Hunting Hearts

She was the definition of grace, as she swooped and swirled in languid circles mesmerizing her prey, effortlessly.

She appeared unaware, uncaring even, of his approach, as she pointed her regal features in the direction of a far horizon and glided into another turn.

Her helpless target paused, not out of fear, but in awe of the beauty before him.

We both watched, as she sailed in the wake of glorious plumage that caught and held the rays of the sun.

As he moved towards her, I prayed a silent blessing, feeling my impotence. His journey was inevitable.

She made another pass, looking for just a moment, in his direction.

I turned to walk back up the drive. The die was cast. For the moment, she had won.

He took several halting steps in her direction before allowing his gait to announce his decision, and as he drew closer, I’m sure I saw her smile.

Little girl on a bicycle….

Skinned Cats

She opened the conversation by announcing herself.

“This is Dixie Lee Shapiro.” And, for a moment I was lost in a swirl of images.

A bleached blonde beehive swirled above heavy, dark eyebrows and a prominent nose. As she spoke, the image changed. Dixie still sported the haystack upon her head, but the exclamatory eyebrows and prominent proboscis belonged to the gentleman at her side. Either stereotype was implausible.

A rise in the tone of Mrs. Shapiro’s voice regained my attention. Her words shook in a manner that bespoke age and infirmity, as she explained her dilemma while begging my response. Her problem was not unique. I ferried several of these calls every day, and the pile of paper on my desk seemed much more pressing. I answered her questions in a clipped, business-like manner, steering the conversation towards conclusion. But, Mrs. Shapiro was having none of it. She wanted answers. She pulled out the big guns.

In a quavering voice, she explained that the check she’d written should have allowed her to receive telephone calls from her son who was incarcerated. It had been cashed, but they claimed not to have it. She hadn’t heard from her son in an awfully long time. Was there nothing I could do to help her? Mrs. Shapiro’s hair shrunk considerably as she spoke, and the image of her buxom figure alongside Mr. Shapiro was replaced by the creaking sound made by her rocking chair as it rode wooden floors that had, long ago, lost their sheen. Her worry, anxiety, and loneliness were palpable.

Empathy kicked in, and I went the extra mile, tracing her funds and forgiving the fee usually charged for such service. Her payment had been received. She had a legitimate complaint, and as I shared the information, I embellished with some advice in hopes that the lines of communication between she and her wayward son would soon be open.

“That’s what I thought, and I didn’t especially like it.” Her response was spoken in a voice I hardly recognized. The quiver was missing, and the tenor now carried smoke, and whiskey, and something more, something hard. She spoke for several seconds of her son’s girlfriend, who managed to speak to him “some kinda way”, before thanking me for my assistance and agreeing with my conclusions.

“Let’s start there and see what happens, ok, kid?”

I hung up with a smile.

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

Unmentionables

Most women like frilly underwear. We’re hard-wired that way.

Today’s girl starts out in stylish diapers emblazoned with feminine cartoon images. The accomplishment of potty training is rewarded by a whole new level of chic, as floral patterns and ruffles become available. I challenge you to offer an image sweeter, or more feminine, than a peek of ruffled panties under a pint-sized, smocked dress. And, at that age, we are generally proud of our hard-earned undergarments. We like looking at them, and we want you to notice, too.

The real fascination with femininity doesn’t start, in earnest, until the money handed the clerk behind the Victoria’s Secret counter is hard-earned, and your own. Having a parent accompany you to Victoria’s Secret would be something akin to being fifteen and having to ask your Dad for a ride to the drug-store and hearing him ask,“Why? What do you need?”. This situation is avoided whenever possible.

When I was a teen, “Days of the Week” underwear was all the rage. On first glance, this seemed like a very practical approach to underwear. Should you not remember whether or not you had changed, you could always consult a calendar for reassurance. Due to my mother’s insistence on waiting until she had a “full load” to launder however, this never worked for me.

