Facing the Mirror

I think about that old mirror often.

It was, at least, five feet long, and two feet high at it’s tallest point, which featured painstakingly carved intricate flowers and filigree. Two wooden slats divided the glass into three separate mirrors, and, long ago, someone had burnished the wooden frame golden.

I came upon it while helping my elderly next-door neighbor, Ruby, remove years of flea-market finds, incredible buys, and assorted debris from what was to have been a spare room. Ruby was everything her name implies. She was also a packrat.

As I pulled the awkwardly shaped mirror out from behind a crib mattress Ruby was sure she might need one day, I immediately noticed the craftsmanship. The detail, the inaccuracies, and the aged brown paper, stretched across the back of the frame, proclaimed “hand-crafted”.

Turning it to once again admire the carvings, I caught Ruby’s reflection in one of the panels. She stood behind me, and a little away; and, on her face, a look of adoration, usually reserved for my children.. Glancing at her, I asked the question without words, and she began to tell the story.

The mirror had been in her family as long as she could remember, which was a very long time. It had been the centerpiece of her grandmother’s dining room, and then, later, her mother’s “front room”. She wasn’t clear as to whose hands had done the carving, but she knew he had presented it to the family as a treasured heirloom, and they had treated it as such, for decades. Regret replaced delight as she explained it’s present home.

“I used to have a place to hang such things, but I don’t anymore.”

Coming closer, she raised one gnarled hand towards the apex of the frame and rested it upon the most elaborate of it’s decoration. After several seconds, she used the same hand to retrieve the ever-present tissue from the pocket of her shapeless sweater, and dabbed tobacco juice from one corner of her lined, colorless mouth.

“I want you to have it.”, she proclaimed, and turned back to the box she had been pillaging before my find.

I stared at her bent back for several seconds, before challenging her decision by suggesting she consider making a gift to one of her two daughters.

“Do you see either one of them here today?”, she barked as she rose creakily, turning slanted eyes in my direction. “Huh? Do ya?”

Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence before she closed, quietly, with “Alright, then.”

I hung the mirror, that evening, over the sofa in my living room, and it was, once again, the centerpiece it was meant to be. It hung there for several years, until the size of my family exhausted the space inside the little house next door to Ruby, forcing us to leave our friend. But, her mirror made the trip. In total, I moved the mirror to three different homes. Ruby would see the mirror hung in all but the last, but, somehow, I’m sure she knew it was there.

During my most recent move, light packing, invoked by emergent situations, left the mirror hanging for the next occupants to admire. And, I hope they did. I hope the decades of love and care stroked into it’s wood demanded the respect it, and she deserved. And, Ruby, who was everything that name implies, understands.

>Facing the Mirror

>
I think about that old mirror often.

“I used to have a place to hang such things, but I don’t anymore.”

“I want you to have it.”, she proclaimed, and turned back to the box she had been pillaging before my find.

I stared at her bent back for several seconds, before challenging her decision by suggesting she consider making a gift to one of her two daughters.

“Do you see either one of them here today?”, she barked as she rose creakily, turning slanted eyes in my direction. “Huh? Do ya?”

Several seconds passed in uncomfortable silence before she closed, quietly, with “Alright, then.”

If

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only, I could have been a little quieter…

If only, I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…

>If

“You haven’t cared in over three years….”

The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.

A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow. A corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.

Rising, I am vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before spitting, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” As I turn to walk away, candlelight flutters across ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.

If only I could have been a little quieter…

If only I didn’t have an opinion…

If I could hide my feelings…

If I could be a little less intelligent…

If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.

If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.

Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.

If I could have done that…

But, I couldn’t.

And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.

And now, even that, is not enough…

Playing In The Dirt…

Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

“Well, that depends. If we’re lucky, they’ll have lots of good ones. If not, we’ll have to look.” My voice was bright in an effort to impart some of the enthusiasm I was feeling, but he didn’t seem to get it as he slumped down the hallway in search of his shoes.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

My first task was to remove all the summer flowers, still clinging to life in the warm Georgia sun. This is the part I like the least. I always feel a twinge of guilt at ripping a brave survivor out by the roots, so I grit my teeth, clear my mind, and just start pulling.

And now the fun begins. I don’t use gloves to do this kind of planting, as I like the feel of dirt on my hands. While shoving them, over and over into the aromatic black dirt, I mentally applauded my decision to cancel my manicure appointment on Friday, and a mischevious smile crossed my face as I imagined the reaction of the beautiful, little sprite who tends my hands if she could have seen the way I was treating her handiwork.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

And, as I headed to the back of the yard, towards the bench which has long-since been swallowed up by the English Ivy I planted three years ago, I thought back to last summer. My daughter called to say she and a friend were coming for a visit. They arrived in full make-up and skirts with heels, prompting me to wonder at the occasion. My daughter produced a monstrous high-tech/high-end, camera featuring a nearly foot-long snout of a lens, and explained that her friend needed updated photographs of herself for a project she was working on.

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

>Playing In The Dirt…

>
Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

Drip Castles

I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.

