To Destin, For Dad

My Dad is sick.

That’s never happened.

Just ask him, he’ll tell you.

Well, except for that one time. A seed got trapped in a crook in his colon. I met them in the emergency room…Dad swallowing a hospital bed while Mom looked on…from a distance…clutching her purse, under an expression that begged the question, “What now?”.

As long as I can remember, Dad has prided himself in the fact that he’s never had a headache. In some versions, a headache becomes the “common cold”. No matter. To hear him tell it, he’s had neither.

He’s confrontational and cantankerous and a few other “c” words that, when taken together, translate into “just plain hard to get along with”, and now he’s sick.

When he called, he blamed a hot dog…a foot-long Coney; admittedly, not the kind of thing an eighty-one-year-old man ought to eat. It had to be food-poisoning, he reasoned.

But he didn’t get better. He stayed sick. And common sense will tell you, a hot dog doesn’t have that kind of staying power. Not even a foot-long Coney. Food poisoning comes, tries to kill you and, if unsuccessful, leaves. Three day nausea is something else…something serious…some kind of sickness.

He tells me he’s better.

“But you’re still coming down, aren’t you? I’m still sick! I’m weak!” This, from the man who never had a headache…or the “common cold”…depending on the version.

And, I did come.

And, I brought a sister.

And, we did laundry, and dishes, and we made the bed.

And when Dad said, “You know what sounds good?”, I got my keys.

I visited fast food restaurants I never knew existed and ordered with specificity, because “they never put enough sausage” on the sausage and gravy biscuit.

On Saturday, it occurred to me I’d been “at the beach” for almost an entire day and never seen it…not really. I mean, I’d caught a glimpse between hurricane-proofed monoliths upon our return from the Potato Chips/Malted Milk Balls/Vanilla Ice Cream run, but that was it. I hadn’t really heard it. I hadn’t watched it, and I definitely hadn’t smelled it.

But, I fixed that.

After dinner, I got my chair…the one that still spills a little bit of Myrtle Beach every time I take it out…and I headed for the sand.

On the stairs, a couple stopped me.

“Excuse me! Are you going to have a hurricane here?”

I thought several things at once.

I thought , “They think I’m a local.”(This was kinda cool.)

I thought, “They’re just a young couple on their first night of vacation.”

I thought, “Bless their hearts.”

I shared wise weather anecdotes I’d collected during the preceding 24 hours, before moving to place my chair in a spot that would allow me the best use of Instagram. I know…that sounds silly…but I haven’t quite got the hang of it. I’d love to be able to edit more…

After taking several severely out-of-focus photos, I screwed my chair into place and sunk into it.

To my left, a meaty woman seemed unaware that most of her bottom had escaped her suit.

To my right, two boys flew kites.

The worried couple waded.

White caps rolled in bringing memories…of my mother in a two-piece…red with tiny flowers. And she… so brown…so confident.

And, my sisters, dripping castles.

And, my children, with my grandson.

Jennifer and Elijah, dripping castles just like we did.

And my father…and floats…plastic floats in pastel colors that rolled with the waves…rolled and rolled until…if you closed your eyes, sleep could come…

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Thanksglibbing

To my mind, Halloween has always represented the top of a slide; a long slide, the big metal kind that burns your legs in summer, but not so badly that you don’t mount the ladder a second, and even a third, time. And, it doesn’t go straight down. There are twists and turns, and bumps and dips. All in all, it’s a pretty raucous ride.

Thanksgiving used to represent one of the bumps, a high-point on the path towards the next bump of Christmas, on the way to the New Year’s sand pit that leaves tiny black flecks on the backs of your calves and the palms of your hands.

Nowadays, though, I would characterize Thanksgiving as more of a twist, a turn requiring careful navigation before resuming the descent.

My reticence about the holiday became clear to me a couple of years ago as I read posts on a social website to which I subscribed. There were several prompts along the line of “How Will You Spend Your Thanksgiving?”, and “Share Your Favorite Thanksgiving Memory”. As I scanned menus I wouldn’t choose from and ticked off strangers’ guest lists, complete with anecdotes, I began to feel sad. It became clear, relatively quickly, that my plan to post a virtual cornucopia of familial dysfunction would elicit a reaction similar to that experienced by a person unable to quash a particularly loud belch after finishing an elegant meal. Not that I have ever been in that exact situation, mind you. My embarrassing belch came disguised as a yawn, which I shielded prettily with one hand, in hopes that our English teacher wouldn’t mistake a night of late-night TV for impolite disinterest. The offending sound was as much a surprise to me as it was to the quarterback of our high school football team, who sat in the next row and two desks closer to the front of the room. His was the only face to turn in my direction.

