>Signs, Signs Everywhere

I’m white. I’m southern. Many of my kind refer to themselves as “GRITS” aka “Girls Raised in the South”. I like to eat grits, especially when cheesed and topped by shrimp brined in white wine. I do not, however, wish to be called a “GRIT”. You can call me “girl”. I don’t mind “Miss”. You can use “Woman”, even if it is just an affectation. Even though fifty-ish, I still can’t go “Ma’am”. Something deep inside flips every time a 20-something says it; especially if he’s hot, sporting a day’s growth, and friendly.

I’m an NPR junkie. I love Terri Gross and “Fresh Air” (said with great fervency, always). She, her sultry voice, and her show make my morning commute bearable…pleasant, even. If Terri wants to talk about it, I want to listen to it. So I’m browsing Facebook. I’ve friended NPR. (Of course, I have.) And NPR posts about Jay-Z having written a book called “Decoded”. I know enough NPR code to realize that Jay-Z and Terri will accompany me on my commute the next morning. I’m thrilled at the idea of my tiny, elfin hero interviewing Big Bad Jay-Z, and express my delight to my beloved.

Me: “Cool! Terri Gross is interviewing Jay-Z on “Fresh Air” tomorrow.”

Him: “Oh…Great!” (You should supply the appropriate amount of sarcasm. Think Ray Romano. If you’re older than that, think Archie Bunker. And if that still doesn’t work for you, Jackie Gleason as Ralph Cramden should do the trick.)

I did listen. And, I learned.

I don’t know how things are all over. I only know how things are here; and here most caucasian people, my age or older, look at hip-hop culture and go, “Huh?”. Some get hostile. There’s a tendency among them to corral all young African-Americans into a group called “Rappahs”. (I once overhead an elderly gentleman use the term “Hippity-hoppers”. That was just funny.)

I can’t quote Jay-Z. Too much was said. But, when he was done, I realized that the culture glamorized by his music isn’t borne of artistry, or bravado, or imagination. It’s an environment, the one he grew up in, an environment that produces children unable to see through reality to morals, to social dictates, to behavior expected by white, middle-class Americans who want desperately to be cool, to embrace hip-hop, to speak the language, and all the while check every lock on every door every night before going to bed.

I’m paraphrasing here, but the statement went something like this…”A hit record doesn’t change where you’re from, who you are, who your friends are, or what you know. Those things follow you.” And, for the first time, I got it.

I am surrounded by “Haters”. I didn’t originate the terminology, but I understand the label. These are people who look at those unlike them with scorn borne of fear. They don’t want to understand, they want uniformity; the old, “My way is the right way.”. And, speaking of ways, they often ascribe to one, as in “I am the Truth, the Light, and the Way.” I use the word “ascribe” because the word “follow” intimates adherence and I can not, for the life of me, remember a single Sunday school lesson that told the tale of Jesus looking with scorn upon those he didn’t share ideology, or skin color, or friends.

When my middle son was thirteen, Alan Iverson was crowned rookie of the year in the NBA. That same year, the evening news ran a story about Iverson’s brush with police. He was stopped for speeding. He was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon and possession of marijuana. There was some kind of business involving domestic violence and jumping out of buildings…okay, maybe I made that one up. My son wanted sneakers bearing Iverson’s logo. It wasn’t going to happen.

I tried, without success, to explain my decision not to support Iverson’s behavior with my money and how wearing his logo sent a message to anyone seeing it that the wearer admired Iverson and his anti-social behavior. My son looked at me with a mix of confusion and tolerance. He didn’t speak my language but he was willing to be patient with me in hopes I might come to my senses. It didn’t happen.

Life comes in cycles.

Fast forward eleven years. My youngest son is thirteen. The Philadelphia Eagles release Donovan McNabb in favor of recently released inmate #33765-183, aka Michael Vick, who has decided to live up to the hype that accompanied his tenure with the Atlanta Falcons before dog-fighting landed him in a federal penitentiary. To use sports-speak, Mike Vick is “lighting it up”. The Falcons’ record is seven and two. They are enjoying one of their most successful seasons ever. But, when my son searches the TV guide for a football game, he’s looking for the Philadelphia Eagles.

