The First Garden

Unless you count the few pots Hillary strategically placed about a second-floor balcony, The White House grounds will feature a vegetable garden for the first time since Eleanor Roosevelt called it home. The news came drifting into my kitchen as I seasoned a large filet of Steelhead Trout. Wiping my hands on the first piece of cloth I could find, I scurried into the next room to get “the rest of the story”.

Children from a nearby elementary school assisted Mrs. Obama, and several others who actually appeared to know what they were doing, to break the ground for the ground-breaking garden.

And, it is ground-breaking on more than one level. There is something charming, and sweet, and sentimental, and secure in the thought of our First Family growing their own food. It’s an old-fashioned thing to do.

My father grew tomatoes. I say “my father”, because that’s what he would say. The truth of the matter, however, is that I grew tomatoes while he supervised, and of course, reaped the benefits. As a child, one of the first harbingers of spring was waking up on a chilly Saturday morning to the sight of post-hole diggers resting against the backyard fence. My first inclination was to busy myself with other activities that might preclude the chore, but this never worked. Just as the southern sun reached its apex, my father sought me out.

We planted in the same place very year. We walked there together, he in anticipation of juicy, red fruit, and me, with dread. He marked off the space next to the fence with booted feet, taking big, bold steps that dictated where a hole should be dug. When finished, he ceremoniously sunk the post-hole diggers into the spot furthest to the left and gave me the go-ahead.

“Thwunk!” To this day, I really dislike the sound made by post-hole diggers eating the earth.

I started planting my own garden, minus the assistance of post-hole diggers, when my children were very young. I was inspired by the garden next door, tended by a conglomeration of elderly people who were all related in some way or the other. Hoke was wizened, and in my experience, mute. He filled the role of laborer. His sister, Lottie, at twice his size, harvested, securing produce in the over-sized pockets of her ever-present apron. Ruby, their sister-in-law cooked the fruits of their labor, and her husband, their brother, ate heartily.

I have gardened ever since. I grow a mixture of herbs, squash, peppers, eggplant, beans, berries, melons, and of course, tomatoes. Fittingly, my vines still provide the fruit for my father’s favorite summer-time sandwich. In a good year, I ship once or twice a week.

I’ve always tried to interest my children in gardening. Two of my older children planted last year. My son harvested a literal plethora of peppers while my daughter watched her efforts go down in a blaze of summer sunlight, unabated by rain.

One year, when Shane was still quite small, he was inspired by an episode of “P.B. & J. Otter” to plant “Giggle Melons”. We made the trip to a local nursery, and purchased plants that were marked “Cantaloupe”, but looked like “Giggle Melons” to me. Shane planted them, and tended them, and marveled at their growth. I watched, as the juice of one of his melons dribbled down his chin, and onto his shirt, and thanked God for the presence of mind to fulfill his dream.

Yesterday, I broke ground for this year’s garden. The shovel slid into well-used earth effortlessly, releasing an aroma that smells like life. I tried, several times, to enlist Shane in my efforts.

“I have to practice, Mom!” A baseball sailed from his hand into the waiting net.
“Did you see that? Strike one!”, he called.

I grunted under the weight of a twenty-five pound sack of manure.

Chased inside by a waning sun, I washed the grime from my hands and pulled a piece of fresh trout from the refrigerator.

“Mom! Come here!”

I wiped my hands on the first cloth I could find as the news carried into the kitchen.

“Look!” Shane stood, with a basketball sequestered securely under one arm, in front of the television. “The Obama’s have a garden like ours! Cool, huh?” He gave the ball a toss.

“Yeah…” I answered. “Cool!”

High, and Outside

Baseball is not my favorite sport. At best, I endure it. And if Major League baseball is boring, Little League offers up a level of ennui unparalleled by any other activity this side of watching paint dry.

It seems every game is plagued with huge lapses of time during which the most exciting play involves watching someone else’s son kick up a cloud of red dust, as he rolls around behind home plate searching for the ball that lays just millimeters from his left shoe. I specify “someone else’s son”, because from the first time we breached the diamond, I made one thing clear; Shane will not play catcher.

