2011 – A Retrospective

As years go, there have been better and there have been worse.

1999, for example, was a wonderful year. 1999 was the year I remembered my worth and reclaimed my strength. After years of living a “less than” life, I gave the rudder a mighty jerk and set sail in a completely different direction. And I never looked back.

Given what I now know, I might have chosen to skip 2003, altogether. I had emergency surgery in March. Four weeks into my six-week recovery period my mother died. And while she’d been ill for most of the previous four years, her death came suddenly as the result of a blood clot. I learned she had died while shopping at Target in what was my first foray into the outside world since my surgery. My daughter and grandson had left me in the house wares department. He needed t-shirts.

I remember a voice inside my head shouting at me to breathe and finding it difficult to follow directions. That same voice reminded me my family was counting on me, if for nothing other than a ride home. And then there was the question of when to tell them. Did everyone need to carry that knowledge around Target? Or would waiting be more appropriate?

The words flowed from me as soon as I saw my daughter’s face and everything after merged into a days-long blur, with a few exceptions. I remember sitting, powerless, around a polished, wooden table meant for a high-powered board room, wondering why my sister hadn’t removed her sunglasses. I remember my dress. It was vintage, late 60’s I think, and gray. Embroidered flowers trailed down the right side of the skirt. And, I remember standing under a large, green tent, alongside my sisters, next to the casket holding my mother. The four of us sang “Amazing Grace”. It was her favorite.

2011 was significant in its own way. This year, for the first time ever, I drove several hundred miles across several states alone. And, before I did that, I drove several hundred miles across several states in the company of a friend who, up to that point, I’d only known online. The two of us were on our way to meet many more friends with whom we’d had years-long online friendships. The experience was wonderful and proved what I’d always felt; online relationships are real and can be every bit as meaningful as those we experience 3D.

Here are a few other things I learned this year:

– I do not have to react. In fact, in many cases its better I don’t. Action, in almost every case, is preferable to reaction.
– I can be most childish with those I care most about. Not behaving in a childish manner is a decision that benefits everyone. And it’s easier to do than you might think.
– There is a place in my life for religion, and participation in a group of spiritually like-minded people feeds something in me, making me more whole.
– You can’t fully appreciate the angst of desire until you’ve wanted something for your child that you are powerless to provide.
– Acceptance, in all its forms, is a major component of happiness.
– I’ve spent a considerable amount of time looking for something I already had but wouldn’t see.
– Despite disagreements, disappointment, and geography some people will always have a place in my heart…because they live there.

30 Days of Gratitude – Day 2 – My Job

Mitchell Steiner wore his jet black hair combed straight back off his swarthy-skinned face. His coal-colored eyes either danced or snapped, depending on his mood. His nose was aquiline. His mouth never stopped moving. Mitch was a talker, as in smooth talker, as in car salesman, or motivational speaker, though he became neither. Mitch claimed his destiny early on. He was headed for a career in medicine. At the age of fifteen, a stint in the Explorer Scouts was, for him, a logical move in that direction. For me, it was a way to be closer to Mitch. I had no idea my destiny, too, was being set.

My father didn’t suggest I go into nursing, he insisted. He had a litany of reasons to support his position; a litany he cited, ad infinitum, whenever the topic was broached. I, on the other hand, had never even considered it. As soon as I could stand, I did so in front of a pint-sized chalk board that turned round and round in its aluminum stand; a feature I found most irritating, as a glimpse at the magnetized side of the board, with its cacophony of many-colored plastic letters, only served to remind me that it wasn’t a real chalk board in a real classroom, and I wasn’t a real teacher.

Sometime during my mid-twenties, possibly between baby number one and baby number two, it became evident to my father that my career in nursing would never come to full fruition.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to throw it all away! You’ve wasted so much time!”

“I don’t see it that way.”, I answered him. “I’ve gained knowledge I’ll always have, and use. It wasn’t a waste. I just never wanted to be a nurse.”

“What do you mean you didn’t want to be a nurse? What about all that time you spent in Explorer Scouts?”

I traded my scrubs for a “burp rag”, which is Southern for the cloth diaper worn over one shoulder from the time a baby is born, until she takes her meals with the rest of the family, preferably in a high chair that has been sat upon a large piece of plastic meant to catch the food that missed her intended mark, her brother’s faces.

Mothering was a fine career choice, and I was fortunate to be able to do just that while my kids were very young. When I did return to the workforce outside my plastic-lined domicile, I managed my hours in such a way as to avoid using childcare. I worked during the day. My husband worked at night. One of the two of us always cared for our children. I did it alone, but my husband, apparently, needed help. His girlfriend often visited on her lunch hour bearing pizza from the pizzeria she managed. I found her generosity maternal and oddly comforting. There’s still a very small, warm place in my heart for her.