“Excuse you!”, he bellowed through his laugh which soon became a chorus.

I responded with a weak smile, refusing to acquiesce to an overwhelming desire to escape the room. My intention here, though, is not to write about teenage angst.

My mother was a product of the times in which she lived. The decade of the sixties is widely associated with peace, love, and rock and roll. But due to a burgeoning space program, the sixties also ushered in canned vegetables, enveloped spice packs, and crystallized orange drink. Grocery stores remodeled to make room for the “Freezer Section”, and my mother was all over it.

She made an exception, though, at holiday time. Thanksgiving dinners were prepared fresh, with only the finest ingredients, and usually featured the same dishes year after year. One holiday she decided her Coke Salad was boring, and introduced instead a pale, orange concoction featuring apricots. Realizing our dinner wouldn’t include plump, juicy cherries confined by coke-flavored cottage cheese, I loudly bemoaned her decision. My sisters echoed my sentiment and the cherries were back in place the following year. What I didn’t realize until recently, though, is that while the center of our table might have been held by a large pine-cone, threaded with multi-colored strips of construction paper, my mother was truly our Thanksgiving centerpiece.

This year, Thanksgiving will find my sister, Candi, hosting her husband’s family at their beach-side condominium. It sounds like a lovely way to spend the holiday, but I wasn’t invited. After assisting with accommodations for the in-laws, my father called seeking reassurance that his three remaining daughters could provide a holiday at “home”. Two weeks later, he called again.

Several telephone calls later resulted in our “family dinner” being held in Cleveland, Georgia, a picturesque mountain town about an hour and a half outside of Atlanta. My sister, Holly, is excited to serve turkey she raised from a chick. I visited the unfortunate fowl a couple of weeks ago. At that point she hadn’t decided which of the several strikingly unattractive birds would make the sacrifice. That’s okay…I didn’t really want to know.

All three of my children have chosen to settle near the town of their birth, necessitating a seventy-five mile drive to my house for Thanksgiving. My daughter will work until four in the afternoon, pushing our dinner late into the evening. They will settle for a store-bought turkey, smoked the day before, and my impressions of the earlier celebration. They will bring friends. My house will be packed to over-flowing, and laughter will fill every corner of every room.

But, I’ll still miss the cherries…

Living True

Somehow I’d forgotten the particular shade of blue that is sky. That blue that defies duplication. The blue that speaks the word “yonder”, by inviting eyes to see further.

Today, I saw it, and knew the wonder.

I’ve missed the caress of wind in my hair. The feeling of freedom. A space in time whose only accompaniment is the dull roar of the engine in front of me, competing with wind whipping through an open window.

Today, I felt it, and appreciated the gift.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked into a loved one’s eyes as she spoke, or shared air, or a fork. I’ve missed the abandon of shucking my shoes under the table before resting my heels on the booth beside her. “That’s a lovely shade of blue on your toenails, honey. It looks just like you.”

Today I took the time.

Today I saw sky, and felt wind. I memorized the eyes of a friend, and held my daughter close for no reason. I stretched out, barefooted, in a booth at a restaurant and laughed loudly, with abandon.

Today, I knew the gifts of those who truly live.

Comes With Eggroll

When I was a kid, Chinese food was Chop Suey, served warm and fresh from a can. I remember dodging lots of water chestnuts in an effort to uncover tiny shreds of meat that justified use of the word “chicken” on the label. The best part of the whole meal was the topping of “noodles” which were not actually noodles at all, but tiny strips of crunchy pastry. Years later, my grandmother would introduce me to another, even tastier, use for Chinese noodles. After melting equal parts of chocolate and butterscotch chips in a double-boiler, she stirred in a package of noodles and dropped the mess by heaping spoonfuls on waxed paper. The finished product was called a “haystack” which quickly became a mainstay of childhood Christmases…but I digress.