I find myself recycling words I used eleven years ago while trying desperately to avert my eyes from the television screen as Vick opens a game against McNabb and his new team, the Washington Redskins, by launching an amazing eighty-eight yard missile that results in what is to be the first of many touchdowns. My son’s eyes glaze over. I leave the room before mine do, too.

The next day, my son asks, “Who do you think is worse, Vick or T.I.?” My mind races, “T.I.., T.I., T.I…..I know I’ve heard that somewhere.” I smile a thoughtful smile and hope my brain doesn’t think as loudly as the hard drive on my PC.

“Vick!”, I answer with certainty. He meets my conviction with a look of horror.

“Vick? You think Vick is worse than a gangster, a person who carries guns, and does drugs? Vick is worse than that?”

My brain grinds again. I remember something about a domestic dispute. There’s a vague recollection of a suicide attempt and a 911 call, lots of general craziness, but I don’t remember drugs or guns so I stick to mine.

“Yep. Vick is worse. He killed animals, son.” I nod slightly, driving my point home.

“But Vick learned his lesson! He went to prison, got out, and changed his life. He’s doing good now. When T.I. got out of prison he went back to doing all the same things again. He’s back in jail! How can Vick be worse?”

That’s when it clicks. My face colors as I realize I’ve confused my vowels. He’s saying T.I.; I’m hearing T.O., its apples to oranges, rappers to receivers.

A few days later Terri and Shawn Carter, aka Jay-Z, give me a whole new way of seeing. My son, who usually listens with me, misses it. We talk about it later. With the excitement of new insight, I paraphrase, “A hit record doesn’t change where you’re from, who you are, who your friends are, or what you know. Those things follow you.”

“I know, Mom. I’ve been trying to tell you.” His voice is filled with weary tolerance. I didn’t speak his language. He’d waited patiently, in hopes I’d come to my senses, and I had.

Country musicians sing about God, country, whiskey, women, fast cars, hard work, a good pair of boots, and love. They write what they know. Hip-hop artists do, too. The difference is that most middle-class, white Americans already know what country artists know. Hip-hop culture shines light on a world blessedly unfamiliar except to survivors, children who learned early on never to count on anyone except themselves and used that knowledge to get out. It’s a mirror on a different world, and looking down upon it doesn’t make it go away.

And, just for kicks…WWJD?

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…

Hip-Hop Baby

It was an interesting commute. But then, commuting in the rain is always interesting. Something about shiny roadways robs otherwise competent drivers of their ability to make intelligent decisions. As the late-model, light-blue, mini-van crossed the gore lane, I envisioned a direct hit on my passenger side door. Given conditions, stomping on the brake pedal was not an option. I slowed as much as I felt prudent, sure that at sixty-five miles per hour, it would never be enough. As the license plate of the van swam into view I had a sense of my own vehicle traveling backwards. The van slid into place in front of me, and I merged to the right, while fighting the urge to look to my left brandishing a waving fist. With much effort, I kept my eyes on the road before me, while sending up a silent prayer of thanks.
Later, after the trembling ceased and I had decided that stopping to gather my wits was far too “Jane Eyre”, I encountered another driver barreling off an exit ramp as though he drove the only car on the road. The space between us was more than enough to ensure my safety, but still, I marveled at his cocksureness. I was even more surprised when the truck behind him followed his lead. By this time, application of the brakes was called for, and I slid into the right-hand lane, allowing me the turn into the wine shop.
Tonight was not the night to be without…

