30 Days of Gratitude – Day 2 – My Job

Mitchell Steiner wore his jet black hair combed straight back off his swarthy-skinned face. His coal-colored eyes either danced or snapped, depending on his mood. His nose was aquiline. His mouth never stopped moving. Mitch was a talker, as in smooth talker, as in car salesman, or motivational speaker, though he became neither. Mitch claimed his destiny early on. He was headed for a career in medicine. At the age of fifteen, a stint in the Explorer Scouts was, for him, a logical move in that direction. For me, it was a way to be closer to Mitch. I had no idea my destiny, too, was being set.

My father didn’t suggest I go into nursing, he insisted. He had a litany of reasons to support his position; a litany he cited, ad infinitum, whenever the topic was broached. I, on the other hand, had never even considered it. As soon as I could stand, I did so in front of a pint-sized chalk board that turned round and round in its aluminum stand; a feature I found most irritating, as a glimpse at the magnetized side of the board, with its cacophony of many-colored plastic letters, only served to remind me that it wasn’t a real chalk board in a real classroom, and I wasn’t a real teacher.

Sometime during my mid-twenties, possibly between baby number one and baby number two, it became evident to my father that my career in nursing would never come to full fruition.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to throw it all away! You’ve wasted so much time!”

“I don’t see it that way.”, I answered him. “I’ve gained knowledge I’ll always have, and use. It wasn’t a waste. I just never wanted to be a nurse.”

“What do you mean you didn’t want to be a nurse? What about all that time you spent in Explorer Scouts?”

I traded my scrubs for a “burp rag”, which is Southern for the cloth diaper worn over one shoulder from the time a baby is born, until she takes her meals with the rest of the family, preferably in a high chair that has been sat upon a large piece of plastic meant to catch the food that missed her intended mark, her brother’s faces.

Mothering was a fine career choice, and I was fortunate to be able to do just that while my kids were very young. When I did return to the workforce outside my plastic-lined domicile, I managed my hours in such a way as to avoid using childcare. I worked during the day. My husband worked at night. One of the two of us always cared for our children. I did it alone, but my husband, apparently, needed help. His girlfriend often visited on her lunch hour bearing pizza from the pizzeria she managed. I found her generosity maternal and oddly comforting. There’s still a very small, warm place in my heart for her.

Ricky and I signed divorce papers on New Year’s Eve.

Twenty years later, Ricky is deceased, three of my four children have homes of their own, and I work in a business my father helped to get off the ground . I started part-time during a soon aborted attempt at beefing up my nursing degree. I should have known better. It wasn’t my idea in the first place, remember?

I used to say, when asked about my job, that I was paid way too much money to do a job a chimpanzee could do. I don’t say that anymore. The job hasn’t changed. My duties are still well within the primate learning curve. What’s changed is my compensation. As the first rocks began to fall off our soon to crumble national economy, my employers explained their decision to switch me from a salaried to an hourly employee as a form of simplification. Benefits, too, proved complicated. I haven’t had a paid vacation, holiday, or sick day in several years. My 401K was frozen.

But I get a paycheck and, even though ten percent less, my earnings afford my son luxuries such as organized sports, music lessons, an IPOD, an Android, and a PS3. I have a place to go every day and a job to do, which is more than many people have today.

I’m not doing what I thought I would do, but maybe that’s because I didn’t set my sights high enough. One look at my son and I know I have more than enough, and there’s still time for chalkboards in my future.

30 Days of Gratitude – Sisters

I don’t post a Facebook status every day. Some days I don’t really have a status. Some days, I spend part of the day just trying to decide what my status would be if I really had to have one…which I don’t, of course. I’m comfortable subsisting in a status-less state. After all, I spent the better part of my life without a declared status. Most of that went okay.

Today, and for the next twenty-nine days, I will declare my status on Facebook. I’m calling it Thirty Days of Gratitude.

I participated in thirty days of music. It was fun. It brought back a lot of memories. Memories and music always mix with me.

I got halfway through Project 365, an exercise in posting a photograph every day for a year. My computer went on the fritz somewhere around photo number one-sixty.

I was tempted to join a friend in posting a different, meaningful film everyday for a month…until I remembered I have no memory for titles, or actors names, and only retain tiny snippets of plot that prove to be ungoogleable.

So why not do Thirty Days of Gratitude? One thing’s for sure…I can use the reminder.

Today, I am grateful for sisters. I have three of them. All are younger, some more than others.