While in college, my friends and I discovered this great little place in a strip-mall where four or five of us would meet for lunch. The “special” was a combination plate which offered a choice of two entrees, rice, soup, and eggroll. Everyone ordered something different and we shared. The price was reasonable, and there was so much food that we easily got by on just one meal a day.

As the mother of growing boys during the 1990’s, I welcomed the advent of the Chinese buffet. Not only could my sons eat until they were full for one low price, but the proprietors played to their audience by almost always filling a tray or two with traditional American favorites, such as pizza or french fries.

Saturdays usually began with a weekly visit to a local flea market that spanned an entire city block. My friend Hallie usually accompanied us and, fortunately, she too enjoyed Chinese food. After stowing our finds in the trunk of my car, we headed all the way across town for China Star Buffet. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to hear that this was the highlight of the trip for the kids.

The place was cavernous in more ways than one, as muted lighting camouflaged stains on the garishly colored, indoor-outdoor carpeting padding the seating area. My children’s behinds never even grazed the top of the tattered, vinyl-covered booth before heading for the brightly-lit, tiled buffet area at a controlled gallop. A row of six stainless steel buffet tables reflected light from exposed bulbs. in a manner that I suppose was meant to compliment the colorful display of food. The kids always made for the pizza first, before attacking the pan of beer-battered chicken, meant to be covered with sticky sweet-and-sour sauce. The last two buffets featured piles of freshly cut fruit and a full salad bar. My children’s feet never touched the tiles surrounding them.

Hallie and I also worked together, and often lunched at a more upscale establishment featuring an awning supported by four huge, gilded columns sprouting from the backs of statuesque lions. The food at Peking was considerably better than that enjoyed at China Star Buffet, which sat just around the corner. I’m sure it was this proximity that provoked Peking to install a lunch buffet. Theirs, however, was much smaller and featured only the food Americans think of as Chinese which one would never actually find in a restaurant in China. There was not a slice of pizza in sight.

When my oldest son, Josh, decided he liked his girlfriend enough to introduce her to his parents he requested we meet at Hong Kong Buffet; China Star Buffet being out of the question, as I had by now returned to Atlanta. Hong Kong Buffet had, apparently, purchased carpeting from the same manufacturer as China Star Buffet, and it was interesting to finally see what it looked like under sufficient lighting to confirm that it was indeed possible to remove stains made by toddlers flinging foods soaked in red sauces.

Josh’s girlfriend, Heather, and I returned to our assigned booth at the same time with similar looking plates of which the largest portion was covered by a gooey, cheesy, crab concoction. Well, I say crab. In truth, the chef had made no effort to hide the tell-tale, dye-reddened edges of faux crab he had sautéed with onions and butter, before swaddling the mix in an unnamed, but sinfully delicious, white cheese sauce. We shoveled the greasy mess into our mouths simultaneously, groaned at the same time, and shared a smile.

Shane and Roger, carrying platefuls of saucy meats and pastry encased cheese, soon joined us. Several mouthfuls later, we realized that Josh was missing. Scanning the stainless steel maze of buffets, I found him standing amidst a group of large African-American women holding empty plates while looking hungrily towards the swinging door that led to the kitchen; or as I thought of it at the time, Mecca. I could see the resolve on my son’s face as he tightened his grip on a single, thick, white, ceramic plate while staring into an empty, steaming bin where crab-legs used to be. He was first in line, and he would not be moved.

A swath of yellow light assaulted the colorful carpeting as the kitchen door swung wide, revealing a small, dark-haired woman of oriental descent who bent one knee just as the door began to arc back in her direction. The door stopped, and she gave it a little kick before entering the dining room. carrying a steaming metal dish in the direction of the buffets. Several of the women surrounding my son began to stir; their plates balanced precariously on multi-colored talons above their carefully coiffed, swiveling heads. Joshua’s eyes remained trained on the steaming hole before him.

The dark-haired serving girl cut her eyes in the direction of the milling crowd surrounding the space where crab-legs used to be, and shooting an apologetic smile in their direction, made for an adjacent buffet. Several of the women leaned in her direction, as though fearful she had taken a wrong turn, or planned a covert dump in a different pan. As she began to scoop greasy, green onion fronds mixed with bits of beef through the steam, they settled back into position, training their eyes once again on the nautically-inspired steel door.