All my friends preferred bikini-style, and I really tried to follow suit. But, after years of feeling the constancy of a cotton-elastic waistband riding upon my naval, I struggled with the feeling that I was losing my coverage. Giving up, I rode the “Granny Panties”, and there was no shame in this. Many girls made this choice. I know, because my reluctance to shuck my clothing in the showers after PE forced me to find someplace to put my eyes, as everyone around me stripped to the skin. Many pairs of “Granny Panties” hit the red tile floor as their wearers danced and giggled their way towards raining shower heads. “Days of the Week” emblazoned across the backside of “Granny Panties” was just wrong. I settled for a nice honey-comb weave.

They make underwear for pregnant women, though I’ve never fully understood why. Bikini underwear don’t infringe upon the protuberance, and “Granny Panties” can be worn bikini-style, until such time as the baby is born and mother has recovered sufficiently to drive to the mall to buy the larger size she will now require.

Though surely always present, panty-lines suddenly became a big issue in the eighties, and no-show underwear became all the rage. Whisper thin, they were seamless, and constructed of a sheer, elastic, nylon that morphed into a hopelessly pilled, knotted mess after just a few washings. Fortunately, I only bought and very quickly tossed, two pair.

As a more direct approach to the problem of panty-lines, thongs burst upon the scene in the 90’s. I remember the first time I saw a woman on the beach wearing a thong bikini, and thinking, “Why bother?”, followed closely by, “She really shouldn’t be wearing that.” Truthfully, very few women have the physique required to pull this look off, without reminding everyone behind her of what it would look like if you tied two, rather misshapen, beach-balls together and drug them through wet sand. Unfortunately, it is usually those who should avoid this fashion faux pas who seem most likely to parade past.

Being realistic about my body, I’ve never been tempted to string on a thong bikini. I did, however, attempt to solve my previously unsolved panty-line problem by wearing thong underwear, or as I refer to it, “heiney floss”. The experiment was short-lived as I soon discovered that they do, indeed, feel much as one might imagine they would feel given the unnatural nature of their construction. While standing, my panty-line problem was solved. Unfortunately, I spend very few days simply standing. Most days I feel the need to walk or, heaven forbid, sit. It is difficult for me to say which experience is more uncomfortable when thonged, sitting or rising from a sit. Either exercise may result in an elastic wrenching, requiring an increasingly painful walk to a private setting in order to make the necessary corrections. Despite the discomfort, I kept several pair of thong underwear after realizing that their value sprung not from the wearing of them, but rather in sharing the fact with someone whose imagination, alone, allowed him full view.

I love browsing the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. As I retrieve it from my mailbox, I always wonder if the postman enjoyed it, before sliding it into the box. For years, I’ve ordered the same type of panties. They are cotton, as good health dictates, and usually patterned or solidly, softly, pastel. Recently, as I leafed through the pages, I noticed an intriguing new style I’d yet to try.

It seems I’m not alone in my dissatisfaction with previous efforts to solve the panty-line debacle. Boy-shorts have hit the scene, and it seems everyone is wearing them. And, I can see why. Whereas the seamless, flimsy, nylon panties disintegrated, almost on contact, and thongs made ordinary movement excruciating, boy-shorts appeared to suffer neither of these traits. And, minus the confining elastic usually comprising the leg-hole of ordinary panties, the material rides along the bottom of one’s bottom, allowing a tiny peek of cheek. They are cute, bordering on sassy, and after some consideration, I placed an order.

Last weekend, I attended one of my favorite types of event, a garden party. The weather was warm without being hot, and a soft breeze was the perfect accompaniment to my crinkly, gauze, long skirt. I’d yet to wear my newly purchased boy-shorts, and decided this was the perfect occasion. The first pull came upon alighting from the vehicle in front of the house. Several minutes later, after climbing the steps to the deck, my hand went again to the back of my skirt. As I was directed to a table with filled plate in hands, I felt again a need to tug at the back of my underwear, but realized waiting until moving to sit might camouflage what had become a repeated movement. As I tugged again, I envisioned wearers of leotards, ballerinas and gymnasts, and their constant repositioning of their garments, and I knew I’d discovered the downfall of the latest trend in women’s underwear.