He has a catcher’s build. He is somewhat vertically challenged, at present, and, his lack of height compacts his generous frame in such a way as to produce drool in coaches looking for a big target behind home plate. So, every year I am asked the question, and every year, I give the same answer, “No, I like his head. I’d like to keep it around. But, thank you for asking.”

I realize this is an unreasonable fear. As a child, burdened with a build similar to my child’s, I played catcher for a time, until it became apparent that my skills were more suited to another position; left field, perhaps. In all the time that I played, and/or watched the game, I have never witnessed a decapitation. And yet, the fear persists.

My rigidity hasn’t hurt Shane’s baseball experience. He has played nearly every position on the field, making a name for himself particularly at third base; think Terry Pendleton or Bob Horner.

This year, Shane is sharing time between third base and the pitcher’s mound. He has pitched before, and has a mean change-up. The anxiety I used to feel as he mounted the mound has given over to relief, as I know for at least this inning; the other team’s at-bat won’t resemble an extended version of musical chairs.

He is batting, this year, with a new bat. Adding a couple of ounces to its weight has improved his hitting, as he tends to swing a little late. As he approaches the plate, I slide forward on metal bleachers, resting my chin in my hand. As his coach requested, Shane lets the first pitch go. He wails at the next one, failing to make contact.

“That’s ok, Shane! You can do it!”

Another pitch sails over the plate and misses his bat. Shane steps away from the plate, shaking his head. The bat dangles, loosely, from his right hand.

“That’s it, Shane! Good cut!”

The next pitch sends him backwards, as Shane employs dramatics to ensure the call.

“Ball One!”

The “ping” signals that he has made contact. The ball stays on the ground, careening, wildly, through two gray-clad pairs of infield legs. An outfielder snags the ball well after Shane has rounded first base.

Carson ambles towards the plate, and an unexpressed moan hangs in the air.

We met Carson last year, when he came out for basketball, and the surprise I felt upon first seeing his face, quickly changed to respect when looking into the faces of his parents. Carson was born with a defect that prevented his skull from fully forming, leaving his brain exposed. In the eleven years since birth, he has suffered seven surgeries leaving him with a Picasso-like visage. The unnatural set of his eyes presents vision challenges that might have dissuaded his parents from enrolling him in sports. But, they would not be deterred. Both parents insist that Carson make the most of what he has, and that he experience life in the same way as anyone else.

It took Carson most of one season to get the hang of basketball, but by tournament time, he was a contributor. This year Carson came out for baseball.

The coaches allow for extra time to train him. Many practices find Carson part of a trio that includes a coach and another, more seasoned, player. They work on throwing, and catching, and batting. After several weeks, Carson knows how to stand. His knees are bent, slightly splaying his legs to either side. The bat is up, in ready position, and his eyes are on the pitcher.

The ball sails over the plate, and Carson’s bat languidly forms a “C” before coming to rest, tip down, in the dirt. He hefts it again. Another ball, in much the same position, comes at him. Again, the bat lazily arcs to the ground.

This is hard to watch. Again, I slide to the end of my metal perch, bringing my hands to my face as I squint. Given the velocity of his swing, the ball wouldn’t travel very far, even if he did manage to hit it. Would he know what to do? Would the force of the hit jolt his slender frame backwards? Silently, I urge him to resist. A walk would put him on base.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense another mother on the edge of her seat. Turning, I see Carson’s Mom resting her chin in her hands. And, I feel her.

Gathering Scraps

She’d always meant to plant a cherry tree. The blooms, a true harbinger of spring, danced in her favorite shade of softest pink, from spindly branches in her neighbor’s yard. Emily sat in her office chair admiring the way the bluest sky separated the twisted branches, and highlighted the flowers.

“Thinking, again?” Troy’s hand slapped the door facing just before his feet came down with a thud against the hardwood floors.