Ricky and I signed divorce papers on New Year’s Eve.

Twenty years later, Ricky is deceased, three of my four children have homes of their own, and I work in a business my father helped to get off the ground . I started part-time during a soon aborted attempt at beefing up my nursing degree. I should have known better. It wasn’t my idea in the first place, remember?

I used to say, when asked about my job, that I was paid way too much money to do a job a chimpanzee could do. I don’t say that anymore. The job hasn’t changed. My duties are still well within the primate learning curve. What’s changed is my compensation. As the first rocks began to fall off our soon to crumble national economy, my employers explained their decision to switch me from a salaried to an hourly employee as a form of simplification. Benefits, too, proved complicated. I haven’t had a paid vacation, holiday, or sick day in several years. My 401K was frozen.

But I get a paycheck and, even though ten percent less, my earnings afford my son luxuries such as organized sports, music lessons, an IPOD, an Android, and a PS3. I have a place to go every day and a job to do, which is more than many people have today.

I’m not doing what I thought I would do, but maybe that’s because I didn’t set my sights high enough. One look at my son and I know I have more than enough, and there’s still time for chalkboards in my future.

30 Days of Gratitude – Sisters

I don’t post a Facebook status every day. Some days I don’t really have a status. Some days, I spend part of the day just trying to decide what my status would be if I really had to have one…which I don’t, of course. I’m comfortable subsisting in a status-less state. After all, I spent the better part of my life without a declared status. Most of that went okay.

Today, and for the next twenty-nine days, I will declare my status on Facebook. I’m calling it Thirty Days of Gratitude.

I participated in thirty days of music. It was fun. It brought back a lot of memories. Memories and music always mix with me.

I got halfway through Project 365, an exercise in posting a photograph every day for a year. My computer went on the fritz somewhere around photo number one-sixty.

I was tempted to join a friend in posting a different, meaningful film everyday for a month…until I remembered I have no memory for titles, or actors names, and only retain tiny snippets of plot that prove to be ungoogleable.

So why not do Thirty Days of Gratitude? One thing’s for sure…I can use the reminder.

Today, I am grateful for sisters. I have three of them. All are younger, some more than others.

Laura and I are eighteen months apart which means sometimes I am two years older, and sometimes I am one year older, but I am always older. Many parenting blogs suggest eighteen months to be an ideal age gap between babies one and two. I’m thinking this estimation is made from the point of view of the parents whose workload, while doubled, isn’t complicated by diversity. Basically, it’s like having another kid along for the ride.

Lower to the ground, though, the view is very different. The competition began the moment she entered the house disguised as a puff of white organza and lasted until, as an adult with children of my own, I realized that with deference comes responsibility. My mother shared things with Laura she never shared with me, but that doesn’t have to be because Laura was her favorite. It might also be because Laura was interested, and a better listener and…well…there.

Today, Laura rarely wears organza, choosing instead easy-to-care-for knits, and scarves. We both like scarves, but we wear them differently. That’s what we are. We are alike, but different. I think that’s why we have so much fun when we are together. Whatever the reason, the years have stripped away all the things that don’t matter, leaving us with our scarves, love for our kids, and the ability to make each other laugh…at most anything.

Holly came after Laura, and we both thought we’d never seen anything more beautiful. Compared to us two tow-heads, Holly, with her chocolate brown eyes and curly locks to match, appeared downright exotic! She had a sweet disposition and a smile to match. I’m willing to bet both Laura and I carry the same image in our heads of Holly as a toddler, standing tall and proud next to the pencil-drawn line on the wall in my mother’s sewing room. She couldn’t have been much over three feet tall.

Holly and I were always the closest of the four sisters. We were the renegades. We smoked and drank and made bad choices in men…and spent hours together on the telephone justifying our misguided decisions. We’re not as close as we once were. She doesn’t know how proud I am of her and the way she set a course for her life and stuck to it. Years ago she told me she wanted to live on a mountain-top, faraway. She does now, and she is surrounded by the things she loves best, animals. I always knew that’s what she would do…what many of us never do. She found happy.

Candi is the youngest. She prefers to be called Candace, but after years of Candy, Candi is the best I can do. Her middle name is Jane, so of course we called her Candy-Jane. Mom even made a song out of it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I’m not so sure she liked it. I always think we are ten years apart but when I count it’s actually seven. It feels like ten though…

What with the age difference, we didn’t actually play together much as children. I remember worrying about her a lot. I expressed this to our parents and checked on her at night, when she was in her crib.