Kendall-Jackson produces a lovely Meritage, 49% Cabernet Sauvignon, 47% Merlot, and 4% Cabernet Franc. Vintage 2003 was a little pricey. But, I’d overcome! I’d beaten the odds! I’d looked the Grim Reaper, square in the eye, and he blinked.
With my brown-bagged reward stashed, securely, inside the valise that had secreted my lunch this morning, I rolled to a stop under the traffic-light that marked the last major intersection of my commute. A sense of home invited a deep sigh.
Noticing that the car to my left had both passenger-side windows open, I lowered the volume on Dr. Laura. The car was silver in color, and carried some age. An African-American woman sporting a black, nylon kerchief secured by a silver clasp, sat behind the wheel. Her glance to the right brought my attention to her passenger, who clasped a junior-sized football, joyfully, between both chubby hands.
It was then that I noticed the music. At first I heard the beat, while noticing that the tike in the car seat was keeping time with the football in his hands. A computerized voice wafted in my direction, urging me to adjust my own dial even lower. I knew this song…

“No one on the corner gotta bop like this
Can’t wear skinny jeans cuz my knots don’t fit
No one on the corner gotta pocket like this
So I rock Roc jeans cuz my knots so thick
You can learn how to dress just by jocking my fresh
Jocking jocking my fresh
Jocking jocking my fresh
Follow my steps, it’s the road to success
Where the niggas know you thorough
And the girls say yes”

An image of the latest telecast of the Grammy’s flashed upon my mind. M.I.A., at the time a very pregnant hip-hop performer, jumped around the stage in form-fitting, black and white. I had difficulty watching, and later I knew why. The taping date coincided with her due date.
I watched what I ascertained to be a three-year-old keep time with the music. I observed his mother glance over her right shoulder, in his direction, with no change of expression. Would I have felt better if she had smiled?
I would like to say I’m sure he didn’t know what “knots” were, but I’m not. I’m also not convinced he couldn’t explain the phrase “jocking my fresh”, and the knowledge that his mother is content to let the bastardized word “nigga” slide into his still developing ear canal made me cringe.
Whatever happened to “I love you, you love me. We’re a great big family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you won’t you say you love me too!”
Am I too old, or just too white?
The woman glanced back several times before the light changed, and yet her expression never altered. It remained hard, and uncaring.
The light changed, and I watched as the car surged forward, taking the football bearing, hip-hop baby with it.
Our children are our future, hers, mine, and yours.
May God bless us all…

These Dreams

Dusk had fallen. A large, vintage, light-colored car sat atop a hill on an ice-glazed driveway from my past.

The car began to roll and I turned to face an opaque sheet of ice-encrusted glass, through which only misshapen splotches of muted colors were visible.

As I fought to hold the steering wheel steady, I felt the rubber beneath me try, and fail, to find leverage on the slick slope.

The street I entered was lined, on either side, by an assortment of vehicles of similar age, but varying color. Someone was having a party.

I felt a moment of horror as I realized I had to travel, in reverse, between the icy rows. I wondered how I would do it, even as I did. As I maneuvered through my panic, an unobstructed yard, full of lush, green, perfectly manicured grass appeared through my back passenger-side window. All I had to do was get the car to that yard, and my journey would be over.

The rear wheels gained entry, jumping the concrete curb with a “thud-thud”. The car turned with the interruption, and came to a stop perpendicular to the house behind the grass, and finally, I exhaled.

While I am assured by those who should know, that I do indeed have them; I rarely remember my dreams. Even if I manage to retain some small portion of a night-time visit from my subconscious, it is usually gone by lunch. I have had two dreams in the last week which have, since slithering out of my darkest recesses, remained vivid, and firmly planted on my frontal lobe.

Though they usually evade my memory, dreams, as a whole, fascinate me. The fact that our brains continue to work, even as we drift into an altered state of consciousness during which we have little to no control, is a marvelous mystery. And, I do believe there is much to learn in what our simplest selves have to say.

I stand alone in my bedroom. Through the open door, I watch a woman moving about the den.

A confrontation ensues, just outside my bathroom, and it becomes obvious that the woman I’ve been observing is holding something I value. I attempt to take it from her, but she refuses to relinquish the prize. She mocks me with her patience. The only raised voice is mine, and, physically, she is much stronger than I.