Emily grimaced before spinning the chair in his direction.

“I’ve asked you not to do that.”, she said before turning again, this time in the direction of her desk.

Troy’s arms snaked around her neck as he clumsily placed a kiss on her cheek, displacing the earpiece of her glasses.

“I’m going to shoot hoops!”, he called, already halfway across the room before she successfully resettled her glasses.

“K…” The gaiety she forced into her voice left just a hint of bewilderment as she watched him lope away.

The backdoor slammed, as expected, and she raised her hands above the keyboard and considered the white screen in front of her. Images played inside her head where words should have been, as she replayed the scene in her office the day before.

She never realized desperation had a scent until the last applicant of the day entered timidly to stand before the interview committee she chaired.

“Welcome, Mr…” She had drawn out the title while scanning for the applicant’s name on the list her secretary had prepared. After several seconds, she realized she had expected the man to provide his name, and he hadn’t. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Tom, who sat next to her, for help.

“Wang. I believe this would be Mr. Wang.” Tom stood and offered his hand, sending his reflection streaming across the burnished wood of the table that separated them.

She didn’t know when the blush had begun to color his face, but the sweating had just begun. A single drop snaked down one side of Mr. Wang’s face just in front of his left ear.

She smiled her most welcoming smile.

“Have a seat, Mr. Wang, please.” And, as he slid into the chair opposite her, “We’re all here to learn a little more about you, so why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?”

As the man stumbled through words he had obviously attempted to memorize, she wondered when. Had he crammed mightily the night before to come up with an impressive speech, only to have his mouth betray him? Or had he simply interviewed so many times that the speech played like a badly prepared regurgitation? When he finished, she realized she’d heard very little of what he had said.

Tom glanced in her direction before pushing the paper in front of him forward and addressing Mr. Wang. He asked the usual questions ending by asking Mr. Wang to predict his future.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mr. Wang?”

The man raised a hand to his chin to catch the drop of moisture that had finally traversed the planes of his tired face before answering.

“I thought I’d be at Bailey’s forever…”, he started. “I would hope I could be here for the rest of my life.” The last sentence was said through an uncomfortable wrenching of his face that never quite became the smile he had hoped for.

Emily felt his expression resonate somewhere deep inside, and a scream began to fill her head, “Noooo…”.

Now, as she sat at home, in front of her computer, the sound of rubber striking concrete punctuated the five words that played again and again inside her head over an image of hopeless desperation, “The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life, The Rest of My Life”.

Her fingers began to move along the keyboard, and she watched disinterestedly as words began to file onto the screen in front of her. It wasn’t what she’d meant to write, but that happened. Often, an idea occurred to her during the day, and she scribbled it on the nearest scrap of paper before she had a chance to forget. Sometimes, as she sat in front of the computer later that evening, the idea actually fleshed out and became something she was proud of. Other times, after several attempts, the story wouldn’t come, and she pulled the chain on the desk lamp with a sigh after giving up.

Her fingers flew, forming two paragraphs through their efforts. After placing the last period, she scrolled up and read before adding, “Sincerely, Emily Walker”.

The next time she approached the keyboard she wouldn’t be pursuing a hobby, she would be embarking on a new career, and the rest of her life.

Trapezoid

He runs his fingers through my son’s hair.

“Did the printout help you? Can you recognize a trapezoid?”

And, that’s all I need to know…

Everything…

I left home at age twenty with a nursing degree I never really wanted and no sense of direction. This helps explain why, by the age of twenty-one, I was married and pregnant. Nine years later, my daily routine began with dropping all three of my children at school on my way to work in a midwifery clinic. This is where I met Zan.

Some may call it “luck”, or “fate”; others might invoke “kismet”. But I know that the universe provides, and throughout my life, I have been fortunate to have been blessed by people Zan would refer to as “guides”.

Zan is Native American, and she looks the part. Tall, and lithe, she wore her black hair long and flowing until it got in her way, at which point she clipped it, haphazardly, atop her head. She came to work as a midwife one year after I was hired as office manager, and fortunately, my world has never been the same.