Even as a girl, I loved to concoct stories. Once when I was about thirteen and Candi was three…no, make that six…I brought her to tears with one of my stories. I remember the mix of feelings; the horror that I’d made my baby sister cry, and the thrill of doing something really well.

Though not evident on the surface, Candi and I are probably the most alike in temperament. We both march to music others don’t necessarily hear. And, we are okay with that. The tunes Candi hears are very different from those that play in my head, and we are okay with that, too.

We live less than thirty minutes apart and only see each other about four times a year. We addressed this issue a couple of years ago by instituting a monthly get-together we referred to as “Sisters”. After about a year, conflicting schedules and, yes, priorities got in the way. What with Holly living on her mountain-top, regrouping will be a challenge, but I hope we’ll find a way to do it…soon. Whether eighteen months, ten years or seven years apart, we’re not getting any younger…

Homecoming

“Honey, it’s at least a month away. It’s too early to ask her. A million things could happen between now and then.”

I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull the words back in before my son heard them. It wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t…no, couldn’t understand.

“Yeah, but if I wait, someone else will ask her.”

And that’s when, for the first time in a very long time, I began worrying about Homecoming.

You might think “worry” an unusual choice of word. If so, you probably had a date. You probably went to all four Homecoming dances with a date or one of those groups of kids who exude wholesomeness via cohesiveness.

I did neither. Homecoming, for at least the first couple of years of high school, was something to get through. It marked a period of avoidance because it wasn’t just about a dance. It was all of the things leading up to the dance. It was decorating committees, and “Wear Your Favorite T-Shirt Day”, and hallways covered in poster-boards advertising candidates for Queen and King, and of course, “Who are you going with?” For two years I spent those two weeks with my head down, mostly inside my house.

My son likes to talk to me while I’m online. Rolling around the room on a big, blue exercise ball, he is like an over-sized gerbil that chatters.

“Here’s what happened.”, he starts as though the previous conversation just ended. “I asked Molly and she said “No”. You know she really likes me and everything but she probably won’t go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So then John asked me if he could ask her and I told him, “Go ahead, but she’s not gonna go and if she does go she’s just gonna go with some friends.”, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so then he asks her and Molly says “Yes” because John has a six-pack.”

“Huh?”

“A six-pack. Girls like guys with six-packs. John has a six pack.”

I started to ask how Molly, or anyone else for that matter, knew John had a six-pack but decided the answer would probably take our conversation in a whole different direction…a topic for another day, perhaps.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”, was all I could think to say.

“No…well, I don’t care.”, he answered, rolling towards the closet.

“You could go with a group.”, I suggested as a picture of my sister’s “group” flashed into my head. My sister went everywhere with the “group”. Even as a memory they exuded cleanliness. “Or you could go alone. Lots of people will go alone, you’ll see.”

He rolled out of sight. “I’ll think about it.”, he said from somewhere behind me.

When Homecoming week arrived, I took heart in my son’s participation in “Wear Your Favorite T-shirt Day”. It didn’t matter that he might have worn it anyway. At least he was engaged. But when Tuesday came and went without any declaration regarding attending the dance, I couldn’t help myself.

“So? Are you going?” I was a talking bundle of laundry, floating down the hall on its way towards the laundry room.

“Nah…I’m not going.” His bedroom door, closing behind him, provided punctuation.

An argument ensued as I continued my trek towards the washer.

“He should go.”, I thought. “He’ll be sorry he missed out. I hope he’s not isolating himself.”

“You can’t say anything.”, I thought. “Talking about it makes it a big deal. It’s his decision.”

I said nothing, and the day of the dance became just another Saturday.

I didn’t see the women until one of them spoke, waking me from the sleep walk that had propelled me from my car to the inside of the market. They were “Football Moms”, like me. Our sons had been teammates for years, and now they were freshmen in high school.

And it was Homecoming Saturday.

“Can you believe I still haven’t found him a suit?” The mother of “John Of The Legendary Six-Pack” spoke.

“Aren’t these things a little less formal now? “, I asked, lightly. “He could wear a shirt and tie.”

“What about Shane? Is Shane wearing a suit?”

Did I imagine her eyes widening just a bit, as though anxious for an answer?

“Shane’s not going.”, I kept it light. “You know, he asked Molly before John did.”

Was that a flush of color on her freckled cheeks?

“Yeah…”

She congratulated her son with a smile he wouldn’t see.

The exchange sparked anxiety that would stay with me for most of the day. Several times over the course of the afternoon I had to force myself not to find Shane and ask him one more time, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” There had been talk of an after-party. All his friends would be there. I knew because, earlier in the day, I’d surveyed him about their plans.

But I didn’t. I didn’t ask him.