As I wrestle with her, my image appears in the mirror over her shoulder. My face is twisted, angry, and ugly. And then I look at hers. But hers, too, is mine, calm, serene, and pitying.

The path I am traveling is treacherous, but with careful attention, will bring me to a better place. And, when I get there, I will have decided which “me” I want to be.

“Is it cloak n dagger
Could it be spring or fall
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall
Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips”

Martin Page & Bernie Taupin

“California Dreamin'”

Dean called today from California….

Among other things, we discussed the weather. The “Mamas and Papas” played in my head as I listened, expecting him to conjure balmy, beach-breezes. Instead, I saw his fifty degrees, and raised him, with my seventy.

Every call from Dean brings with it, a memory of a sunny, southern, summer day….

I held the car door open for Charlie, The World’s Best Dog, as I surveyed my surroundings. Dean busied himself in his truck-bed, in search of some kind of tool, to the accompaniment of the sort of greeting only Zan is capable of giving.

“Well…” It is one of her favorite words, and usually spoken loudly. “…there she is!”

She approached, in her uniform of Levi’s and ribbed tank, arms outstretched. Even then, something told me to savor every one of those vanilla-scented hugs…

Hallie was coming home, after an out-of-town visit, and we were preparing her welcome. Coaxing soap-scum off a ceramic bathtub, Zan sang:
“I feel lucky, I feel lucky, yeah
No Professor Doom gonna stand in my way
Mmmmm, I feel lucky today.”

I joined in, and we sang. We laughed, and we sang, and we scrubbed, and we loved, as Charlie, The World’s Best Dog, curled up in a corner, and Dean busied himself outside.

Zan and I emerged from the cool darkness of the house to the sight of Dean, and a ladder. I don’t remember the incident. I can’t recall what raised her ire. But, I won’t forget the epitaph, “Ladder Bastard”. From Zan’s lips, to my memory, the words burn nearly twenty years later.

I remembered them today, as we spoke. I wondered if Dean was bothered by them, or if like me, he remembered them with fondness for a sunny, southern, summer day.

“I’ve got some new music for your site!”, Dean started as though we’d spoken just yesterday.

“Cool!”, was my response. “What is it?”

He answered, the conversation continued, and later, I looked up his suggestions. They are what I would expect from Dean, uniquely diverse, and I’m glad for the connection…

“>

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.

“Tryin’ To Get The Feelin’, Again”

I love Christmas.
I love the music, the colors, the lights, the smells, the sparkle.
I love children at Christmas; especially young children, who still carry the magic, and spread it, through the light that shines in their eyes on Christmas morning.
I love wrapping paper. One year, when I was greener than I am now, and much poorer, I fashioned wrapping paper from brown paper grocery bags, and a couple of potatoes carved into stamps. The result, when tied with red and green dyed raffia, was rustic and charming. Now, as I rifle through shelves of shiny pre-printed rolls, I prefer a thick, shiny paper that creases easily into nice sharp edges, as it covers a box.
I love Christmas baking. I do a lot of it, not just for our family, but also to give to friends, as gifts. To insure a reasonable amount of freshness, I usually start the evening of the twenty-first. Each night until the twenty-forth I cook three or four different decadent treats; storing them in canisters with sheets of waxed paper between each layer. No one is allowed to sample the goodies until our family get-together on Christmas Eve. And, I love Christmas Eve.