Laura and I are eighteen months apart which means sometimes I am two years older, and sometimes I am one year older, but I am always older. Many parenting blogs suggest eighteen months to be an ideal age gap between babies one and two. I’m thinking this estimation is made from the point of view of the parents whose workload, while doubled, isn’t complicated by diversity. Basically, it’s like having another kid along for the ride.

Lower to the ground, though, the view is very different. The competition began the moment she entered the house disguised as a puff of white organza and lasted until, as an adult with children of my own, I realized that with deference comes responsibility. My mother shared things with Laura she never shared with me, but that doesn’t have to be because Laura was her favorite. It might also be because Laura was interested, and a better listener and…well…there.

Today, Laura rarely wears organza, choosing instead easy-to-care-for knits, and scarves. We both like scarves, but we wear them differently. That’s what we are. We are alike, but different. I think that’s why we have so much fun when we are together. Whatever the reason, the years have stripped away all the things that don’t matter, leaving us with our scarves, love for our kids, and the ability to make each other laugh…at most anything.

Holly came after Laura, and we both thought we’d never seen anything more beautiful. Compared to us two tow-heads, Holly, with her chocolate brown eyes and curly locks to match, appeared downright exotic! She had a sweet disposition and a smile to match. I’m willing to bet both Laura and I carry the same image in our heads of Holly as a toddler, standing tall and proud next to the pencil-drawn line on the wall in my mother’s sewing room. She couldn’t have been much over three feet tall.

Holly and I were always the closest of the four sisters. We were the renegades. We smoked and drank and made bad choices in men…and spent hours together on the telephone justifying our misguided decisions. We’re not as close as we once were. She doesn’t know how proud I am of her and the way she set a course for her life and stuck to it. Years ago she told me she wanted to live on a mountain-top, faraway. She does now, and she is surrounded by the things she loves best, animals. I always knew that’s what she would do…what many of us never do. She found happy.

Candi is the youngest. She prefers to be called Candace, but after years of Candy, Candi is the best I can do. Her middle name is Jane, so of course we called her Candy-Jane. Mom even made a song out of it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I’m not so sure she liked it. I always think we are ten years apart but when I count it’s actually seven. It feels like ten though…

What with the age difference, we didn’t actually play together much as children. I remember worrying about her a lot. I expressed this to our parents and checked on her at night, when she was in her crib.

Even as a girl, I loved to concoct stories. Once when I was about thirteen and Candi was three…no, make that six…I brought her to tears with one of my stories. I remember the mix of feelings; the horror that I’d made my baby sister cry, and the thrill of doing something really well.

Though not evident on the surface, Candi and I are probably the most alike in temperament. We both march to music others don’t necessarily hear. And, we are okay with that. The tunes Candi hears are very different from those that play in my head, and we are okay with that, too.

We live less than thirty minutes apart and only see each other about four times a year. We addressed this issue a couple of years ago by instituting a monthly get-together we referred to as “Sisters”. After about a year, conflicting schedules and, yes, priorities got in the way. What with Holly living on her mountain-top, regrouping will be a challenge, but I hope we’ll find a way to do it…soon. Whether eighteen months, ten years or seven years apart, we’re not getting any younger…

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…

Godsmack

When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.

The Other Side of the Bleachers

My son started playing football at six years old, and after just a few weeks of practice his Dad, Roger, and I were hooked. Fortunately for us, Shane liked it too, and football became a family affair.

This past August marked the beginning of our seventh season. After serving as Head Coach for two years, and assisting for a third, Roger opted for what he imagined to be a less hands-on position this year, by volunteering to act as Commissioner for the seventh and eighth grade teams. I had done my time early on, serving as Team Mom for three seasons before opting for an “early retirement”. The break was a welcome one, allowing for more time spent writing while the boys were playing in the dirt.

This year, two weeks into the new season, we found our team without a volunteer to act as Team Mom. There are a number of reasons why this is a liability, but to illustrate without belaboring the point, I’ll employ the image of launching a canoe without benefit of oars. And as large, brown boxes of brightly colored spandex were unloaded in my garage, I felt a touch of spray upon my face, and the familiar warmth of well-worn wood sliding into my reluctant hands.