At the time we met, my life was a mess. My marriage to an alcoholic, drug-addicted, philanderer was nearing an end. Listening to Zan’s dulcet-toned words of support and encouragement, I came to believe that I could raise my children in a healthy environment on my own. Later, it was through her suggestion that I found an Adult Children of Alcoholics’ meeting, where I realized it wasn’t just me; there were others like me who had taken what life had served up, and done the best they could with the little they had been given.

When she wasn’t occupied with turning my life right-side-up, Zan taught me about Native American culture, herbology, and bred in me a love for wolves. She introduced me to Bonnie Raitt, fried bread, and the art of healing massage. Most important though, as she taught me to love myself, she demonstrated how that love could, and should, be spread. Zan grew me up.

She returned to her beloved horse farm in Virginia about fifteen years ago, and it has probably been five since I’ve seen her, but if she called right now, we would pick up exactly where we left off. Zan would start by saying “Hello, Beautiful…”

Some may call it “midlife crisis”, or “menopause”; others might just call me “crazy”. But I know that, lately, I’ve gotten off track. The self-esteem I worked so hard to bring to fruition got trampled somewhere, and I forgot to notice. Lost, too, was my sense of direction. But I remembered today that the universe provides, and while I haven’t always gotten what I wanted, I am always provided with what I need.

I realized the presence of another “guide” who, through words of support and encouragement, demanded I be true to myself, while tenaciously prodding me to find my path. For the first time in a very long time, I not only know what I want, I believe I can have it. Simply put, I want everything….

“I want to learn what life is for
I don’t want much, I just want more
Ask what I want and I will sing
I want everything (everything)

I’d cure the cold and the traffic jam
If there were floods, I’d give a dam
I’d never sleep, I’d only sing
Let me do everything (everything)

I’d like to plan a city, play the cello
Play at Monte Carlo, play Othello
Move into the White House, paint it yellow
Speak Portuguese and Dutch
And if it’s not too much
I’d like to have the perfect twin
One who’d go out as I came in
I’ve got to grab the big brass ring
So I’ll have everything (everything)

I’m like a child who’s set free
At the fun fair
Every ride invites me
And it’s unfair
Saying that I only
Get my one share
Doesn’t seem just
I could live as I must
If they’d
Give me the time to turn a tide
Give me the truth if once I lied
Give me the man who’s gonna bring
More of everything
Then I’ll have everything
Everything”

Undercover Runner

Anyone who knows me will tell you I am not, by nature, a runner. I don’t have the vibe.

Athletic clothes don’t look chic when pulled over my frame. They don’t even look particularly athletic, unless you consider a frump athletic. I don’t carry a bottle of water everywhere I go, and my sneakers don’t look as though they have been run over by a car multiple times. And, if you see me on a street corner, I will not be running in place in preparation to dart across the sidewalk. I will, instead, have both arms out, wing-like with fingers splayed, in an effort to hold back the child who may or may not be accompanying me. Old habits die hard.

I still look back in horror at the days of the one-piece, polyester, blue-and-white-pinstriped jumpsuit we were forced to wear in PE class. It was the era of the “President’s Council on Physical Fitness Award”, wherein middle-aged jocks with large plastic whistles invoked the memory of JFK to “inspire” children to meet a set of standards set by the federal government. One entire quarter of the school year was set aside for this endeavor, and it quickly became the longest three months of my life.

One day a week we began our day under a cloud of steam emitted by our pre-pubescent mouths. Inside the black asphalt track, the football field sparkled as dewdrops fought the sun’s effort to reclaim them. The runners bounced in anticipation, while the rest of us huddled with arms wrapped around our shapeless midsections, and grimaced against the cold. As the coach approached in his year-round uniform of t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts, featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, I scanned my group of shivering non-runners for the easiest mark, and set my preliminary goal of not coming in last. By the end of the quarter, I had reevaluated. My new goal was, simply, to survive. Recently, though, my experience has served me well.