Several minutes later, as I wiped oily remnants of crab casserole from the corners of my mouth with a napkin that definitely wasn’t cloth but wasn’t exactly paper, Josh returned to the table, slightly out of breath.

“Here…”, he growled, shoving a plated mound of steaming, orange crab legs between two sweating glasses of sweet tea. Before we could thank him, he was gone again.

I turned to see him pull a plate from the buffet and hand it to a large, blonde woman sporting a Dallas Cowboy’s jersey. Grabbing another, he meandered through the buffet maze, stopping occasionally to spoon food onto his plate. When he returned, several of his precious crab legs had been reduced to orange-colored shards.

Sighing heavily, Josh sunk into the booth beside his girlfriend and in the same motion lifted a bundle of swaddled cutlery.

Leaning in her direction he stage whispered, “Watch that door!”, motioning with his fork towards the swinging door to Mecca. “I’ll have to get up there fast if we’re going to get anymore.”

*******

Sometimes even twelve-year-old boys are needy. Take last weekend…

It wasn’t anything he said. He went about his normal routine, but something in his demeanor told me Shane needed one-on-one time; the kind you find under an immense, sparkling chandelier in a Chinese buffet. This one was called Asia Buffet and featured hand-rolled sushi and made-to-order stir fry.

“Hey?” I called out from the next room.

Shane gathered his limbs, which he had sprawled across a recliner while watching a football game.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry?”

The question warranted standing, as he answered. “Yeah!”

“Chinese buffet?”

“Cool! Let me get my shoes!”

And, I realized then that many of my family’s most pleasant memories come with eggroll.

A Numbers Game

I spent the better part of my thirty-fourth year dreading my thirty-fifth. It wasn’t that I expected anything to change. I didn’t see thirty-five as some kind of horrific milestone, though now looking back on it, I think subconsciously I knew I’d reached a realistic half-way point.

What I couldn’t get past was the ugliness of the number itself, the overt roundness of it, the slovenly way it sits on its protuberant bellies as though fully sated and content in its rotundity. For twelve months I avoided, at every opportunity, speaking my age. The image invoked by the words disgusted me.

What makes this behavior remarkable is the fact that I assign no importance to age. I couldn’t tell you the age of my siblings, and it takes an appreciable amount of ciphering to determine my father’s. I know the age of my children, but only because I am expected to recite it with some frequency. If you admit to having children, you are expected to know when you had them. I suppose that’s fair…

For a full twelve months, while in my early forties, I aged myself by one year. As my birthday neared, a friend laughingly pointed this out to me, proving her point by counting backwards from my birth-date. She jokingly held forth my lapse as proof of some kind of mental instability, and her jeering bothered me at first, until I realized that my behavior only proved what I already knew; it really didn’t matter. For years, the question “How old are you?” forced me to think. It just wasn’t a number I carried around in my head.

Until now…

I still hesitate when asked my age, but not because I don’t know the answer. I hesitate because being forty-nine means I’ll soon be fifty, and I don’t want to be.

As my birthday nears, I find myself surrounded by two types of people; those who know, and those who don’t. And, it is those who know who have made it difficult to share with the others. For the first time in my life, people seem to feel it acceptable to pronounce me “old”. And, they do so, loudly, and often.

My father was the first to raise the baton. Months ago, as we chatted on the telephone, he mentioned my upcoming birthday, casually asking “How old will you be?”. He’s in his late seventies; the question didn’t surprise me. This was before I’d learned to hedge, and my answer came quickly.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” His voice was loud. “You’re going to be fifty?” This time his volume was accented by an accusatory tone. “Do you know how old that makes me feel…to have a daughter who’s going to be fifty?” He laughed as though he’d told a joke. I struggled to see the levity, while chuckling softly so as not to hurt his feelings.

Since that time, my birthday is never mentioned by anyone who doesn’t feel it perfectly appropriate to point out my longevity. Some appear awestruck; as though living fifty years is an accomplishment worth considerable thought and recognition. Some seem to feel as though my age poses a ticklish predicament. They giggle and point as though I’ve caught my heel in a sidewalk grate. And, of course, there are those whose faces fall in sympathy. I prefer not to know what they are thinking.

A dear friend mentioned my birthday the other day, and immediately asked how old I would be. As we’ve known each other only two years, he had no reason to know. Because he is a man, and younger, I really didn’t want him to.