Last night was Halloween, and I had governance of twenty-three boys, all dressed as football players. Our team made the first round of play-offs, appropriately ending a season of unprecedented rain-outs on what amounted to a mud-pit bracketed by goalposts. They made an impressive showing, losing by only two points to a team that had suffered just one loss through two seasons. Leaving the field wet, muddy, tired, and defeated, the boys were greeted by a rainbow of umbrellas held by wet-footed parents eager to retreat to the relative warmth of their vehicles while racking their brains for plausible arguments against trick-or-treating. Post-game speeches given by rain-soaked coaches were barely audible above drumming canopies and “shishing” rain gear. Cheerleaders held trays of soggy cupcakes, and clocks ticked inside every prepubescent head as the witching hour waned carrying the threat of unmanned Halloween costumes. Within minutes the boys collected a pillowcase, seeded with candy earlier in the week, and struck out, undaunted, in search of more mischief while soggy, preoccupied parents slogged through the mud behind them.

My official duties aren’t finished. I have gifts to order and a party to plan. There has been some talk of an All-Star tournament that will require my organizational skills. But as I eased into my office chair this morning, it was with the knowledge that the worst is over. Most of the mistakes that could be made have either been fixed or avoided entirely; and the boys had a good season, ending the year on a positive, if not winning, note. As I heaved a satisfied sigh into my coffee mug, my inbox blinked.

I clicked before I noticed the email was from “The Parent”. You know the one; the negative parent, the parent who can’t find the time to attend a game, but always finds time to complain about the outcome; the mother who, despite her absence, assures everyone within earshot that her son didn’t get his league-mandated allotment of playing time; the parent who prefers to spend her time critiquing the work of others rather than volunteering to help. An educated eye can spot this person at the beginning of the season. It’s all in the facial expression, the set of her mouth and the turn of her nose, as though she walks ensconced by a noxiously odoriferous cloud no one else seems to notice.

I read the note and decided, without hesitation, to ignore it. I mean, what can she do? Fire me? But her ingratitude did inspire me to put down some words of hard-earned wisdom, a kind of “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In My First Year As Team Mom”, if you will. This is my swan-song. I’ve tossed my muddied shoes, and advise the next person filling them to invest in a good pair of galoshes. Were I asked to compose a handbook for parents of children playing recreational sports, it would be just this simple:

HANDBOOK FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN PLAYING RECREATIONAL SPORTS by Stacye Carroll

1. Observe the adults who are working with, and for, your child with the knowledge that each of them is a volunteer. And remember that the amount of time you see them sacrificing is but a small part of the actual time spent.

2. You may assume that every volunteer working with your child does so with the best of intentions. They do not undergo rigorous background checks and mind-numbing training sessions with the purpose of undermining your child’s efforts.

3. No one enjoys asking another person for money, but quality sports programs require a large amount of funding. If your child has expressed an interest in playing youth sports, it is your responsibility to determine the costs involved and whether or not your family can afford to participate. This should be done prior to signing up.

4. Many programs mandate a specific minimum number of plays, per child. Coaches spend a considerable amount of time trying to satisfy this requirement regardless of your child’s ability. If you doubt this, please reread bullet point number two.

5. By the time your child has played a specific sport for a number of years, both you and he should be aware of his skill-set. Be reasonable about your child’s ability to play proficiently. Put another way, some children play sports with an eye towards competing on a higher level, while others play for fun. Be mindful as to which description fits your child, and allow him the freedom to be what he is, instead of what you would have him be.

6. Your athletic ability, or lack thereof, does not necessarily transfer, genetically, to your child. Please reread bullet point number five.

7. If you don’t have anything positive to say, keep your mouth shut. I borrowed this advice from my mother, and have found it serves me well in almost any situation, but is particularly effective when it comes to the emotions evoked by our love for our children. And, in case you missed it, the key word in that last sentence is “love”. Love your children, don’t brow beat them. They are truly doing the best they can do today, which isn’t necessarily as good as they did yesterday, and may be better than they will do tomorrow. Through it all, what they need from you, their parent, is love.

8. Go back and reread bullet points one and two again. If you still feel like your child isn’t being well-served, then it’s time to take a stand, as in stand up and volunteer. Your perspective will change, along with your viewpoint, as you view things from the other side of the bleachers.

Jubilee

I dodge most of the puddles on the way to my car.

Most is the best I can do.

I love puddles.

Air that was cool for August is no less surprising, or unwelcome, on the first day of September.

I slide slacks over my sandals.

A fifty-year battle with procrastination dictates a stop for gas on my way to the office.

I’ll be late, and I don’t care.

It’s my birthday.

It is my birthday!

A smile of recognition and unexpected pride splits my face as I drive.

It’s my birthday!

