Seen With Joy

I see him in you sometimes.

He lives in yours eyes,

behind your brow,

and in the bridge of your nose where it crinkles when you grin.

He comes with joy.

Daddy’s Girl

My father fathered four females.

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am. We all are. We have a Daddy…we are girls. And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”.

Addressing him that way comes naturally. Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image. My blonde hair is long, as are my legs. My eyes are large, and probably blue. There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red. And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands. His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!” I especially loved that one. “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something. He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance. He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins. It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”. Perhaps there was another Joe. I don’t know, he never said. But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon. We’d probably just dropped my car off…again. The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road. They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas. They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas. No one did. Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me.

“Why don’t you divorce her?’ My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face. The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.” He said it as though it were true. He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars. He didn’t change his own oil. He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that. But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine. We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids. When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it. I kept the shirt. I even wore it a few times. Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

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…

Driving Home

“Did you get it, yet? I checked, and it’s shipped. I really wanted you to have it by your birthday. I’m sorry it’s going to come after….”

The last word swung back and forth along the invisible line connecting their cell phones. She saw it getting larger, and then smaller, hurriedly rushing at her with the force of resignation, before dancing away in a pathetically hopeful soft-shoe. Her birthday was still three days away. “After” no longer meant just her birthday.

She smiled before she spoke, knowing it would sweeten her tone.

“Don’t worry about it.” She chuckled softly as much for her own encouragement as to ease his angst. “It will come, and I’ll love it. I know I will.” The blinders she’d donned earlier in the day, when he’d called to tell her the news, remained firmly in place as she trained her eyes on a colorless traffic light. Every word, every action, required a decision and focus. And though her car sat motionless for several minutes, she maintained a 10-and-2 death grip on the steering wheel. She only breathed when she had to.

Even before he spoke, she knew he was crying, again.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen…”, he began.

She interrupted with resolution.

“Yes, you do. You know what’s going to happen, because it’s the only thing that can happen. We’ve talked about this.” She stopped to breathe and drew in the dust of her words. “From the very beginning we’ve talked about this. There’s nothing to think about.”

“Ok…” The second syllable rode the wave of a sob he couldn’t contain. Both were quiet while he tried harder. The cars around her began to move, and she moved with them.

“Ok..” This time he whispered the offending syllable and control powered the rest of his speech. “…but know this. I will never forget your birthday. Every year, on your birthday, you will hear from me.” The long “e” stretched longer on the end of a quiver. He cleared his throat, and she imagined him sitting taller in his leather office chair. The car in front of her slowed, forcing her to shift her feet.

“I promise.”

The words echoed between them, reminding her of all the promises he had to keep. He lived with a woman he’d promised to love and cherish until he died, and children, whose care was promised by their creation. She pictured him wearing a promise fashioned of cloth under one of his sensible suits as he offered an easy smile of welcome to those who would follow in his church-sanctioned footsteps.

Night had fallen while he spoke, and as she eased the car to a stop under another albino traffic light she tried to imagine him alone, unaccompanied by his promises. She thought she heard him sniff as he finally swam into view wearing a gaily colored madras shirt; the kind a family man wears on vacation…because that’s all he would ever be.

“Don’t do that.” Though spoken softly, her words rebuked argument. “Don’t make a promise you won’t keep…because you won’t…because you can’t…because promises mean everything to you.”

A whispered “I love you” caressed her ear as she made the final turn towards home.

“Promise.”

Knowing

You know I want to…

but I can’t.

The time is wrong;

the air is thick,

with things we say,

and things we don’t say,

and feelings we promise not to feel…

today.

Because, yesterday won’t go away.

Punting

It was late….

Darkness swaddled winding concrete pathways, separating injured playing fields, where echoes of parental calls of support lingered just above the distant tree-line.

The sound of slamming car doors bounced, softly, off firs enclosing the parking lot; and warning calls of parents to street-dancing children muffled.

And, that’s why I noticed her; she who was arriving just as everyone else was leaving.

The rubber band she’d twisted, earlier in the day, into her wispy, blonde hair was giving way, mocking facial lines that had deepened as the hours passed. Amidst the shadows, her face suggested Eastern Europe.

Two small girls of similar wisp and structure ran behind her as she began the descent towards the park. Each child clutched voluminous mounds of plastic grocery sacks.