I vacillated between simply ignoring the question and employing my finest southern accent, reminding him how improper it is to ask a lady her age, sure that in his usual manner he would soon turn the conversation in a different direction. While I hesitated he began to throw out numbers, “Fifty-five? Seventy-six? Fifty-two?”, until I could take no more.

“Fifty.” I said it, again.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” His response resounded with authenticity, imbuing me with the courage to explain. He listened quietly until I finished.

“I have to admit that while you were talking I imagined myself fifty…and my heart did a little flip.” That one didn’t even hurt.

Last Saturday, my children and several friends celebrated my birthday by coming to my house for a cook-out. My oldest son manned the grill, and everyone else brought plates and plates of my favorite foods. The broccoli casserole my daughter-in-law made was the best I’d ever tasted, and by the time I discovered the potato casserole my daughter had cooked, I had to scrape the sides of the dish just to get a taste. My delight in their cooking skills was enhanced by the feeling that they belonged to me. I hugged them both, telling them how much I appreciated them. They did me proud…

100_0446

Despite my warnings, my daughter insisted I have my favorite cake. The raspberry-filled, white-chocolate cake she produced was perfect. As we admired her creativity, in scattering wine-colored cherry blossoms around the perimeter of the plate, she produced the obligatory package of black and white candles; the kind that usually come with a set of gray, plastic headstones.

“Do you like the Emo candles?”, she asked demurely.

“Where are the matching headstones?”, I countered.

“I said they were Emo, Mama.”, she answered with quiet forcefulness. “I’m being sweet.”

I meant to mark this day. Had all gone according to plan, I’d be wearing a jacket against an early chill as I clicked down a neon-lit sidewalk in Times Square. We’d be on our way to dinner, fashionably late of course, in a restaurant requiring reservations be made months in advance. Tomorrow would have been our final day in New York City. Our visit to the fashion district would be a wonderful memory as I laced my sneakers for one last run through Central Park.

As it is, I accept the blessing of over-time with a company hedging its bets against a fragile economy. I’m schlepping my son to football practice, and I’m writing. My gift to myself is my writing. I will document my half-century in words, and feelings, and words, and epiphanies, and words.

Happy Birthday to me…

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

Service Sector Sagacity

Our trip was unexpected, unplanned, and unbudgeted, which helps to explain my presence in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s at 11:47 a.m. We rolled to a stop in front of a daunting menu of gastronomic atrocities too crowded to read. I allowed my eleven-year-old to order for both of us.

“Please drive around to the first window.”

A heavy-set girl with long brown hair manned the register, behind a small glass door that seemingly opened and closed of its own accord. I hit the mute button on the stereo as she logged another order. She turned in our direction, and the door opened as she extended her hand, palm up. I laid several bills inside with a smile that went unnoticed as she stashed them before collecting my change while focusing, intently, on the LED display of the register. Her left hand extended again, dropping my change while her right hand hit a button on her head set, and I rolled to the second window.

A hundred miles or so later, my cup was empty, but my bladder wasn’t. I searched large, green, roadside signs for another iconic fast-food restaurant that would offer relief for both. As I rolled into the Krystal’s parking lot, my son sat forward on his seat.

“Are we going to eat again?” Shane’s voice sounded exactly like you would expect it to sound, given his usual diet of whole grains, fish, and fruit.

“No, honey. Just the bathroom and a drink!”

As I entered the bathroom, I was accosted by an odor that said “Turn back!” in a deep, unnerving voice. Shaking it off, I pushed open the painted metal door, expecting the worst. I considered myself lucky in not uncovering the source of the odor and attended to the matter at hand, post-haste. I rinsed my hands hurriedly, and opened the door with my elbow. Shane was waiting outside.

The counter was clear of customers, allowing us to stand, unimpeded, in front of the register. A large woman, whose hairstyle must have cost at least a day’s pay, approached from the back of the restaurant throwing one hand in the direction of another woman as her eyes glazed mine.

“You got customers.”, she said as she walked by, carrying a sheaf of paper cups.

The woman she addressed stood at the other end of the counter, bent at the middle, her face just inches above a laminated paper.

“You really got her worried ‘bout that schedule!”, the female voice came, complete with laughter, from the grill area.