The day has come, it’s finally here, and so am I.

I’m no worse for wear and remarkably better for meeting the milestone.

It’s done.

I didn’t expect the pride, the relief.

And, I revel in it.

Free, to be…

Sitting on the Patio on a Sunday Morning

Squirrels seem to have an awful lot of fun, no matter what they are doing.

The green of grass after a spring rain remains unduplicated.

Mockingbirds are the maestros of the bird kingdom.

Puppies make all the trouble worth it with one swipe of their tongue.

There are so many things I wish I’d done better.

There are so many things I wish I’d done.

And then, there’s you…

Fashionistabunny

My father attended church with us only twice a year, Christmas and Easter. Mother went more regularly until we were older, at which point the car barely came to a full stop before she started shooing us out the door.

“Meet me right here when church is over!”, she shouted as she accelerated past the crosswalk.

There was always a line of people waiting to enter the sanctuary. Dark-suited, older, white males stood solemnly, just outside two sets of double doors, holding small stacks of church bulletins which I had came to think of as my ticket; Admit One. As my sisters and I waited our turn in line, I studied the ushers. They always put me more in mind of sentries guarding a castle than greeters for the “House of God”.

Standing in that line was a bit like walking downtown sidewalks surrounded by sparkling skyscrapers of varying heights. The air lay thick with a potpourri of scents spritzed from cut-glass atomizers, as I shuffled my feet inside black patent leather. Women, who had soldiered through the previous week in their uniform of polyester pants and rubber-soled, terry-cloth scuffs, now fanned their tails like so many peacocks in designer finery. I studied the mink stole draping the shoulders of the woman in front of me, appreciating the varying hues of brown, gold, and black while following the seams connecting the pelts with my eyes.

“Love the dress!” The furred woman spoke to another woman just to the right of us whose eyes sparkled above her rouged cheeks before looking down at her dress, as though she had forgotten what she was wearing.

“Oh, thank you!” Her hands went to her bare arms and I felt her self-consciousness. “What a gorgeous fur! Is it mink?”, she asked through strained painted lips.

“Yes, Gordon brought it back from his last trip to New York.” Red-tipped nails caressed both arms. “I wore it today since it might be my last opportunity before summer.”

“Gayle! Is that a new ring?” Another feminine voice swiveled my head to the left, just as the older woman next to me retrieved her hand from its spot under her husband’s arm.

“Yes! Robert gave it to me for Christmas.”, she said, flashing a smile at her benefactor, who answered with one of his own. She raised her hand towards her friend who turned it this way and that, in appreciation.

“Wow! Pretty snazzy, Robert. Gayle must have been a good girl!” Gayle lost her footing in laughter, bringing the tip of her pointed-toed pump firmly against my Mary Jane. I turned swiftly so as not to be caught staring. By the time I reached the sentries, the aisle separating the pews looked more like a catwalk.

If most Sundays produced a fashion show, Easter Sunday served as “Fashion Week”. No one was immune. Men bought new suits, and corsages for their ladies. Women scanned racks for weeks, in search of the perfect dress and dyed new pumps to match, before retrieving their jewelry from velvet beds inside safe deposit boxes.

Girls were taken shopping for Easter dresses. Most girls. My sisters and I were taken instead to “Cloth World”, where we were encouraged to choose from one of several fabrics from which my mother would fashion a suit. The fabrics were coordinated so that each girl would wear a solid and a print, and the style would vary, if only slightly.

My mother was an excellent seamstress, having culled the talent from her mother who made her living as a tailor in an exclusive men’s clothing store. She made most of our clothes and some of her own. One of my fondest memories involves a church fashion show, for which my mother created four identical white dresses; one for her, and one for each of us. Walking as ducks in a row, we took the stage together the afternoon of the show. I don’t remember who actually won, and it never was important. In my mind, my mother stole the show.

As a child, I never appreciated our carefully coordinated Easter suits. I felt dowdy and out of fashion. I watched other girls swish by in taffeta, and lace and wished the sewing machine had never been made available for purchase by the public. And, I resented my mother for not understanding.

Several years ago my grandmother died, leaving behind boxes and boxes of photographs my mother had sent her in celebration of our childhood. My youngest sister, who had been my grandmother’s primary caretaker, arranged a luncheon at which she invited us to open the boxes and take the pictures that meant the most to us. As we leafed through the photographs, there were countless images of my sisters and me, usually backed up against a wall and standing in descending order, wearing our mother’s handiwork. When I searched my mind today, for Easter memories, these pictures were the first thing that came to mind.