I imagined their small hands cramming the sacks into receptacles dotting the park, above signs that read “Please clean up after your pet.” I’d always wondered who filled them.

But, they had no pet with them.

I slid behind the wheel of my own car, juggling my keys while I watched. The girls danced excitedly, taking turns leading the tiny caravan, unaware of their mother in a way that said they knew she was there, and always would be.

Just as they breached the fir-line, the woman slid her cellphone out of the pocket of her belted shorts.

And, I recognized the opportunity…and kinship.

I have been that woman…

March to Manhood

“Mom? Are you sure I was supposed to bring a sack lunch?” It is at least the fifth time he’s asked the question.

“Yes, honey.” I try to sound soothing as I open the car door and pop the trunk lid. I fight the urge to heft the bag inside, and stand back as he finds the shoulder strap.

We start the hike across black pavement while I scan the growing crowd of campers for anything resembling a sack lunch.

“Look! There’s one.” I nod my head in the direction of a young brunette leaning against a large, bright green suitcase adorned with large, red hearts. A matching, miniature bag dangles from one hand.

“That’s probably not a lunch. That could be anything!”, he growls. “I don’t think we were supposed to bring a lunch. We didn’t bring one last year. We went to the dining hall.” His rests on his chest while he adjusts the shoulder strap of the larger bag.

I scan again, as we round the front fender of another parent’s car.

“Look! That has to be a lunch. See? You’re ok!”

A tall, thin boy, whose posture repeats the carelessness implicit in the length of his wavy, brown hair, stands between his parents. A small, brown, bag, imprinted with the words “Whole Foods” in large, green, block-lettering sits between his sneakered feet.

I breathe a sigh of relief at Shane’s silence.

We join the crowd, and as Shane searches for familiar faces I unsheath my camera.

“Mooomm! Don’t do that!” His effort to evade attention keeps his volume low.

“I want some pictures.” I explain while checking other parents’ shoulders for camera bags.

“What kind of dog do you think that is?” Shane attempts to draw my attention to a dog of obvious varietal lineage dancing on the end of a leash held by the woman standing next to me. He moves closer to the dog, and I wonder if he feels I’m less likely to photograph him surrounded by strangers.

I snap a shot. He tidies his hair, self-consciously.

“Hey, Shane!” We both hear it.

“Who was that?”

“Nick!”, he answers in a voice that suggests I should have known, while craning his neck in the direction of the sound. “He’s gone.”, he says, leaving “…and its all your fault.” unspoken.

A tide of campers and parents moves in the direction of the buses.

“Get your bag.”, I say as I zip my camera back into the bag, hoping to lessen his stress.

Uncertainty dances through Shane’s eyes as he reaches, again, for the shoulder strap.

“Where are we going?”, his voice mirrors his eyes.

“It looks like everyone is moving towards the buses.” I look back over my shoulder to see him heft the bag.

“Are you sure?”

I take a step back and put my arm around his shoulder.

“Come on.”

He walks under my arm until we reach the crowd gathered beside Bus 2, his bus. Standing much taller than he had when last we saw him, with shoulders and arms that speak of impending manhood; Trexler waits next to his Dad. Shane shirks my shoulder for that of his friend. The two former teammates complete the obligatory bump followed by an offering of all the testosterone they can muster in the form of an urban-style handshake.

“Hey…”, Shane mutters a studied disinterested greeting.

“Your bus?”, Trex points.

“Yeah…”

“What cabin?”

“Ten.”

A lazy smile slides across the taller boy’s face.

“Me, too.”

Shane fails in his effort to control his grin. “Cool!”

The two boys begin to rehash last year’s experience.

“Yeah, we stayed up till six in the morning…” Trexler talks through his grin.

“Don’t they wake you at eight?”, I ask, sharing a smile with Trexler’s Dad, Mr. Curtis, who employs his eyes as his mouth is busied with his coffee cup.

A boarding line begins to form. Shane hefts his bag with renewed enthusiasm, maintaining his place beside his friend. I force myself to take a step back. Trexler’s Dad joins me with a look that pats me on the back.

Minutes later, the line begins to move and so do I. The last thing I see before feeling Shane’s shoulders under my hands is the look of abject horror crossing his face.

“Moomm…”, he moans, softly. I pull away quickly, smiling my understanding, and return to my place beside Mr. Curtis, whose faraway gaze assures me of his willingness to overlook my unfortunate show of emotion.