In the public school system, PE is now treated as an elective that is placed in rotation with Home Economics, Computer Science, and Spanish. So far this school year, my son has learned his way around a kitchen, and mastered at least twenty words in Spanish. He returned from Christmas break full of anticipation for six weeks of PE. His excitement, however, ended when the coach, wearing a t-shirt over unattractive, polyester shorts featuring a six-inch waistband and very deep pockets, raised a large plastic whistle to his lips, signaling the class to run.

Shane is athletic. He has played football for five years. He has excelled in basketball for four years, and fills the time in between with baseball. A couple of weeks ago, I met his descent from the school bus with my usual question.

“How was your day?”

“Crummy.”, he growled.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“PE”, was all he said.

“PE? You love PE! You were looking forward to it!”

“Yeah…”, he began. “That was before we had to run.” JFK may be a distant memory, but the President’s Council on Physical Fitness is, apparently, functioning without him.

I smiled down at my notably athletic progeny before saying, “Let me tell you a story.”

I used to joke that if you saw me running you could be sure someone was chasing me. That was before middle-age, and the realization that a simple change in dietary habits no longer reaps the same reward it did twenty years ago. At this time in my life, physical activity is just as important as logging every morsel of food that passes my lips.

I live just minutes from a park that boasts two well-maintained walking tracks. White concrete snakes over several acres between tennis courts and baseball diamonds, and a “nature trail” winds through towering pines behind the football field. The sound of my hurried, measured footsteps barely pierces the music piped into my ears through tiny, white earphones. By keeping my eyes down, I can get into “the zone”, and walk for miles. But when I raise my eyes, I see them; the runners. Loping by me, their long strides mock as I realize they will probably lap me again before I reach the end of the trail.

I want to run, but find it so boring, so tedious. And there is, of course, the picture in my mind of me running, complete with blue-and-white pinstriped, polyester jumpsuit…

Last week, the sun burned the frost out of the air, inviting me to venture outside in my shirt-sleeves. Exhilarated, I fought my puppy’s gangly legs into his harness and attached the leash.

“Let’s go, boy!”, were the last words I would speak before re-entering the house.

Murphy, my five-month-old boxer, headed out at a dead gallop. I resisted him at first, but, upon seeing the joy in his limited freedom, I followed his lead. And, we ran. We ran downhill, and around corners. We ran uphill in the center of the street. We ran into cul-de-sacs, down to the entrance of our subdivision, and back.

As I repeated the harness process, in reverse, I marveled at how good I felt. I felt loose, I felt fit, I felt athletic! And, the difference was made by my companion. Running on the other end of Murphy’s leash freed me from the inhibitions inherent in my awkward appearance in athletic clothing, and stopping to catch my breath warranted no explanation, as everyone knows running dogs stop every few feet to sniff. The presence of a dog changed the entire premise of the activity while keeping me entertained. I’m not putting myself out there as a runner, I’m just a football-Mom on the other end of a leash.

Too Little, Too Late?

I went to work at the age of fifteen, mostly in an effort to ensure that my wardrobe reflected my tastes, and of course current trends, instead of what was on sale at Sears/Roebuck. As I flipped through the racks at Lerner’s, Gloria Steinem turned the world on its ear.
I remember wondering why she had chosen to thread the earpieces of her large, tinted, aviator glasses over her hair, instead of hiding them underneath, as the rest of us did. She had to be close to my mother’s age, but instead of going every six weeks to the beauty shop for a style and set, Gloria grew her hair long, allowing the strands to drape her painted face along the line of a stylish center part. She wore short skirts and knee-high boots instead of the polyester pull-on pants and knit tops my mother favored. And she spoke, in measured, succinct tones, of the oppression of women, and their unheralded strength and value. I had discovered a hero.

