to touch his hair and tell him…“It’s ok…”

As we shared a couch in my living room, we sipped “sweet tea” in front of the television, as he remembered the morning they came to “get him”, and the long ride through artificially lighted streets that ended at the door of an orphanage. He was three.

His younger brother had the good fortune to be adopted. His older sister was reclaimed by his older brother. His mother visited occasionally, leaving a sock-full of dimes in her wake.

The recounting came in fits and starts. Nights filled with stories were followed by canned laughter, as time rocked on, and lives changed. By the end of the year, we were more than friends.

In the ten years we spent together, he talked often of the camp that would shape his life without ever naming it, though I never realized it, until now. He has been dead for 3 years.

Reverence colored his voice when he spoke of Dr. “P”, the camp director; the same man accused of child molestation in 1986. I listened as he spoke of his mentor, never mentioning the charges. And now, as I read and uncover the atrocities visited upon the children relegated to Dr. Poetter’s care, I wonder if my silence was in deference to his pain, or to mine?

The information I have gleaned has shed new light on his pain, his demons, and his personality. He never explained that the gloriously primitive canoe trips he spoke of, so often, were part of his therapy. And, he never mentioned the back-breaking labor of hauling hundred-pound rocks or digging latrines. He never told me that admission to Anneewakee meant complete isolation from family and friends, and he never told me that home was a tee-pee, or that baths were taken under a pail of mountain-cooled water, regardless of the season.

When the compulsion came to me to research the camp, I had no idea of why, or of what I might find, and the results lead to questions that can no longer be answered.

For ten years, he did the best he knew how to do, as did I, with the information provided.

Would things have been different had I known?

He is with me, still, in his final form. His spirit lives with us, even as his ashes lie, dormant, in the container his childhood friend, Beau, reverently handed me, inside a quiet funeral home, on a cold December evening.

The expression on his face told me Beau had information he wouldn’t reveal, while his hands performed in a way long-since taught, and honed, by years of practice. He chose not to give details, sharing only what was necessary, but the pauses between his words filled in the spaces, making the picture complete.

The call came from his sister, once reclaimed, and the picture she painted, expected, yet, still jarring. A newly purchased, red pick-up truck sat in his driveway; a sign of reclamation. And, inside, two pictures adorned his walls; one of me, old, faded, and dated, and the other, of his son.

>To Tell…or Not to Tell…

>
On first sight, his cerulean eyes put me in mind of an open sore, compelling me to touch his hair and tell him…“It’s ok…”