Unreasonably, I worry that the counselor at the head of the line won’t find Shane’s name on the list. I remember worrying the same worry last year. As both boys board, my companion turns to me.

“Looks like they made it…”, he smiles a salutation and disappears behind the bus on his way to join the workforce.

I strain to maintain sight of the bill of Shane’s cap as he disappears behind the smoky windows of the bus. Despite my efforts, I lose sight of him.

Perhaps he sat on the other side. I walk to the other side of the bus, willing a look of casual interest as I stand in a median in dire need of mowing. After several minutes I am sure he is not there.

I consider leaving. After all, he probably won’t notice if I stay. But, I do.

I cross back the way I came and find a spot I’m sure is visible to anyone sitting on this side of the bus. If he only looks once, I should be here, I reason.

The driver makes ready to leave by lowering the doors of the luggage bins to reveal the bill of Shane’s cap. I stand quietly as he searches. I see him see me.

He raises his hand to his cap, and three fingers repeatedly brush the brim. I wonder at the movement until I see the intensity in his eyes.

I wave back, and we both smile.

Finding Farrah

As far as I am concerned, Katherine Hepburn was the quintessential woman; the type of woman who could pull on a pair of stove-pipe, worsted-wool trousers under a form-fitting, man-style vest while puffing on the cool end of an unfiltered cigarette and still be the classiest woman in a room filled with skirts.

Farrah Fawcett was no Katherine Hepburn. When “Charlie’s Angels” jiggled across our television sets in 1976, I immediately dismissed the toothy blonde who would soon make history for no greater talent than being blessed with good hair. Kate Jackson caught my eye, at first. Rail-thin and smart as a whip, I loved the earthy gravel in her voice as she shared her unfailing common sense with Bosley, Charlie, and the girls. Later, I grew enamored of Jaclyn Smith. Equal in intelligence to Sabrina, Kelly retained a soft, warm femininity, and she knew how to use it. As I watched the three of them cavort through the mean streets of Los Angeles, Farrah’s character, Jill, elicited nothing more from me than an occasional groan at her rendition of a bubble-headed blonde.

She did some good work in the eighties. I still carry around an image from the movie “Extremities”, in which her character restrains her attacker, caging him under a table before calling her friends for help. The strength of her performance left me wondering if her earlier portrayal of a vacuous bimbo was just as masterful.

Then came her incoherent interview with Letterman, which she followed with a reality show featuring long-time companion Ryan O’Neal. I watched one episode, and was sure I could feel myself leaking brain cells as I watched. But watch I did. It was a train wreck, and it’s always hard to turn away from a good train wreck.

Several weeks ago, purely by chance, I saw Farrah on television again. Her famous mane had been shorn, and her skin looked weathered. Her eyes carried age and pain, but her voice remained unchanged as she read from her journal, chronicling her battle with anal cancer.

Much has been written since the program aired, and especially since her death, about Farrah’s decision to share her journey. But, I’m glad I watched. The hour was filled with images of torturous medical procedures, stomach-churning rides in limousines, and long passages of prose written by Farrah in anticipation of the time when she wouldn’t be around to speak her words. But, this is not what remains with me.

I remember the love; the love rained upon her by her companion, Ryan O’Neal, the love she inspired in her care-takers, the love she felt for her errant son, and, her love of self.

Farrah Fawcett was a simple girl from Texas who was blessed with great teeth and better hair, and in the end, none of that was important. In the end, it was all about strength and love.

And, I’m grateful for the lesson.

Granting Wishes

Sometimes, I wish we could go away.

Not far, and down an oft-traveled road, but away.

The water under our deck chairs would absorb our words, whetting our appetites for more.

Sometimes I wish you had more ambition.

Sometimes I wish I had more ambition.

I always wish there was more living in making a living.

Your voice blows against me as we follow the same path in different directions.

But sometimes I watch you talk, and as the words fill the air between us I reacquaint myself with your nose, sitting just a little to the left, and your eyes, the softest shade of jade, and your mouth, which even when you speak turns up slightly on one side as though amused.

I’m in the garden, and out of the corner of my eye I see you hanging my clothes on the clothesline you wish you’d never strung between two trees you wish you had cut down, long ago.

And, I stop what I am doing, and come to you.

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…