Next day, as I dressed in a similar manner for the office, I chose an older, more reliable pair of underwear while making a mental note to place an order for more. The boy-shorts though, will remain in my lingerie drawer. After all, they are cute, bordering on sassy, and there are times when a peek of cheek is more important than comfort.

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…

A Wide Spot in the Road

He wasn’t there, where I’d left him.

He wasn’t waiting in the spot where he’d waited for the better part of a year,

and I knew it before I got there,

and I smiled.

Be well, my love….

Luke

My son, Trey, stood behind the yawning, vintage-model car door as Luke climbed out onto the driveway, wearing a look of intent focus. He hadn’t been doing this long, and he wanted to do it right. I couldn’t help but wonder if the plaid button-down he was wearing was the choice of Trey or the boy’s mother. Either way, he was cute, in an elfin sort of way. Little boys, especially cute little boys, always get to me.

Luke belonged to Starr who though eight years older than my son, and already burdened with a child from a failed marriage, had employed her appreciable feminine wiles to capture his heart. Trey would use the word “heart”. In my opinion, and in concert with her considerable reputation, the heart was not the body part she was most adept at handling. After much conversation, it was decided that despite my misgivings about their relationship, my son, his girlfriend, and her child would attend our family gathering. It was Christmas, after all.

I had shopped the week before for gifts, making a previously unanticipated stop in the toy department, where I chose the appropriate testosterone-building toys for a boy Luke’s age. I can admit now to feeling like something of a martyr; a generous martyr, but a martyr all the same.

Luke entered the house through a fence of dog legs. I remember squinting eyes above his smile, as he swatted animals easily outweighing him. He burbled unintelligibly in a high pitched voice, and I wasn’t sure who he was addressing until I heard the word “Mama”. As the evening wore on, I would hear that word from his lips more than any other.

Luke was affable. He worked at it. He was affable and hesitant, all at once, making it clear that he had been coached. I appreciated both efforts, while hoping it hadn’t cost him.

My dogs fascinated Luke to a point just shy of terror. As he reached one small hand to touch their fur he searched the room for his mother, and finding her, burbled loudly, as if to say, “Look, I’m doing it! I’m petting the dog! Aren’t I good? Aren’t you proud? Please watch me!”. To her credit, she always answered positively, supportively,employing her limited resources as effectively as she knew how.

Dinner was served, and I sat Luke amidst the other children. His loud, high-pitched voice and easy, somewhat manic laughter drew my smiling attention frequently; while also drawing the attention of my son who, despite the short duration of their relationship, had apparently assumed the role of disciplinarian. As Trey’s head swung in the direction of the boy, I saw hooded, down-turned eyes before the smile that decorated his words.

“I’ll be good!” Luke’s voice was shrill and somewhat desperate, conjuring dark images of angry faces, loud words, and violence.

Something must have shown in my face, and Trey sought me out later to explain. Luke had “problems”. They had made an appointment to see a doctor. The look on my son’s face said, “I didn’t do this. But, I’m trying to fix it.”.

As everyone in attendance could have guessed, the relationship ended badly. Trey took refuge with my daughter and her family, starting a new career while trying, desperately, to envision a new life. That was over a year ago.

This morning I scowled at the sound of my ringtone until, glancing at the display, I saw that it was Trey calling. He is a victim of our country’s current economic downturn, and thus in need of an updated resume which I had promised to deliver several days ago.

“Hey, Mom.” He starts every conversation in this way, no matter the circumstance.

We discussed the resume. I asked the appropriate questions. He gave the only answers he could.

“I’m thinking about moving back to Jefferson. I just feel like a burden to everyone here.” As my son spoke, I envisioned him holding his cellphone tightly against his right ear, his head hanging between his knees.

With his words, an image of Starr filled my head, with Luke lurking in the background.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”, I said, with remarkable control, inviting Trey to state his case, which he did, hesitantly, haltingly.

“You have to think about the boy, Trey. You have to think about Luke. He didn’t ask to be born to a crazy mother, and he didn’t ask for you. You can’t just go in and out of a boy’s life like that! It’s not fair!”

I had finally said the words I should have said years ago.

“Starr’s cleaned up!”, Trey began.