A painfully thin, uniformed young man approached from the dining area.

“Whatchew doin’?” He mimicked her posture so that their visored heads met.

Shane and I stood with necks arched; studying a menu we had no intention of ordering from, until a man wearing a white shirt that said “I Am The Manager” approached, carrying a bundle of bags.

“Can I take your order?” I was relieved to hear self-consciousness in his voice.

Sunlight did nothing to enhance the pallor present on my friend’s skin as we sat around her picnic table. We sipped, and laughed, and talked, and laughed. The telephone rang, and she answered it. I made my decision while she assured our friend I had made the trip safely.

As she pressed “End”, I eased myself off the weathered, wooden bench.

“We’re going to get a room.”

She argued despite my tone of finality.

“It’s just two miles away….” I ended the conversation.

I hit the button, locking my son safely inside the car before walking towards the lobby. A blonde woman who hadn’t yet accepted the reality of her morbidity manned the desk.

Her expression never changed as she managed, “You want a room?”

I leaned both arms on the desk as she typed, wondering if she knew that the boxed-blonde curtain hanging down either side of her haggard face failed to hide the collection of chins the years had provided her.

Tiny cowbells rang, and we both turned. Shane entered, mute. He approached a display of brochures while I felt validation.

“How old is the child?”

“Eleven.”

Several minutes and colorful invectives later, I tapped Shane’s shoulder and left with credit card-shaped “keys”.

“Mom?” I pulled my sweatshirt closed as we walked against a cool breeze.

“Yes.” Shane hurried to catch up to my stride.

“Aren’t there a lot of people looking for jobs?”

“Yes.”, I answered, not sure where he was going.

“Then why does everybody act like they hate their job? Don’t they know they’re lucky to have one?”

From the mouths of babes…

The Joy of Cooking

At age eighty-three and counting, Joy has rediscovered the culinary arts.

Last week…

“I bought the most amazing pot roast at the market yesterday!” This would have been said on a Thursday, as Senior Discount Day is Wednesday, and Joy never misses Senior Discount Day.

“I bought potatoes, and carrots, and onions, and I’m going to throw it all in the crock-pot.” Despite my disdain for pot roast, her exuberance was almost contagious.

“Sounds good!”, I lied.

“So, I’m wondering…” Her five-foot-two body began to bounce on the tips of her rubber soled feet. “…what types of herbs should I use?”

Allowing for a moment to wonder why she considered me an expert in cooking herbs, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“Garlic, of course. Salt, pepper, about a half cup of red wine…” I searched my brain as I stated the obvious.

“…and thyme!”, I announced proudly. “I like thyme with meat.”

“Thyme! Yes!” Joy clapped her diminutive hands for emphasis. “I’m cooking it this weekend, and if it turns out, I’ll send you the recipe!”

This morning…

Grasping both zippered sides of one of a collection of woolen cardigans she purchased during a tour of Slavic countries, Joy hurriedly entered my office.

“The pork chops were delicious!”, she proclaimed.

Spinning my chair to face her, I asked “Pork chops?”

“Oh, yes! Pork chops in the crock pot!” She dropped the sweater to clasp her hands with glee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever cooked pork chops in a crock pot.”, I mused. “I’ve fried them, and baked them, and….”

“Oh, we usually barbeque them!”, Joy interjected with a bounce.

“Yes.”, I agreed. “I’ve grilled them…”

The expression on Joy’s face was familiar to me. It was the same expression Shane wore after scoring the winning run, or making a clutch catch with the sun in his eyes. I knew what to do….

“Tell me about it.”

“It called for mushroom soup!” And, she was off. “I know some people don’t like mushroom soup. But this had just half the sodium of most mushroom soup. And, I left the bouillon cube out. I love bouillon, but have you ever noticed how much sodium is in a bouillon cube?” She paused for just a moment, inhaling deeply for effect. “It’s terrible!”

“I like cream of mushroom soup.”, I offered.

“Well, I did something different.” Ignoring my comment, she leaned in conspiratorially. “I lined the bottom of the crock pot with onions!”

“The recipe didn’t call for onions?”, I asked, with just a hint of dismay.

“No, but they added so much to the dish!”, she crowed proudly.

She went on with her list of ingredients, ending with tapioca.