The birth of my first child ignited in me, a breed of love I have never experienced before, or since. When my daughter was six weeks old, I reentered the job market, as promised, and worked for two weeks in a local department store. Coming home to two miserable females convinced my husband that our financial obligations could be met by one salary. Nine months later, I was pregnant, again. The prohibitive cost of daycare for two babies made me a stay-at-home Mom, who contributed to the family finances by caring for three unrelated children during the day.

Following a pattern set by my mother, I developed an interest in soap operas, timing my morning chores around the television schedule. As theme music began to play over the final act, I reached for the telephone, beginning a daily marathon of conversation with another mother, that ended precisely one hour before the sound of rubber crunching gravel announced my husband’s arrival home. Dinner rolls browned as he showered, and if I timed it just right, they both emerged at the same time.

Gloria, and others like her, referred to me as a “couch potato”. Soap operas and well-timed dinners had brought with them my mother’s wardrobe, and as Gloria stylishly stomped across the stage to shake Mike Douglas’ hand, I looked down at my widening, polyester draped hips. She flipped her hair back, and I self-consciously fingered the clip that tamed my un-coiffed mane. She spoke words that used to come from my lips, before my vocabulary consisted of the single syllables of my children’s picture books. And, with those words, she urged me to own my life, to shake off oppression, to look my husband in the eye and demand my right to make my mark.

Within weeks, I was dropping my youngest son at a local church daycare before the sun’s warmth had dried the dew from the grass we used to play in. My two older children were in school, and my presence, when the school bus pulled up in front of our house every afternoon, assured me that I was living “the life”, “having it all”. And, I’ve never looked back. My path has followed the course Gloria promised. I’ve risen in the ranks, I’ve padded my pocketbook, and I’ve got the big-screen TV, late-model automobile and designer handbags to prove it.

Last week, as I urged my shiny, red car down rain-slick streets in an effort to be home in time for my son’s basketball game, the radio dial came to rest on one of hundreds of satellite enhanced offerings. A young woman bemoaned the travails of working-motherhood; the pressed schedules, the unreasonable demands, feelings of inadequacy. The measured tones of a well-known, conservative talk show host filled my car, and Gloria urged my well-manicured index finger towards the dial, but before I could reach, I heard.

“Did you ever think that the reason you don’t enjoy being a stay-at-home Mom is because YOU don’t appreciate your own worth; YOU don’t think what you do is valuable? Did you ever think you may have been sold a bill of goods?”

My eyes strayed, again, to the clock in my dash; thirty minutes to game-time. I thought of my daughter, draped in polyester, passing her days in manufactured housing twenty-five minutes from the closest grocery store, standing at the bus-stop with an umbrella in one hand, and a dog’s leash in the other.

Her lack of drive has always bothered me. The decision to enroll her in classes for the gifted was not an easy one. I worried about the pressure, and possible ostracism from those who were tracked for mediocrity. I placed her, and she excelled until an older boy from the “wrong side of the tracks” bounced his seemingly permanently affixed cigarette in her direction.

Despite every intervention offered in every psycho-babble book I’d ever read, and a few I came up with on my own, she was lost to me, until an inevitable stint in state prison interrupted their courtship, as my nemesis traded his Camels for a neon-orange pant-suit.

His departure from her life took with it nearly thirty pounds. Fit and lithe, she marketed herself, again. Eric fancied himself a guitarist the likes of Jimmy Page. His black, leather jacket was expensive. His vocabulary included words like “please”, and “thank you”. His eyes sparkled over a Greek menu he was more than willing to try, and I was sold.

Six months later, when my daughter called with the news of her pregnancy I asked her in measured tones, “Are you prepared to raise this child alone?”.

“But I won’t, Mama”, was her answer.

And she hasn’t. Christopher, her husband, is a kind, calm, wise, loving father who went to work, everyday, at five-thirty in the morning. When he came home, around four, he liked to play video games until supper was ready, which he followed with a shower, and bed. Two weeks ago, the air conditioning plant in which he worked succumbed, as have so many, to financial crisis. On the day she got the news, my daughter called to tell me she would be going full-time at her former weekend job.