“And, how many times has that happened? Huh? How many times has Starr changed? How long is it going to last this time? And besides, Starr doesn’t matter here. It’s the boy! The boy is all that matters!”

I had spilled it. A little more wouldn’t matter.

“Mom, it’s time you knew…”, Trey began.

I know now that I gripped the arms of the leather chair I sat in as he spoke, though at the time, I had no realization.

“Starr was arrested in Boston. They took Luke, and gave him to his father. The next thing she heard was that Luke was in the hospital. His father beat him pretty bad…”

I remember his smile and the way he tried, so hard, to please. I remember a small, plaid, button-down shirt, and swatting hands, and a shrill voice that said, “Love me. Please love me. Please…just love me…

I’ll be good…”

Pieces of Me

I live in a 70’s era brick ranch which was built in a time when closets and bathrooms were allowed the same amount of square footage, and neither is generous. The only extra closet in the house is filled, year-round, with suit jackets and winter coats which won’t bear folding into plastic storage bins. So twice a year, once in spring and again in the fall, I make the climb up complaining, collapsible stairs, into my attic to retrieve our stored clothes.

“Changing out the closets”, as I’ve come to refer to this laborious task, is not a chore I enjoy, which serves to explain why I’ve worn the same two pairs of sandals for the better part of the last two weeks. But, as April wanes into May, spring has taken hold with plans to hang around for at least a couple of weeks before summer begins, in earnest. I’ve spent two full days in my shirt sleeves, with no need for a jacket or shawl of any kind. The time has come. It’s a solitary task, affording lots of time to think, and lots of open space for memories to fill.

This year I am especially surprised by the number of shirts I possess that carry the University of Florida logo. I have one fleece vest, three sweatshirts, three long sleeved tees, two baseball jerseys, and countless t-shirts. Over the years, Roger has expressed his relief in the knowledge that when his imagination fails him, he can always go to the sporting goods store to buy my gift. Perhaps I should help him with more hints.

I wavered this year over whether or not to keep the brown suede skirt. It’s cut on the bias, western style, and the one time I wore it I felt a little like Annie Oakley. The only acceptable shoe to wear with this skirt is, of course, a western boot. Fortunately, I own three pairs. Unfortunately, the skirt doesn’t quite meet the boots and I find that swath of skin, hosed or not, unsightly. But, it’s a great skirt. I’m keeping it.

I bought a pair of boots last year on Ebay. They were fawn colored, high-heeled, and designed by Tommy Hilfiger. When they arrived, I found the heel to be just a little higher than I’d imagined, but they were beautiful. I wore them this winter to a lunch date with my father. As the host beaconed me follow him to the corner where I saw my father sitting, I surveyed the twenty feet of uneven stone flooring and prayed I wouldn’t land in a heap at someone’s feet. Each step felt like I was walking on tip-toe on a very slick surface. At the time, I made a mental note to wear them more often to accustom my feet while scuffing the slick off the bottoms. I didn’t. But, I might next year.

A red and white sailor’s top went directly from bin to the charity pile. My sailor girl days are long over…

I removed a gauzy black jacket from the hanger while admiring it, yet again. It is one of my favorite pieces of clothing. Sheer black nylon is accented by the pinks and greens of hand painted flowers on splotches of black velvet. Beads of differing sizes hang from the hem, continuing up both sides and around the neck. I realized today that, at first glance, one might think it a piano shawl. Loath to knowingly perch upon glass beads, I have worn the jacket very little. Perhaps with some alterations, I might find a place to drape it.

When I ordered the black and gold, ruffled blouse, I had no idea it was constructed of netting. It has ridden the rail in my closet for almost a year. I can’t imagine wearing it anywhere other than a dark bar. I can’t imagine myself in a dark bar.

I kept the blue turtleneck, though I haven’t worn it in several years. I don’t like the feeling of anything against my neck. But blue is one of Shane’s team colors, and some of those football games are played in frigid weather. I might wear it underneath something else…

It saddened me to find my blue and pink, argyle sweater. I bought it new in the fall, and wore it just once before it got lost amidst the racks. It really is cute. I wish I’d worn it more. There’s always next year…

And, that’s when the thought popped into my head, “What if this is the last time you pack these clothes? What if the next time this bin is opened by someone else who won’t appreciate the style in your gray patent lace-up pumps, or the cuteness of your sweaters? What if the next person who opens this bin just sees you, the memory of you?”

