Spring Chickens

Earlier this winter, my girls were in trouble. When their combs faded from their usual red to a sickly pinkish-gray, I blamed the weather. It’s been a cold winter…much colder than usual…and two of my chickens are South American. I did what I could to winterize the henhouse, taking solace in the fact that their appetites were good. A couple of days later though, I found Pat, the “mother hen”, parading around naked from the wings down. Something was very wrong.

An internet search suggested mites or lice or some other microscopic vermin had invaded the henhouse. Several chemicals I couldn’t pronounce, much less afford, were suggested as treatment. I thought about the shaker can of Sevin dust sitting on a shelf in my utility room. When I was a kid, my mother used it to treat our dogs for fleas and they all turned out okay. It was worth a shot.

For the next two weeks I “winged it”. I dusted their roosts, the floor of their house and, despite their best efforts to the contrary, under their wings. Fortunately, Pat’s feathers seemed to reappear overnight, as temperatures at that time hovered around zero. Other than that, though, I saw little change. Their combs remained colorless.

Worrying would do no good. I resigned myself to the fact that I had done the best I could do, imagined for just a moment how distasteful the whole burying-a-dead-chicken-thing could be, and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might have been listening.

My dogs woke me early this morning. It wasn’t even seven am. Just a few minutes into our usual coffee/cuddle time, I realized the sky was brightening. The sun looked warm but I wasn’t fooled. I pulled my ugly, orange “chicken” coat on over my robe and set out towards the henhouse. As is their custom, all three dogs accompanied me to the gate before breaking off to chase each other around the perimeter of the fence, wreaking havoc with the azaleas.

As I approached the henhouse, I was greeted by the “thud”, “thud”, “thud” of chickens jumping from roost to floor in anticipation of my visit. A widening arc of light preceded me into the space, revealing a flurry of feathers moving chaotically in front of the door. The girls were eager to be outdoors. I followed them out and dumped a scoop of scratch over the side of their pen. Soon all four heads were bobbing in stereotypical fashion. And, that’s when I saw it. All four combs were red. No, not just red. They were a brilliant red, a gorgeous red, a healthy and happy red.

Filled with relief, I went back inside to clean house while they finished breakfast. As I reached down to grab a handful of straw, the ever-brightening morning light revealed an egg in a corner of the nesting box. It’s pale, pinkish-brown color told me it was courtesy of Pat. Only healthy hens lay eggs. Pat was going to be okay.

This morning, for the first time since November, I ate an egg that was in a chicken in my backyard yesterday. Forget that silly old groundhog. My girls tell me Spring is just around the corner!

Unintended Consequences

I’m not one to complain about the weather. Why would I? What difference would it make? It’s like when you ask someone…usually an older someone…and often a male someone…how he’s doing. Sometimes he’ll answer, “Can’t complain.”, and a voice inside my head adds, “And it wouldn’t do any good if you did.”

Despite my physical aversion to colder weather, I never complained when spring took her time getting here. I adapted instead. I looked upon the situation as an excuse to purchase a few more sweaters with three-quarter-length sleeves. I love sweaters with three-quarter-length sleeves. They are some of my favorite things. I especially love them if they are made from cashmere.

One of my friends was particularly irritated by people complaining about having to wear shoes in Atlanta in April. As it happens, she was born in South Dakota. I don’t think she’s lived in Georgia very long which would explain why she isn’t aware that, by April, most southerners are organizing their flip-flops according to outfit and/or occasion. She took to Facebook, warning anyone bemoaning cooler temperatures that they had better not complain about sweating in July or she’d be there to remind them they’d gotten just what they’d asked for. I’m guessing she hasn’t had to make good on that promise. Not because she’s a particularly scary person. And, not because people finally realized that complaining about the heat doesn’t cool things off.

My friend hasn’t had to remind anyone how they wished for Atlanta heat because Atlanta hasn’t gotten hot yet…not really hot…not Atlanta hot. Atlanta hasn’t gotten hot yet because during the month of June we received 9 1/2 inches of rain. And, since that time, it’s rained every day in July. So far this year we’ve accumulated almost 42 inches of rain which is more than we had for the entire year last year.