My mother loved to sunbathe, and spent most mornings on the beach, supine, on a generous towel, until overwhelming heat forced her into the surf, where she stayed for a few, precious, minutes. Now, as a mother, myself, I realize that having four children attached to her floating limbs probably precipitated her quick exit.

And, sometimes, she built castles.

It started with a hole. As is true about anything worth having, a good sand castle requires work, in the form of a very deep hole. My mother supervised as one of her daughters manned the shovel. Mounds of pristine white sand piled, as the hole was dug, until water began to seep in from the bottom, forming a permanent well.

And then, we dripped. Each of us, in turn, thrust our hands inside the hole, to remove a dripping mass of grayish colored sand. We dripped turrets, we dripped landscaping, we dripped roofing. Tiny, pea-sized mounds of sand, built, one upon the other, as we dripped, and the castle grew higher and higher, and more and more elaborate.

Construction could take hours, but we had no concept of time. For each of us, it was simply one-on-one time with Mom, and we sat there until she gave the sign it was time to stop, as she rose, and strode, purposefully, towards the surf. As she bent to lower her hands into the warm, jade-colored, water, we mimicked her action, until she left us to return to her towel. And, as she lay back against the sand, we broke for our rafts, and the water.

>Drip Castles

>
I know she had others, but the one I loved best was made of red cotton decorated with tiny, multi-colored flowers; a “two-piece”, it featured boy-shirts that always evoked images of a much earlier time. The color only served to highlight her tan, and I never thought her more beautiful.

And, sometimes, she built castles.

Watching….and Waiting

Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.

Whereas her words were not particularly polished, neither were they foolish, as she stumbled through her efforts to give the appearance of answering a question, while directing as many barbs as possible at her running mate’s opposition. I became bored quickly when it became apparent she would say nothing I could use as fodder around the water-cooler next day. But, I didn’t change the channel, or turn off the set.

In my ennui, I noticed her appearance. Her perpetually carefully coiffed hair lacked it’s usual luster, as it hung below her shoulders in strands shaped by the length of her day. Dark eyes, known to sparkle and snap, appeared somewhat dull behind the glare on her designer glasses. Her voice was tired, and her posture strained.

I began to reflect on the many faces of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin, wife, may have had an argument with her husband, just before sitting down for another, in a long line of interviews. Sarah Palin, mother of 4, and soon-to-be grandmother, may have just had to bandage a knee, or discuss a report card, or quiet the histrionics of her pregnant daughter, or settle an argument between siblings, or diaper her baby. She may have come from an appointment with her son’s doctor, and the news may not have been good. Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, may have had to deal with unhappy legislators, or worse, disgruntled constituents. She might have just flown cross country after attending a ribbon-cutting, or spent hours shuffling through official government documents requiring the governor’s signature. Sarah Palin, Vice-Presidential candidate, may have slogged through all of these things; a disagreement with her husband, fights between her children, insecurity in her daughter, dirty diapers, doctor’s appointments, complaining constituents, cross-country flights, and reams of paper, only to end her day in a cheap vinyl chair across from a news reporter asking impossible questions. Because Sarah Palin is all of these things; Wife, Mother, Governor, and, Vice-Presidential candidate.

And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.

As the interview ended, the anchor teased the following segment which was to detail the cost of making Sarah presentable, and, in a country whose primary source of entertainment is contained inside digital video recorders, we sat through commercials to watch an unprecedented piece. And it is unprecedented, because we, as a nation, have never been in this place before.

Kicking her gender aside, I wondered as I waited, why they hadn’t done the same kind of piece on Joe Biden, and then I remembered. Joe Biden has been presentable, and present, forever. I ticked through a list of others who might have been profiled, and realized that none actually qualified for this kind of attention. Given that, and the marketability of her gender, which was, after all, the motivating factor in her choice as a candidate, I feel the piece was fair.

I’m not bothered by the fact that Republican supporters footed a $4000.00 bill for her coiffure, or shuffled her off to Neiman Marcus with a blank check with which to purchase her form-fitting suits. Realistically, one could not expect them to trot out an Alaskan housewife/hockey mom-turned Governor without a little sprucing up. It is, after all, the American way, and “when in Rome….”

Pundits, and even John McCain, himself, have been quoted as saying Sarah Palin was brought on board to breathe new life into the Republican party. Some are even going so far as to say she is the “new face” of the Republican Party.

Pundits aside, I am convinced that Sarah Palin, wife, mother, Governor, and Vice-Presidential candidate, has breathed new life into a Presidential campaign that had already gone on too long before she became involved. And, regardless on what side of the aisle we sit, SHE is why we are still watching…

>Watching….and Waiting

>
Steam from my bath still filled my pajamas as I prepared to reap my reward of curling up with a book in preparation for bed, when one of my more apolitical friends called to tell me to turn on CNN. It didn’t strike me, at first, the aberrance of her behavior, as she gushed excitedly about a report on the cost of making Sarah Palin a presentable Republican candidate, because as plasma filled the television screen I saw she was giving an interview, minus prepared remarks, and my attention became focused in hopes of witnessing, yet another, blunder.

And this is why we watch. This is why, at the end of a Presidential campaign that seems to gone have on forever, we still sit in front of our television sets, mouths agape, watching, and waiting.