We miss so much when we are children, when our minds are not yet fully formed and ready to understand the importance of things. As I study the photographs now, I see more than meticulous construction and careful coordination. Forty-plus years later, I see time, and effort, and sacrifice, and love. And, in her sharing of the photographs, I interpret pride; pride in her children, yes, and something more. By sending these photographs to her mother she shared, and appreciated, her legacy.

I hope I said it then. I wish she could hear it now.

Thanks, Mom.

Ordinary Origins

I love to sing. I used to be pretty good at it; good enough to be asked to sing in a band. My stint there afforded me the opportunity to work as a background singer in a local studio, but family obligations sang louder, and I retired my tambourine.

I now perform in very limited engagements. With my IPOD as accompaniment, I sing as I clean, and croon when I garden. And, playing Beth Hart wide open, in my car, has been known to illicit a throaty growl or two. On one such occasion, when my son and I were running Saturday errands, he asked, “Where did you learn to sing like that?”.

I’m an avid gardener, and surround myself with growing things year-round. My vegetable garden satisfies my preference for fresh herbs while providing a variety of fruits and vegetables for friends and family. And, I never met a flower I didn’t like.

For years, my gardens were populated randomly, by an assortment of annuals. Lately though, I’ve tended towards more permanent plantings and the creation of gardening environments, my favorite being an “English Garden”. The space is a constant work in progress, as the drought we’ve suffered for the last two years has taken a toll, but I love knowing that a feeling of peace and connectivity is as close as a stroll through my own backyard.

Last week, a friend and I shared a glass of merlot on my patio, surrounded by a cacophony of pansies in hues ranging from deepest purple to palest yellow. She remarked on their beauty, the way they winked in the breeze, and their fragile strength. “Where did you get your green thumb?”, she asked.

My family has always been appreciative of my writing. They comprise a large block of my readership. It was, in fact, at the persistent prodding of my youngest sister that I began to blog.

I’ve written since I was a young girl, though not always on paper. An ongoing saga, detailing the lives of a homeless, orphaned girl and the brother she cared for, provided pleasant distraction for what seemed like hours and hours as I mowed the front lawn. Recently, I’ve come to regret that I never gave the story permanence. I have attempted, on occasion, to recreate the drama, but only tiny bits and pieces remain in my much older brain.

A high school English teacher took an interest in my work, asking my permission to submit two of my poems to a literary journal. She provided me with a copy of the finished product which was left behind, along with my music boxes, Barbie dolls, and a complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries, when I struck out on my own. I wish now I’d packed an extra box…

Last week, my aunt sent me a nice note in praise of my writing, and for at least the second time mused as to its legacy. “Where do you think that talent comes from?”, she queried. “We don’t have any other writers in the family!” I hadn’t thought to ask that question. I’d never pondered the parentage of my propensities.

Yesterday, as I aimed my pencil at a sketch I’ve been working on, my mother’s unbidden image swam into view. She sat head down, at the kitchen table. Using one of our number two pencils, she transformed a simple sheet of blue-lined notebook paper into a work of art. And there are more memories; of sitting in the back seat of our station wagon and wondering why she wasn’t singing on the radio, and of plants, rows and rows of growing green things. Later in life, she took painting classes, and, even now, her needlework hangs on my walls.

I brought the pencil closer to the paper, angling the point to achieve shading that suggests shadow, knowing it is her hand that guides me. And, I appreciate the legacy…

Weighing Waiting Women

Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.

The first thing I remember waiting for was my birthday. As the oldest of four girls, it was the only day of the year when the spotlight would be for me, and only me. Children came to a party for me. People bought presents for me. Mother baked a cake for me. Birthdays were always worth waiting for.

And then, of course, there was Christmas. True anticipation usually began about a week after Thanksgiving, when large, brown cartons were extracted from the attic and strewn haphazardly about the living room. It was mother’s job to string the lights, which meant more waiting for my sisters and I as we perched on the edge of a couch rarely sat upon, waiting for her signal to breach the boxes. Completion of decoration led only to more waiting. Twinkling, multi-colored lights reflected in our eyes as we “watched” the tree while imagining what hidden treasures lay underneath.

In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.

Soon after my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a reasonable facsimile of a car, featuring two seats on four wheels, and very little else. I soon realized it was the seating that concerned him most, and the words “Wait for your sister!” became the bane of my existence.