Sometime around the middle of June people began to complain. Often, mine was the lone voice of dissent. As the minder of a garden, I didn’t dare complain. For years I watched my garden literally burn to the ground because of lack of rain. There’s no way I would complain now…unless it is to bemoan missing melons. I planted melons, you see, and something ate them. I assumed the culprits to be rabbits until I spotted a pair of deer strolling casually through a neighbor’s yard. They stopped, on their way down the street, to nibble on roses.

Back then, in the middle of June, when only about 30 inches of rain had fallen, melons seemed like a good idea. Thirty inches of rain is enough water to fill lots of watermelons. Now though, some twelve inches later, I’ve begun to see that too much of a good thing really is too much. A melon, you see, begins as a blossom. A bee spies the blossom, and then he sees another one, and another one, and so on, and so on, and before you know it…mini-melons! But bees don’t like rain. Even in a light rain, a bee can’t leave its nest. And a blossom without a bee is just a flower.

So much water in such a short time changes things.

The chicken pen is under water. Seeing their ugly little toes disappear into the muck time after time as they rush to greet me reminded me of jungle rot, a podiatric malady soldiers in Vietnam often battled. Last weekend I put down boards for them to walk on. My chickens haven’t had as much as a sniffle in six years. Its bad enough they’ve had to learn to eat off a dinner plate. I can’t take a chance with jungle rot.

My flowers are drowning.

My floors are muddy.

My dogs are smelly.

And, don’t even get me started on my hair.

I’m willing to concede that, aside from the health of my hens, most of my worries are negligible.

And then I read about the snakes.

It makes perfect sense when you think it through, which I never would have done if I hadn’t read that a local newscaster was hospitalized with a snake bite. The sequence goes something like this: many bugs don’t do rain which means things that eat bugs are forced to forage. Foraging, as it happens, often requires travel outside of one’s usual hunting grounds and, thus, increased time outside of the nest. Guess what eats the things that would eat bugs but are now having to hunt?

Snakes.

And, here’s another twist. Just like my chickens who now spend ninety percent of their time inside the henhouse, snakes are tired of being wet. Only they don’t have a house of their own, so guess what? That’s right! They’re not picky! They’ll use yours. Right now, in Atlanta, the average wait time to have a pest control company out to your house to remove rain weary vermin is two weeks; two weeks of sharing your house with something that slithers. No. Way.

My seventh grade teacher, Mrs. White, marched with Martin Luther King. She played guitar and taught us folk songs and regaled us with stories from her past. One story involved a snake. It’s the one I remember.

She’d gotten up in the middle of the night to pee. For whatever reason, she didn’t turn on the light in the bathroom until after she’d done her business. That’s when she saw the snake, coiled around and around and around the inside of the toilet bowl. Having carried this image around in my head lo these many years, you can believe I toilet with the lights on, and only after careful inspection. And there’s no loitering. When I was a kid, my father’s bathroom always smelled like newsprint. He obviously hadn’t heard the story.

Yesterday the rain held off until rush hour. This is not unusual. In fact, yesterday was the second time I’ve sat in traffic and watched marble-sized hail gather on my windshield wipers before being swooshed off to ping the car in the lane next to mine.

By the time I arrived home, hail had given way to torrential rain and pounding thunder. My dogs don’t care for storms. Usually they’re too nervous to eat. But when it rains every day for weeks, something’s got to give. Murphy, my boxer, followed me into the sunroom willingly enough but minutes later, after I’d gone back inside, I heard his super-sized claws hit the industrial strength screen we installed to protect the French door from just that type of abuse. He gave a jerk of his head when I opened the door; our signal that he wanted company. I sank into one of the rocking chairs I’d drug in off the patio during an earlier storm, and immediately wished I’d grabbed my Iphone. For a few seconds, I considered going back in to get it. I could play a word, check in on Facebook, or read an email. The sound of rain hitting the roof called me back. I realized this was an opportunity to just be, and I don’t get enough of those.