When my older children were very young, they complained, loudly, about the unfairness of their father and me attending holiday parties to which children were not invited. From their perch on the babysitter’s lap, they watched longingly as we left on a wave of sparkling holiday elegance. And, next morning, they plied me with questions about what we did at the party, and what kind of food was served. The actual event could, in no way, match their vivid imaginations; and I would occasionally embellish my story, as I passed out the treats I had secreted inside a gaily colored paper napkin, the night before.
I don’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I began throwing parties on Christmas Eve for my children; not children’s parties, but parties much like the ones their father and I attended, complete with real hors d’oeuvres and pretty beverages, minus the alcohol. They ate their food from Christmas china on tables covered with seasonal linens, and the candlelight danced in accompaniment to Christmas music which filled the background, softly. Most years saw several friends in attendance, as well, and, while I still brought goodies home, my children never again complained when we went to a party.
The tradition continues today. I began baking, grateful for my daughter’s help. And, when the M&M cookies refused to flatten, leaving me with something more in keeping with an M&M biscuit, it was nice to have someone to laugh with.

Christmas, this year, was a struggle. As Thanksgiving passed, I sought out the radio station playing non-stop Christmas music, and, as I always do, saved it in my presets. In years past, I listened every day to and from work. This year, I tuned my dial to this station just twice, when my son and I were out, Christmas shopping. All the songs sounded the same. There was nothing new; nothing interesting. My commute was fueled, instead, by a favorite CD or Sirius.
Most of my shopping was done online. This is nothing new, though, my approach to it was. I didn’t so much shop, as purchase, having decided on my gifts, in a very matter-of-fact way, much earlier. This proved very efficient, but much less enjoyable. In years past, as the boxes arrived, I took much pleasure from slicing them open to view what was inside. This year, the boxes remained sealed until time came to wrap them.
The day after Thanksgiving is always set aside for Christmas decorating. This year I hung the last wreath three days later. The crèche never made it out of the box, and the garland that usually drapes the fence lay, unlit, on top of a box in my garage.

I strapped on my apron on the December twenty-second, and made all our favorites, but much less of them.
Our Christmas Eve party started, as always, as 6:00 pm. In years past, as the evening wore on, I found myself tired, and looking forward to clean-up, and bed. This year, the house was quiet by 8:00, and I ended the evening with a movie on pay-per-view.
A couple of weeks ago, as I sat alone in my office, I thought about my struggle to feel Christmas. After several minutes of soul searching, I finally decided that the culprit was my commitment to frugality, in deference to a fragile economy. My decision to reign in my expenses had taken all the fun out of the holiday. Choosing Christmas gifts had become a question of money, rather than the receiver’s delight. Holiday cooking became a chore to be completed, rather than an experiment of gastronomic pleasure. My lack of spirit was evidenced by decorations that never left their boxes.
My husband, and I, used to argue about when to take down the decorations. I felt they added sparkle to New Year’s celebrations. He subscribed to an old adage, holding that Christmas decorations, lasting until the New Year, brought bad luck. We quibbled for years, and usually got them down just before the ball began to drop.
Today is December twenty-eighth, and my house is free of Christmas debris. For whatever reason, the spirit never quite arrived, and the remnants of it were just a reminder of what never was. I am not happy in the realization that money has come to play such a large part in my enjoyment of the holiday, and hope to change that in the coming year. I’ll start by saving brown paper grocery bags…

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Four-Surrender

As challenges go, today rates right up there…
Beth Hart wailed me to a good start, and as I exited my car in a driving downpour in order to pump gas, I anticipated the opportunity to “fluff” the raindrops into my hair, accentuating the “bed-head” look I had embraced on hearing the weather forecast.
Rhonda Byrne purred in my ear, between guitar riffs, and time stood still, once again.
The morning went swimmingly. As a controlled chaos persisted in my periphery, I was neither needed, nor involved, and managed to complete a trying Sudoku while ferrying telephone calls.
Curry, for lunch, was the perfect antidote to the dreary landscape outside the office windows. I finished, with fifteen minutes of my self-imposed time limit to spare, and used the time to check in on friends.
And then it began…

