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.”
Born into a family of blondes, she stood, proud and straight against a hand-drawn measuring stick on the wall. Chestnut ringlets danced about a face punctuated by chocolate brown eyes mirroring the mischievousness in her smile.
I fell in love at first sight.
I was an adult before I realized how alike we were; how her path had intersected mine too many times, and how those shared experiences had built a bond of belonging.
She was rebellious.
She liked bad boys.
She led with her heart.
Life, age, children, and too many days spent on uncharted waters brought both us to shore, in different places.
“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.
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.
“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.”
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.
> 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.
It was, at least, five feet long, and two feet high at it’s tallest point, which featured painstakingly carved intricate flowers and filigree. Two wooden slats divided the glass into three separate mirrors, and, long ago, someone had burnished the wooden frame golden.
I came upon it while helping my elderly next-door neighbor, Ruby, remove years of flea-market finds, incredible buys, and assorted debris from what was to have been a spare room. Ruby was everything her name implies. She was also a packrat.
As I pulled the awkwardly shaped mirror out from behind a crib mattress Ruby was sure she might need one day, I immediately noticed the craftsmanship. The detail, the inaccuracies, and the aged brown paper, stretched across the back of the frame, proclaimed “hand-crafted”.
Turning it to once again admire the carvings, I caught Ruby’s reflection in one of the panels. She stood behind me, and a little away; and, on her face, a look of adoration, usually reserved for my children.. Glancing at her, I asked the question without words, and she began to tell the story.
The mirror had been in her family as long as she could remember, which was a very long time. It had been the centerpiece of her grandmother’s dining room, and then, later, her mother’s “front room”. She wasn’t clear as to whose hands had done the carving, but she knew he had presented it to the family as a treasured heirloom, and they had treated it as such, for decades. Regret replaced delight as she explained it’s present home.
“I used to have a place to hang such things, but I don’t anymore.”
Coming closer, she raised one gnarled hand towards the apex of the frame and rested it upon the most elaborate of it’s decoration. After several seconds, she used the same hand to retrieve the ever-present tissue from the pocket of her shapeless sweater, and dabbed tobacco juice from one corner of her lined, colorless mouth.
“I want you to have it.”, she proclaimed, and turned back to the box she had been pillaging before my find.
I stared at her bent back for several seconds, before challenging her decision by suggesting she consider making a gift to one of her two daughters.
“Do you see either one of them here today?”, she barked as she rose creakily, turning slanted eyes in my direction. “Huh? Do ya?”
Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence before she closed, quietly, with “Alright, then.”
I hung the mirror, that evening, over the sofa in my living room, and it was, once again, the centerpiece it was meant to be. It hung there for several years, until the size of my family exhausted the space inside the little house next door to Ruby, forcing us to leave our friend. But, her mirror made the trip. In total, I moved the mirror to three different homes. Ruby would see the mirror hung in all but the last, but, somehow, I’m sure she knew it was there.
During my most recent move, light packing, invoked by emergent situations, left the mirror hanging for the next occupants to admire. And, I hope they did. I hope the decades of love and care stroked into it’s wood demanded the respect it, and she deserved. And, Ruby, who was everything that name implies, understands.
It was, at least, five feet long, and two feet high at it’s tallest point, which featured painstakingly carved intricate flowers and filigree. Two wooden slats divided the glass into three separate mirrors, and, long ago, someone had burnished the wooden frame golden.
I came upon it while helping my elderly next-door neighbor, Ruby, remove years of flea-market finds, incredible buys, and assorted debris from what was to have been a spare room. Ruby was everything her name implies. She was also a packrat.
As I pulled the awkwardly shaped mirror out from behind a crib mattress Ruby was sure she might need one day, I immediately noticed the craftsmanship. The detail, the inaccuracies, and the aged brown paper, stretched across the back of the frame, proclaimed “hand-crafted”.
Turning it to once again admire the carvings, I caught Ruby’s reflection in one of the panels. She stood behind me, and a little away; and, on her face, a look of adoration, usually reserved for my children.. Glancing at her, I asked the question without words, and she began to tell the story.
The mirror had been in her family as long as she could remember, which was a very long time. It had been the centerpiece of her grandmother’s dining room, and then, later, her mother’s “front room”. She wasn’t clear as to whose hands had done the carving, but she knew he had presented it to the family as a treasured heirloom, and they had treated it as such, for decades. Regret replaced delight as she explained it’s present home.
“I used to have a place to hang such things, but I don’t anymore.”
Coming closer, she raised one gnarled hand towards the apex of the frame and rested it upon the most elaborate of it’s decoration. After several seconds, she used the same hand to retrieve the ever-present tissue from the pocket of her shapeless sweater, and dabbed tobacco juice from one corner of her lined, colorless mouth.
“I want you to have it.”, she proclaimed, and turned back to the box she had been pillaging before my find.
I stared at her bent back for several seconds, before challenging her decision by suggesting she consider making a gift to one of her two daughters.
“Do you see either one of them here today?”, she barked as she rose creakily, turning slanted eyes in my direction. “Huh? Do ya?”
Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence before she closed, quietly, with “Alright, then.”
I hung the mirror, that evening, over the sofa in my living room, and it was, once again, the centerpiece it was meant to be. It hung there for several years, until the size of my family exhausted the space inside the little house next door to Ruby, forcing us to leave our friend. But, her mirror made the trip. In total, I moved the mirror to three different homes. Ruby would see the mirror hung in all but the last, but, somehow, I’m sure she knew it was there.
During my most recent move, light packing, invoked by emergent situations, left the mirror hanging for the next occupants to admire. And, I hope they did. I hope the decades of love and care stroked into it’s wood demanded the respect it, and she deserved. And, Ruby, who was everything that name implies, understands.
The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.
A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.
As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.
If only, I could have been a little quieter…
If only, I didn’t have an opinion…
If I could hide my feelings…
If I could be a little less intelligent…
If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.
If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.
Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.
If I could have done that…
But, I couldn’t.
And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.
Noun doyenne: The senior or eldest female member of a group, especially one who is most or highly respected. A woman who is highly experienced and knowledgeable in a particular field, subject, or line of work; expert Synonym: grande dame
Are We There Yet? 