I give the rocking chair a push and fold my arms over my lower abdomen, appreciating the softness of a little extra padding. Looking around, I realize I never really see this room. I’d forgotten, for example, about the funky wine bottles and vintage tin signs I sat on shelves next to the ceiling. I’ve downsized from a plethora of plants to a table covered in cactuses and hung, above them, twinkle lights encased in aluminum stars separated by wind chimes. I’ve left my mark here.

The sound of azalea branches scraping windowpanes turns my attention outside the room. The wind is blowing. The sky is unnaturally bright. Maybe the sun, too, has had to adjust; taking any opportunity to shine.

I wonder how the chickens are faring. It’s cooler now, after the hail.

When did my head tilt to one side…ever so slightly…the way it does just before a nap?

When did my eyes close?

The rocking has slowed.

Sleep could come.

Would he be disappointed if I slept through dinner?

Closer

In a house inhabited by an eleven year-old boy, peace and quiet is a true commodity. When I get it I resent any interruption, but particularly the jarring ring of an unanticipated telephone call, just as words begin to flow from my fingertips.

“Hey! Didn’t know if you’d heard…Brenda’s house got broken into today.”

An image of my already anxiety-ridden, widowed neighbor filled my mind.

“They broke out two back windows before her alarm went off, but they didn’t get anything.”

I thanked my neighbor for calling, before dropping my head to my hands in an effort to recapture my thoughts.

It wasn’t until mid-day the next day that I felt it. Some time after lunch; after I’d eaten, and conversed, and excused myself to read with hopes for a nap; I felt the violation. My peaceful, uneventful, quiet cul-de-sac had been violated. An unknown person with nefarious goals had roamed my neighborhood. He’d looked at my house. He’d chosen hers over mine. But, he’d looked at my house, with intent.

I reasoned that the sight of three dogs, of appreciable size, jumping at the kitchen door should be enough to thwart even the bravest of thieves. But what if he was armed?

A picture of my assailant immediately filled the screen of my mind. He was dark, and small, and strangely reminiscent of actor, John Leguimazo, in his short stint on ER last year….

Using the powers of reason still available, I did a quick mental inventory of my valuables, deciding that I was fully insured.

Most days, Shane arrives home several minutes before I do. He calls, as he disembarks the school-bus, and we talk as he walks towards our drive. He’s usually in a hurry, and eager to end the conversation in order to free his hands to unlock the door.

When I answer, he is singing along with my ringback. I am quiet. Listening. Appreciating the gift.

Finished, he finally answers my “Hello”.

“Hey! I had a great day today!”

“Great! I’m happy for you! Tell me what was great about it.” I could do this part of the conversation in my sleep.

“Well…” He always hesitates as he picks through the best parts to give me his favorite.

And while he hesitates, my heart beats just a little faster. What if the John is waiting in the house?

“I had a good day in language arts. Ms. Murray was OK today.”

“Oh, good!” I make a mental note to tone down my enthusiasm. “Any other good news?” My voice, now, is measured, and Mom-like.

“I got an eighty on my math quiz?” He poses a question.

“Wow!” Unbidden enthusiasm creeps back in. “How great is that?” My mind spins, searching for more questions.

“Mom?”, more questions. “I need to go now. I need to unlock the door.”

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll hold on.” Beads of sweat adhere to hair, wisping along my forehead, as I force casualness into my voice.

“Um…ok.” And, I hear “Ok…what’s up with that?”

Holding the receiver ever closer to my ear, I hear the rattling of keys in the lock, the force of paws on the door, and barking.

“Get back!” My son says assertively to his greeters.

“Shane?” I fight for measure in my voice.

“Yeah? I’m about to take the dogs out.” He sounds resigned, placating.

“Do me a favor; before you let them out, just peek outside. Are the gates closed?” I pray he doesn’t hear my ragged breathing.