As I sat in my car, with eyes darting between dashboard clock and traffic light, I finally appreciated her sacrifice. I arrived home amidst a flurry of game-time preparations, and as my son went in search of yet another missing sock, withdrew my check book from my bag. Wrapping the check in a scribbled note, I handed the envelope to my over-anxious basketball star directing him to drop it in the box while I locked up.

Two days later, just as I had expected, the telephone rang and I answered to the sound of my daughter’s appreciative voice.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t. You didn’t ask for it. But I wanted you to have it, and I want you to know why.” I plopped into my office chair, rolling to the spot offering the best view through the bank of windows that comprise the opposite wall.

“You and I don’t always see eye to eye. I know I’ve pushed you to do more, be more. Today, I realized that what you have been doing is very important, and while forces outside of your control have dictated that you change your priorities, I hope that change will be temporary. That money is between me and you. I expect you to use it to meet needs left unmet by your income. But, I also expect you to support Christopher by encouraging him to get out there and find another job, so that one day soon, you can go back to being…just a Mommy. This is my way of letting you know, I get it.”

She was silent for a few moments before saying simply, and quietly, “Thank you, Mom.”

More Than A Calendar Change

I have a thing for calendars….

Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.

It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.

Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.

During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.

The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.

As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.

I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?

And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.

I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:

“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”

I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.

The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.

And, then there was one.

I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.

As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.

At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”

I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.

“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”

And, to my thinking, we did.

My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.

My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.

And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.

And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.

“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson

Eleven

“Mom?” About three feet behind me, he begins to trot, in an effort to catch up. The movement, in the corner of my eye, reminds me of so many seasons of football and the characteristic way he exits the field.
“Mom, you’re lucky you’re a girl, you know that, right?” Extra effort pillows his words in gusty breaths.
“Well, I think so.” I turn and smile at him as he reaches my side.
“You want to know why?” He puffs, as we climb the cement incline leading to the book store.
“Why?” I stow my keys and check for my wallet.
“’Cause at school? All the girls have like lots of presents and stuff. I mean, they open their lockers, and there’s just all this STUFF in there, and they’re always giving each other presents, and guys just don’t do that, you know?” The extra effort required to breathe doesn’t slow his characteristically swift speech pattern.
We reach the door, which he hurries to open.
“Yeah.” I answer thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Come to think of it, guys don’t really give each other a lot of presents do they?”
“So see?”
He pushes his point home, as a coffee table book featuring a shiny, red, vintage car catches his attention.
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.”
The last word disappears between the pages.

“Mom?”
I insert one finger into the loamy soil supporting a prized cactus before lifting the watering can.
“Yes?” I watch the pot fill.
“Would you still love me if I was gay?”
I remember to take a breath, before continuing my perusal of the plant.
“Sure, honey. You know, there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I love you.”
“What if I was?”
I breathe again, lower the can, and turn.
“What if you were?”
“I mean…how would I know?” He watches his feet as he shuffles them against indoor/outdoor carpeting.
“Well, it’s a little early….” I clear my throat before continuing in my best educational voice.
“You know, I believe that a gay person is born gay. Gay is not something you become; it is something you are.”
I pause, hoping for absorption.
“It’s like having brown hair, or blue eyes. You don’t choose it; you ARE it. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“Would you wonder if I would love you if you had blonde hair?” I search his face for his eyes, which he finally turns to me.
“No.” The word is quiet.
“It’s the same thing.”
We both breathe.
“And, its way too early for you to worry about that now, you know.” I force casualness into my words as I move to refill the watering can.
“Yeah.” Relief adds color to his words and a spring to his step. “I’m gonna go shoot hoops.”