“Tapioca?” This time my dismay was genuine. “Tapioca, with pork chops? I don’t like tapioca. Doesn’t it have those little balls in it?”

“I know…”, Joy nodded. “I know…Well, if you don’t like tapioca you could use something else. But, it thickened wonderfully!”

I wrestled with the image of pork chops swimming in mushroom-flavored tapioca, while Joy detailed the rest of her meal, and the conversation turned, again, to herbs.

“Dick loves cauliflower.” Her frown said she didn’t. “I put a little thyme on the cauliflower.”

Her forehead wrinkled under steel-hued bangs. “Was it thyme?”

I opened my mouth to help just as the correct herb came to her.

“No, it was basil! Basil is very good with insipid vegetables, you know…”

Are You Really Gonna Eat That?

“You’re actually going to eat that?”

Gingerly, careful not to touch it’s fiery lip, I slid the bowl of steaming cream-of-chicken soup out the microwave.

“Yeah!”, I answered. “It’s only got one-hundred-twenty calories.” I pushed the red and white can in her direction.

Slowly stirring to break up small clumps of chickeny goo, I looked up to see a look of utter distaste on Susan’s face.

“What?”

“I just never saw anyone eat it. I mean I use it in recipes and all, but I’ve never actually eaten it.”

I slowly walked the hot soup to my designated spot at the break table and joined another co-worker who was arranging chicken salad atop a concoction of apple chunks and red pepper strips.

“Apples and peppers?”, I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yes!”, she exclaimed. “I make my chicken salad the same way I make my potato salad. I dump in anything I can find in my refrigerator.”

I sat with that a while before turning the conversation back to the soup.

Sipping first, I offered, “I just remembered how I got started eating cream-of-chicken soup.”

Two interested faces turned my way.

“My mother used to give it to us when we were sick. She started with chicken noodle, and when that stayed down, we graduated to this.” I slurped another spoonful.

“And ginger ale!”, I said after swallowing.

“My mother gave us ginger ale.” Susan concurred, still casting a doubtful eye in the direction of my bowl.

“And not even good ginger ale, just regular ginger ale. It was one of my favorite things about being sick.” As I spoke, I flashed on the sickroom of my childhood.

Days spent home from school were spent in the bed, and Mom had a television, reserved for just this occasion. After my sisters had left for the bus stop, she pushed it in on the rolling cart it lived in. It was the only time we ever had the television all to ourselves. The door to the bedroom remained closed unless she opened it to bring in ginger ale, soup, aspirin, and/or Pepto-Bismol. I think about those days often, even thirty-plus years later. It was the only time I had Mom all to myself, and the time when she seemed the most caring.

“We had broth.”, I realized Susan was speaking.

What ensued was a discussion of forgotten culinary delights. The fish sticks that were a mainstay of many a baby-boomer’s Friday night, as Mom finished applying her lipstick, while Dad left to pick up the baby sitter. The SpaghettiOs, which Mom later insisted she had never served us at the picnic table while on vacation at the beach. But I can still remember how good they tasted paired with pan-fried luncheon loaf. And pimento cheese! Specifically toasted pimento cheese sandwiches and the pimento cheese toast Dad baked in the oven on Saturday mornings.

We came away with the realization that dietary habits have changed drastically over the past thirty years, and probably for the best. At the same time though, I wonder at the loss of simplicity and routine inherent in the foods of our childhood.

Our children may have a finer grade of food, but I wonder if it loses something in the translation. My children never experienced the camaraderie of Friday nights in front of the television, watching the same sit-coms for years on end, after finishing a plate of breaded, compressed fish parts. They won’t remember the anticipation of smelling the scent of rosewater that preceded Mrs. Jordan into the house, or the sense of awe when Mom finally emerged from the back of the house, having traded her uniform of polyester pull-ons for a skirt and heels.

A cherry armoire hides my son’s television from view, but it’s always there. When he stays home from school, he does so in the bed, watching the same television he always watches. And the door to his bedroom remains closed until I open it, bearing a glass of ginger ale, a cup of soup, or ibuprofen.

A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off to spend with my son. I called him in for lunch, and as he washed his hands, I filled his plate with greasy, brown fish sticks.

“Mom! We never eat this stuff!”, he exclaimed through a grin.

“Is it ok?”, I asked.

“Yeah!”, he exuded.

Yeah…