As my chair rolled to a stop in front of the telephone, it began to ring, and the noise didn’t let up for the next three hours. As soon as I disconnected my head-set with a promise to fax requested information, the ringing began, again. A yellow legal pad/desk blotter/armrest filled quickly, with the names and demographic information of prospective clients, and, as I struggled to keep all their balls in the air, the “right” side of my brain appreciated the interest, while the “wrong” side wondered when I would have time to satisfy all their demands.
One particularly eager client called five times in less than an hour. I memorized his telephone number, without effort, as it repeatedly paraded across my Caller ID, and, on seeing it, yet again, I squelched the desire to tell him he had absolutely no chance of qualifying; choosing, instead, to press “hold” as I collected my positive wits about me.
As the “big” hand on the clock over my desk creeped towards freedom, I turned my thoughts to the evening, and my son’s basketball game.
“Got a game tonight!”, I called through a co-worker’s open office door. “I’m hoping for another double-digit game!”
“Cool!”, he answered without raising his head. “Good luck!”
Pewter colored clouds, floating overhead, promised more precipitation, as I rolled to a stop, in rush-hour traffic. I remembered the forecast, and hoped the dark clouds would hang around long enough for the temperature to drop, while making a mental note to warn my northernmost friends of the darkness blowing their way. And later, while riding the passenger seat, on the way to the gym, I clutched my jacket about me, while thrilling at the obviously plummeting temperature, and the continuing chance of snow.
Sharing a spot along the gym wall with friends I hadn’t seen since football season ended, I readied my camera. As I positioned it, in anticipation of a “moment”, my friend leaned in to point out how short our players were in comparison to the other team. I smiled, benignly, while setting up the shot.

Play ensued, and our sons’ challenges became quickly apparent. Unfortunately, they had nothing to do with height. The score became lopsided, long before the halftime break, and I cringed at the expression on my son’s sweaty face, while determining to remind him of the importance of positive leadership after the game was over.
As we exited the gym, I drew my jacket closer, and lowered my head against what I hoped were snow-bearing winds. My son and I danced anxiously, outside the SUV, while his father/coach gave a trite-ridden, post-game speech to a supportive mother.
Three car doors slammed with emphasis, obscuring the first few words of my son’s post-game diatribe. A team-mate, touting an as yet unproven pedigree, had loudly announced his intention to quit the team. I listened as the two of them shared their experiences and opinions on the night’s activity.
A jar of peanut butter sat beside a sheaf of buttery crackers on the holiday-themed placemat in front of him. My son’s hand disappeared inside the peanut butter jar as I took a seat at the table beside him, while his father retraced his steps, in search of his jacket. Their conversation continued, as though uninterrupted, as I waited for a pause.

“Found it!” Roger’s call came from an adjacent room.
“You need a defense.”, I ventured.
Shane chewed as his father re-entered the room with purposeful, rubber-soled strides.
“Do you run plays?”, I asked. “I didn’t see plays. Do you have any?”
Roger’s head dropped to one hand as he slid onto a padded wooden chair.
“They won’t do it.”, he answered. “I tried. They won’t do it. Did you hear me calling “three”? That’s a play.”
“It’s a “pick-and-roll”, right?” Shane’s voice begged for confirmation.
“What about half-time?”, I asked, while re-running visions of seven aimless eleven year-olds, heaving the ball at the goal, in a game of “Me, first”.
“You can’t introduce plays at half-time!” The face Roger lifted from his hand was florid. “There’s not enough time! You don’t do that!” He paused to reposition his head inside his hand, while moving, from frustration, to defeat. “I tried.”
“Ok, so it’s only the second game of the season, and you’ve given up trying to teach plays?”, I asked.
“Mom!” This time, Shane spoke through a mouthful of butter-coated crackers. “He stopped after the second practice!”
“They don’t get it.”, Roger finished.
“I’ve seen it done.” My voice was resolute; full of experience, positive, and sure.
“When?” Roger rose up, placing his hands upon the table.
“Mandledove.”, I answered, simply, sedately; invoking the name of a former coach.
Rising to his full-while-seated height, color filled his face, and his voice, and frustration, flowed from his mouth.
“I’m sick of hearing about Mandledove! So, I suck!” He sucked a breath. “I suck at coaching.”