My sister, Laura, had one speed. A snail once challenged Laura to a foot race. The snail won. Most weekday mornings found me biding my time in an idling car with a blaring radio, for what seemed like hours, as Laura completed her toilette. Weeks of begging, and pleading, and screaming, and warning fell on immutably deaf ears. Finally, I cracked. Bidding her adieu with a foundation-jarring slam of the back door, I jammed the gear shift into reverse. All I remember of my return home is the anger in my mother’s eyes. The rest has been mercifully carved from my memory, but whatever the punishment, it was worth it!

The summer after my senior year in high school was spent waiting by the telephone. I met John, weeks before, while on a trip to Washington, DC with a youth group. When he called, it was to say he would be in Atlanta the following week. My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I was scheduled to be in Destin on a family vacation. To her credit, my mother allowed me to make the decision. I remember very little of that week spent on the beach, besides a feeling of longing.

College graduation began the wait for my big move. My best friend and I had planned this day for years. Numerous shopping trips for linens, and dishes, and what passed as artwork, made the waiting easier. The experience of living together wasn’t the euphoria we knew it would be, and I gained a valuable life lesson. With the assistance of a good attorney, it only cost $400.00 to get out of the lease.

The only thing more difficult than waiting for the results of a pregnancy test is waiting for his reaction. Pregnancy is the ultimate exercise in waiting. I skipped waiting to discover the gender of my children. A long-ago forbidden foray into my parents’ closet, just before Christmas, had taught me that surprises are to be relished.

Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.

I loved the quaint expression of being “with child”, and all that came with it. Pregnancy, of course, meant shopping in exclusive shops; exclusive as in those selling maternity clothes, nursing bras, baby furniture, bibs, pacifiers, and the genius that is the One-sie. My children were of the generation first introduced to this remarkable example of adorable efficiency. Thanks to the invention of the One-sie, babies no longer required trussing in order to get to the diaper; just four simple snaps, and you were in!

Mothering is synonymous with waiting. Waiting room carpet patterns are memorized, and it isn’t long before a tote bag filled with the necessities of waiting, takes up permanent residence on the back seat of a mother’s car. Mothers wait for hours in check-out lines accompanied by the wailing of an over-tired child; hers or someone else’s. Her first child’s first day of school is torturous for a mother who imagines, all day, trails of tears running down her child’s face when in reality it is her face that is wet. She can’t wait for her baby to come home.

Mothers think of clever ways to pass the time spent in carpool lanes, and later, outside movie theaters and shopping malls. Mothers wait outside dressing rooms until, curious, they grasp the doorknob, prompting the rebuke, “Not yet!”. Mothers wait, sometimes anxiously, for school to start as summer wanes, along with her children’s patience with one another.

As our children grow, waiting mixes with worry. I sat white-knuckled, at the front window, for the full fifteen minutes it took my son to drive around the block for the first time, alone. That was almost ten years ago. Yesterday, when he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes of our agreed upon time, my face appeared again, at that window.

Even today, I am hard pressed to say which was more shocking, my mother’s announcement of her diagnosis with cancer, or her concurrent use of the word “shit”, as in “Pretty heavy shit, huh?”. On the day of her surgery, the sunny environment of the waiting room, walled floor-to-ceiling by glass, competed with the emotions of the large group of friends and family it housed. Having recently returned to school, I spent most of the day with a textbook. I turned pages filled with words I only appeared to read, until the entry into the room of a small group of green-clad men wearing serious expressions. Their words left no doubt as to the arduous journey ahead, and I would begin my night-time sojourns in the ICU waiting room within weeks.

My father didn’t want my mother left “alone”. He and one or more of my sisters spent the day at the hospital, never missing one of the fifteen minute intervals during which my mother was allowed visitors. Visits were not allowed after nine at night, so my brother-in-law and I took turns sleeping in the waiting room. For many months, waiting became a way of life, as my mother slowly healed.

Commuting lends itself to reflection. Commuting in the rain requires more careful attention, until rainy streets become the norm, and reflections resurface. Such was the case on Wednesday, when, as I rolled to a stop under a murky, red beacon, I realized I have unknowingly adopted a constant state of wait.

Last year was a year of unwanted, if not unexpected, consequences. Reminders of what proved to be an achingly short spate of purest joy, plague me, in the form of physical reminders with psychological presence. The realization that I have been waiting for a different outcome brought an ironic smile to my lips, and a reminder. Inherent in waiting is hope. And, with hope, all things are possible.