I allowed myself just a moment of sadness, more for the person left to collect my effects than for me, and then just one more, one more moment to lament my loss; the loss of invincibility. Life, now, is finite. The end, whether it be ten, twenty, or even fifty years away is as real as the breath I’m breathing right now. For the rest of the day I’ll be looking for a place to store that.

Drawing Conclusions

There may be some people who, on the first day of a serious funk, identify it, and set about rectifying it. Would that I were one of those people.

My first instinct is to quash it. A firm believer in the power of positive thinking, I ignore my ennui and go about my days as though nothing were amiss. And, sometimes this actually works. It doesn’t solve anything, of course, but it can help me get to a better place.

The problem with quashing is that when it doesn’t bring about the desired result my angst is doubled. My original problem is now shrouded in a feeling of inadequacy at my failure to meet it, head on. It becomes a true “elephant in the middle of the room”. Quick! Throw a blanket over it!

It is truly amazing how creative I can be without any conscious effort. I have employed a great number of things to prevent my having to actually resolve to make a change, end a habit, or perform a task I dread.

Social networking is my latest drug of choice. Had you told me three years ago that I might spend hours, daily, in front of my computer monitor, accomplishing nothing more important than sending a bouquet of virtual flowers or participating in a virtual food fight, I would have thought you daft and told you so. I am blessed with a group of caring, intelligent, and highly entertaining virtual friends whose constant company allows me to put most anything on the back burner, and I giggle as it boils over.

A nice glass of wine adds a fresh patina to even the most unpleasant day. Several hours and another glass later, all that remains is an easily avoided memory.

My hobbies, too, provide a place in which I can immerse myself. Of late, I have finished two pieces of needlework, completed three jigsaw puzzles, taken numerous photographs, planted several gardens, and begun a large sketch of a nature scene. When I haven’t been posting my answers to “25 Things About Me”, I’ve been busy.

What I haven’t been doing very much of lately is writing. I love to write, but lately, the thought of it makes me weary. Upon recognizing that fact, I accepted it, and as happens so often when I “Let go…”, the reason revealed itself.

Writing, you see, requires introspection. Even when writing fiction, the writer culls from life experience, emotion, and, thus, evaluation. It’s this last part I’ve been avoiding….

A good friend, upon expressing his intense dislike of a photograph of me, asked what it meant to me. I stumbled over several likely answers before he, tenacious as always, asked me to start again.

“And, make it real this time.”

“I was looking out a window…”

“Uh-huh…”

“…because I’m looking for something. I don’t know what it is. I only know it’s not here.”

“Fine. I get that.”

There was no further discussion of the offending photograph, and the answer satisfied me as well, until recently.

As happens quite often when I refuse to deal with my demons, a virus snaked around my wearied defenses, laying me low. For the better part of two days, all I wanted was sleep. When I awoke this morning, the fever seemed to have broken, leaving behind a revelation.

Age, the time I have spent in what seems to have been a circuitous route to nowhere, weighs heavy upon my head. I am the cliché, looking out a window, asking “Is this truly all there is?”

The empirical knowledge that my experience only speaks to my normalcy gives me no more relief than knowing that missing teeth were a normal part of grade school, or that break-outs were expected in puberty. I never aspired to be normal. Normal is boring. I would much rather be me.

And, there’s the rub; because right now, at a time when I really need me, I’m not very happy with me. I’ve ignored me. I’ve abused me. I’ve neglected me and many other people in my life, in pursuit of avoidance.

In truth, what I have here, inside the window, is very nearly picture perfect. I think its time I drew myself back in.

Hair There, And Everywhere

My father’s parents divorced, long before I knew any of them. Granddaddy married, the second time, a large, raw-boned, country woman with a shock of red hair which would later feature a swath of purest white down one side. She left it that way, and I loved it. She was like that. She was what she was, and this made her easy to love.