Numbers floated across the surface of my mind as I struggled to decide, at which point in puberty, his maturation had stunted.
“You’re a good coach, Dad.” Shane’s voice, free of buttery debris, remained weak, and indecisively supportive.
And, I watched, as a fifty-year-old man gave up, while an eleven-year-old boy struggled to determine the difference between what was real and what was important; and, I learned.
I learned that a positive outlook must be desired before it can be obtained.
And, with that, I raised my hand, in the universal sign of surrender, before training my eyes upon my son.
“Two minutes until shower time.”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Two-Attention

“I stole the outside
Runnin’ into the sun
I ‘m alive
I’m loud, as a golden gun
I killed my pride
So once again I’d see

Live and learn
You’ve fallen, one thousand times
I feel the burn
There’s fire from a crazy sky
I sealed concern
So once again I’d be

[Chorus]
And it lifts you up
Then it puts you down
And it feeds you life
Then it lets you drown
While it holds your heart
Then it slowly tears you apart
And you know – that life is what I mean”

For the last several weeks, these words have jump-started my work-day. As Beth Hart slides into my CD player, “Lifts You Up” draws me in with guitar chords before pulsing, staccato drumbeats drive my hands against the steering wheel. Midway through the song, I’m dancing in the driver’s seat and singing at the top of my lungs. It depends on the day; some days, once is enough, others, like this morning, for instance, it takes three plays.

It was a late night, as are so many; making the sound of the alarm nothing more than a harsh reminder of the cold conditions outside my flannel cocoon. I rise, finally, allowing myself thirty minutes to complete a morning ritual that requires a minimum of forty-five. As I race about the house, my eye strays to an array of clocks in a variety of rooms, until, shrugging on my jacket, one last glance assures me I will be at least fifteen minutes late for work.
Strapped in, I man the wheel with one hand and crank the volume with the other. My toe taps the gas pedal in anticipation of rousing drumbeats, as I muse, again, on the lateness of my departure. The first red-light catches me, and as I sit, and tap, and finger the steering wheel, Rhonda Byrne’s soothing tones flow in underneath Beth’s growl, and I remember.

There is an entire passage in “The Secret” dealing with time, and its relativity to our existence. Quite honestly, when listening to it, this portion of the book is usually scrambled by the white noise that plays in my brain whenever numbers are required to understand a maxim. Fortunately, Ms. Byrne chose to illustrate her point with a life situation I experience on a regular basis, as she suggests an alternative to worrying about time. Following her suggestion, I remind myself, over and over again, to mentally repeat the following mantra, which I still hear in a lovely Australian accent: “I have MORE than enough time.” And, this morning, my one and a quarter hour trip was completed in one hour. This is not the first time this has happened, and, after today, it will not be the last.

I must admit, day two of my The Seven Day Mental Diet did not go as swimmingly as the first. As Joy related her husband’s disappointment in a vacation cancelled by economic forecasts, I found myself leaning forward, eager to share my own war story. As my co-workers sniped about a particularly difficult customer, I threw in my two cents, without a second thought. And on the way home, as I rolled in behind another weary commuter, I eyed the streams of glowing red lights in front of me, and realized rush-hour traffic was compounded by its proximity to a popular shopping mall and Christmas sales.

It was while bemoaning my sad state to an unfortunate caller that I realized how far I had strayed from my original goal, and I immediately slung one leg back over the saddle. Since that time, despite unruly dogs, the realization that my son’s cellphone is, indeed, dead, and math homework, I have maintained a positive outlook. And, I have learned….
I have realized that, for me, maintaining a positive outlook will require fervent attention; that while sneaking a glance at a clock I must remind myself that “I have MORE than enough time”. And, when friends invoke the misery of their days, I can smile knowingly, without comment, before leaving them to their travails. And, when a particularly unhappy customer bends my ear, I can picture them as they are; sad, lonely, in need of an audience.