“I didn’t have a great day.” I hear his feet as they crunch against the pavement.
“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re feeling bad?” I walk to the lobby to better our connection, and my chances for privacy.
“This guy kinda picked on me today. See? We were at the lockers, and, he was like saying all these racist things, like calling me “white boy”, and he like shoved me against the locker, and I was like “Stop!”, but he just kept on. I mean, it didn’t really hurt.”
“Well, it kinda hurt. And, these black girls where there, and, they were like laughing. And then he was like hitting my face. I mean, not really hitting, you know. Just kinda like punching at my face. And, I could feel it turning red. And, I was like “Stop!”. And, everybody thought I was like embarrassed, but I was just really wanting to hit him, but I knew if I did I would get in trouble, and you would be disappointed, so, yeah…I didn’t hit him.”
A canine welcome played in the background as he entered the house, and I pictured his face; lowered, with bright spots of color in his cheeks.
“Did you tell the teacher?” I asked, hopefully.
“No.”
His book-bag hit the floor with a crash, unsettling a kitchen chair. “She wouldn’t DO anything.” Dejection flowed over his words.
“But, you have to tell her, Shane.” I pause, deciding to take the conversation outside. “If you don’t tell her, I can’t do anything. Because if I go to her, and tell her about this, her first response will be, “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”. Do you get that?”
“Yes.” He says the word, but doesn’t feel it.
“So, you have to tell her.”
“It won’t do any good, Mom…It’s ok. He didn’t hurt me.”
The sound of hinges squeaking tells me he is at the back door.
He fills my pause.
“Well, it kinda hurts; just where his knuckle hit my chin.”
I picture his hand rubbing the spot.

A pure, white-hot flame of injustice combusts in my chest, as I listen to my child relate a story of racism perpetrated against a child who has never seen color; who, until the age of nine, referred to all African-American people as brown; because they were. My mind fills with all the things I would say to his perpetrator were I to run into him on the street. I picture my hand on his collar, and the look of terror in his pre-pubescent face. I feel the satisfaction of eliciting fear; before I stop.

There are so many things I want to tell him….starting with;
“You’re not alone…Look around! Everyone you see feels just like you, at least some of the time. It’s who you are! It’s where you are supposed to be!”
“And, it is temporary.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel like a person, again. I know you don’t believe this, but I promise; it WILL happen.”
“I’ve been there, and I got through it. I raised three before you. They all got through it. We all do!”
“You are an amazingly intelligent, outrageously witty, deeply thinking, strikingly handsome boy! You have everything going for you, and the only thing stopping you, is you.”
“And…when you feel like you can’t go on. When it’s too much…when there’s no way out…when you feel bad, and you just want to cry…”
“You can. You can cry. Its okay to cry. Go to your room and cry; and when you’re done, it’ll be better; maybe not right away, but it will. It will be better.”

And, I do. Clothed only in flannel pants, left-over shower droplets dot his shoulders as he lays, prone, upon the bed. Both arms crunch the pillow under his head as he watches the words flow from my mouth.
And, as I speak, a trace of a smile dances across the corners of his mouth before he remembers to hide it.
And, as we close, I move into the next room with his warning ringing in my ears.
“Ok…” Laughter tinges both syllables. “I’ll try it, but I’m telling you…if it doesn’t work….”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Seven-Revisions

Day seven of the Seven Day Mental Diet, and, I’ve learned some things:

I’ve learned that being, and remaining, in a positive frame of mind requires work and attention.

Accordingly, I’ve learned that the course, when darkened, can be corrected with relative ease, when aware of your thoughts.

I’ve remembered that, with effort, there is almost always something positive to be found in any situation, and that there is merit in the search, as there are benefits to everyone involved.

I am reminded of the freedom inherent in experiencing real feelings, and in welcoming the journey, and the lesson.

Over the course of the last week, I have cried a little more often, and I have whistled, gaily. I have looked for opportunities to praise and felt appreciation from those who must have wondered if I would ever notice…

I have remembered not to worry, in a time when there is much to worry about.

And, just as the author promised, on day seven, a positive outlook comes much more naturally to me than before this experiment.

The door opens on a blast of cold air,

and you.

A relative peace, tended by careful attention, endures.

You speak, I listen, as you share your appreciation of the warmth with which I surround myself.

And, this is how it is…today.