“Uh…yeah!” He makes no effort to hide his derision as he opens the door. “Yeah, Mom…just like always!”

I laugh, hoping that’s all he hears.

“Cool…”, I answer, nonchalantly.

“How close are you?”, he asks between footsteps.

“Close.”

Wishing I was closer…

Pondering Ponds

I can’t begin to guess how many times I’ve passed that pond.

I’ve run by it.

I’ve walked around it.

I’ve gazed upon it, distractedly, while talking on the telephone, or giving my son directions, or parking my car.

Yesterday, I saw the pond.

The sun was amazing; a true spring sun whose soft rays never quite breached the fabric of my tee shirt. Breezes blew from several different directions at once, playing havoc with my hair and Chevy’s nose, dancing, merrily, on the end of his long, narrow snout.

As we rounded the bend, several geese gathered on one side of the pond. Realizing Chevy had never seen geese up close and personal, I seized the opportunity, and I guided him closer to the clearing in which they had gathered. Apparently accustomed to visits, the geese held their ground. The largest of the group sat upon the bank, and without turning, hissed comically. I laughed softly before cooing my assurance, while Chevy ignored her.

And, then I saw the reason for her anxiety. A mother duck, sporting a single striking blue feather amongst her brown and white mottle, swam into view ahead of four tiny, fuzzy ducklings. The goose took a step into the water as they passed. as if to ensure a barrier between us and them. No sooner had the first duck passed when another mother duck, with several chortling ducklings, swam into view. The goose squawked softly as if to say “Hurry along, now!”, and the family glided past. Satisfied, their long-necked protector retook her position on the bank and settled into her feathers.

Feeling we had disturbed the serenity of this part of the pond long enough, I urged Chevy up the hill and around to another arc of the pond. Without a sound, a pile of turtles sunning themselves upon the bank, poured into the water as we approached; the only sign of their retreat a collection of ever-widening circles.

I knew geese stopped here. There were signs of them everywhere, and particularly upon the walking track which they seemed to target with their deposits. In summer, when the sun’s rays swelter, the smell is enough to force me to another part of the track.

But, I hadn’t seen the ducks. And, I didn’t know the turtles. I hadn’t realized that within a very busy county park, these animals had seen fit to create a home in which to procreate. I had never seen the pond as a place of caring that required caring for.

We left the pond, and headed in the direction of Shane, and the batting cages. I thought, again, of the goose; of her protective fervor for those unlike her, and I appreciated the irony.

We have much to learn…

I Feel Lucky

The advocate working at the rescue center wasn’t completely honest.

We were looking for a boxer. We left with a shepherd-mix.

“Look! See the way she uses her front paws? I’m sure she’s part boxer! She has to be!”

It really didn’t matter. She had already spoken to me through limpid brown eyes that said, “I’ve seen a lot of things I’d rather I hadn’t.” We had much in common.

She was thin. Despite the “impeccable care” provided by her previous owner, heartworms had invaded her body, dictating she ingest large amounts of poison over several weeks which the veterinarian hoped would kill the worms before killing the host.

Lucky did what she’d always done. She survived.

She rode, stoically, in the back seat on the way to her new home, and upon arriving, acted as any dog would when introduced to new environs. Loping from room to room, she encountered my six-year-old son, who felt the exuberance of his new pet down to the ends of his fingers which he attempted to wrap around Lucky’s head in pursuit of a sloppy dog-kiss. What he got instead, was a nip to the nose, and as I attempted to calm him I looked into sad, brown pools of regret and wondered who felt worse, the biter or the bitten. The large scar over Lucky’s left eye assured me she knew the humiliation of attack.

She barks a lot, sounding off anytime a walked dog parades in front of the house. And, it isn’t necessary to look out the window to know that the pot-bellied pig is grazing in the grass across the street. Lucky is always on guard.

Our other two dogs give Lucky a wide berth as she has, on separate occasions, let each of them know she is boss. And, if their play gets out of hand, it is Lucky who steps in to referee a peaceful conclusion. Lucky’s maternal instincts survived the surgery evidenced by the tattoo burned into her lower abdomen.