Granddaddy had long since closed the small grocery store he owned and operated for many years. Charlotte supported them by owning and operating a beauty shop. And, it was a beauty shop. It was not a salon, or a spa; it was a beauty shop. Blue-haired ladies sat in a row, under hooded dryers that ran along one garishly painted wall. Daily gossip drowned out country music. playing over a transistor radio sitting on the front desk, and all the “operators” wore smocks. Charlotte added to her earnings by contracting with a local funeral home to dress the tresses of those who would no longer need her services.

My sisters may take exception to my opinion, but in truth, only one of us was born with good hair. Holly has hair, and then some. She was the only one of the four of us to be born with color, thickness, and curls. The rest of us were born blonde, fine, and stick-straight.

Despite, or perhaps, due to the fact that it was to her contribution to our genetics that we owed our lanky locks, my mother frequently drove my sister and I several miles, across town to my Grandmother’s house, for a perm.
The box was pink, with the word “Toni” spelled, in large letters across the top. And, after a while, it became a ritual to come home from my grandmother’s house, and take one look in the mirror before turning on the faucet in hopes of washing out some of the neutralizer. I was usually successful, and my mother never commented.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my hair. Pictures of me, through the years, show the struggle I’ve endured in finding just the right length, color, and style. After grade school the trips across town stopped, and I grew my hair to conform to the current fashion; long, straight, and parted in the middle. We all looked exactly the same, and that year’s school portrait remains among my favorite from my childhood.

By the time I entered the eleventh grade I was working part-time, and used my earnings to create my style. For years, I had frequented my mother’s beauty shop, where Diane carved stylish “wings” into my hair. Sure she would not be able to keep up with my avant-gardes style; I drove across town to a salon in which the stylist was only too willing to shave my locks to within a half-inch of my scalp. Tears welled in my mother’s eyes as I breezed through the backdoor, but she never said a discouraging word.

I shudder to think of my hair while in nursing school. Suffice it to say, it was big, and garnered many complements. But, it was the eighties, after all…

I’ve been long. I’ve been short. For a time I fancied red; a deep, brownish-red, chestnut perhaps. I married with red hair. I chose a dove gray dress. It worked.

I admire curls. Of course I do! The grass is always greener… It was my yearning for curls that enabled my first visit to my current stylist.

He liked long hair. What man doesn’t? I grew it to please him. But, as it grew, it hung like spider webs around my face. Tired, bored, and looking for a change, I went in search of a salon. At 9:00 am, on a Saturday morning, the choices were few. Several cars in front of the door told me they were accepting customers, and I pulled in.

I felt immediate unease, as I repeated my assignment several times, to a petite, dark-skinned woman who hadn’t, as yet, conquered the English language. Choosing to put my anxieties aside, I took a seat among the unknowing. I wanted curls.

A middle-aged woman approached me apologetically. As I took her seat, I searched the mirror for a license and, finding it, relaxed against the vinyl. She papered, and rolled, papered, and rolled. I noticed her questioning a nearby stylist frequently, and decided that my style was so new, so fresh, that she required assistance to achieve the effect I had so masterfully described.

I left, with curls that would have made my Grandmother proud!

Several weeks later, as the curls dissolved into frizz, I jangled the bell of a different salon. They had closed. The last customer had left several minutes before. Deedee took one look at my hair, and pity overcame her aching legs and tired arms. In what seemed like minutes, she transformed my angry locks into something I could live with.

Since that time, I’ve gone shorter. Gwen Stefani inspired me to go beyond blonde, and Gina Glocksen took off about four inches. I wore the “Graduated Bob” until everyone one else graduated. Unhappy to see myself replicated everywhere I went, I changed again.

This year, I’m curly again, but, less curly; wavy, really. The style is blonde, and soft, and where I am now. It suits us both, me and my hair. I’ve given up control, and it feels like the right thing to do.

Deedee tells me that I can’t do color and perm in one visit. My hair is darker now. I search for tell-tale grays among my roots.

And, seeing one, revel in the real.