The office is quiet as I read what I have just written. A scraping sound grabs my attention, and I turn to see Lucky standing at the door to the puppy’s metal-fenced crate. She lifts her paw, resting it against the wire until I reach out to open the door.

The eyes she turns on me tell me all I need to know as she lowers her head and slowly enters the space. She lies down, looking at me once more, before placing her snout on her fawn-colored paws.

Strange dogs parade by our house unannounced. Revelry ensues in another room, unabated. Lucky curls up inside a small, secure space, and rests.

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.

"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”?

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Two-Attention

“I stole the outside
Runnin’ into the sun
I ‘m alive
I’m loud, as a golden gun
I killed my pride
So once again I’d see

Live and learn
You’ve fallen, one thousand times
I feel the burn
There’s fire from a crazy sky
I sealed concern
So once again I’d be

[Chorus]
And it lifts you up
Then it puts you down
And it feeds you life
Then it lets you drown
While it holds your heart
Then it slowly tears you apart
And you know – that life is what I mean”

For the last several weeks, these words have jump-started my work-day. As Beth Hart slides into my CD player, “Lifts You Up” draws me in with guitar chords before pulsing, staccato drumbeats drive my hands against the steering wheel. Midway through the song, I’m dancing in the driver’s seat and singing at the top of my lungs. It depends on the day; some days, once is enough, others, like this morning, for instance, it takes three plays.

It was a late night, as are so many; making the sound of the alarm nothing more than a harsh reminder of the cold conditions outside my flannel cocoon. I rise, finally, allowing myself thirty minutes to complete a morning ritual that requires a minimum of forty-five. As I race about the house, my eye strays to an array of clocks in a variety of rooms, until, shrugging on my jacket, one last glance assures me I will be at least fifteen minutes late for work.
Strapped in, I man the wheel with one hand and crank the volume with the other. My toe taps the gas pedal in anticipation of rousing drumbeats, as I muse, again, on the lateness of my departure. The first red-light catches me, and as I sit, and tap, and finger the steering wheel, Rhonda Byrne’s soothing tones flow in underneath Beth’s growl, and I remember.

There is an entire passage in “The Secret” dealing with time, and its relativity to our existence. Quite honestly, when listening to it, this portion of the book is usually scrambled by the white noise that plays in my brain whenever numbers are required to understand a maxim. Fortunately, Ms. Byrne chose to illustrate her point with a life situation I experience on a regular basis, as she suggests an alternative to worrying about time. Following her suggestion, I remind myself, over and over again, to mentally repeat the following mantra, which I still hear in a lovely Australian accent: “I have MORE than enough time.” And, this morning, my one and a quarter hour trip was completed in one hour. This is not the first time this has happened, and, after today, it will not be the last.

I must admit, day two of my The Seven Day Mental Diet did not go as swimmingly as the first. As Joy related her husband’s disappointment in a vacation cancelled by economic forecasts, I found myself leaning forward, eager to share my own war story. As my co-workers sniped about a particularly difficult customer, I threw in my two cents, without a second thought. And on the way home, as I rolled in behind another weary commuter, I eyed the streams of glowing red lights in front of me, and realized rush-hour traffic was compounded by its proximity to a popular shopping mall and Christmas sales.

It was while bemoaning my sad state to an unfortunate caller that I realized how far I had strayed from my original goal, and I immediately slung one leg back over the saddle. Since that time, despite unruly dogs, the realization that my son’s cellphone is, indeed, dead, and math homework, I have maintained a positive outlook. And, I have learned….
I have realized that, for me, maintaining a positive outlook will require fervent attention; that while sneaking a glance at a clock I must remind myself that “I have MORE than enough time”. And, when friends invoke the misery of their days, I can smile knowingly, without comment, before leaving them to their travails. And, when a particularly unhappy customer bends my ear, I can picture them as they are; sad, lonely, in need of an audience.

“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.

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.