On Sunday, the day after Homecoming, we went for a haircut. As I drove, it occurred to me we wouldn’t have to wait long since all the other boys would have had haircuts the previous weekend, in preparation for the dance.

“I’m really glad I didn’t go to that party, Mom.” Shane spoke into the passenger side window.

“Really? Why?”

It seemed things had gotten ugly between several of the boys. One of them left early.

“What about his date?”, I asked.

“He went with Vicky.”, he groaned. An image of a diminutive fifth-grader with manicured nails and perfectly placed highlights came to mind. “Vicky’s a slut. Everyone knows that.”

Despite his confirmation of my earlier gut reaction, I suggested he find another way to describe the girl.

“That’s why I didn’t want to go, Mom!” He turned to face me, pummeling me with the full force of words that left him in a kind of angry whine. “They all wanted me to go with Amy, Vicky’s friend. And she’s just like her. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to put myself in a situation I don’t know how to handle.”

Overwhelmed, I remained silent.

“Maybe I’m weird…but I don’t want it to be like that. When I have sex, I want it to be with someone I at least like, you know?”

I wanted to stop the car. I wanted to stop the car and scoop him up in my arms the way I always did when he faced uncertainty.

But I didn’t.

“You’re not weird.”, I said in measured tones. “You’re not weird, you’re smart. You made a good decision.”

I pulled into a parking space next to a motorcycle that had the Batman insignia on the engine cover.

“Good! Kevin’s here!” Shane bounced out of the car and placed his hand on his favorite stylist’s bike.

He stood straight. There was a quickness in his eyes. He smiled.

Homecoming, indeed.

Finally Determined: TBD, Facebook, and Girls Gone Mild

I’m not the most social animal you’ll ever meet.

Just ask…

Okay, there are a couple of people you could ask.

My oldest/dearest would regale you with stories of sardonic avoidance. While she’s talking though, remember she’s not exactly the life of the party herself. We met at work. I believe the ice-breaker was a question about fellatio. That kind of thing will bond a girl…

My “Spirit Mother”, a Native-American woman who tackled the job of growing me up within months of my thirtieth birthday, will tell you it’s a ruse. She’ll dub me magnanimous and explain, in great detail, the ways in which I’ve proven the depth of my caring, my intelligence, and the innate generosity of my nature.

And, they’d both be right…depending on the day, my level of self-confidence, and the number of days since I’ve been alone.

Really alone.

Because, I have to be.

Not all the time. Everyone knows doing anything all the time is unhealthy.

But I need it some of the time.

Strange as it may sound, being alone actually takes me outside myself. When forced to associate for days on end, my emotions become jumbled. Thinking becomes hard, and sleep, evasive.

Alone time, whether spent writing, reading, or inside the cocoon provided by nose-cancelling earbuds, allows my mind to rest, to find space for the tornadic detritus produced by the effort of showing up.

And, speaking of showing up…

Almost five years ago, I joined a social website on a whim. I’d been surfing the internet, for what I don’t remember. But, I came across an advertisement for a social website built for Boomers.

I’m a Boomer…barely. It gives me a modicum of comfort to be able to say that I qualify by just a few months.

I joined. I conjured a catchy screen-name and used, as an avatar, a photograph taken by my daughter.

Photogenic, I am not. My daughter caught me on an upswing…literally. The photograph was taken while I shared the porch swing with my eldest son. He always makes me smile. She clicked at just the right time.

Over several years, for several hours, several days a week, I forged relationships with people in exotic places like Goshen, New York, Lincoln, Nebraska, and Sydney, Australia.

And we shared. We learned about families, argued about politics, supported artistic effort, and congratulated achievement.

And we laughed. We told jokes, poked fun, and honed our already razor-sharp, sarcastic wits into instruments of cohesive amusement.

And we played…really played…like children play…with abandon, and the certainty that tomorrow, after the responsibilities of “real” life were met, the gang would be there, and we would play again.

And, speaking of real life…

Websites cost money, and ours wasn’t making any. Despite our founder’s best efforts, our playground closed. Seeing the handwriting on the “wall”, several of us joined Facebook in an effort to maintain contact. And then, a few more joined.

“And they told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on…”

It’s not the same, but its okay. And, when I think about it, I’m amazed. We come from very different backgrounds, different demographics, and various socio-economic strata. We are African-American. We are Asian. We are Christian. We are Agnostic. We are musicians. We are Stay-At-Home-Moms. We are self-employed. We are grandfathers. We are disabled. We are yoga instructors. We love music, sports, and high-heels.

Well, not all of us love sports, but high-heels suffer no such prejudice.

We do all the things we did before, only now we do it under the watchful eye of “3D” family and friends, who read our walls in amazement at the bonds we’ve forged with people far-flung in so many ways.

A couple of years ago, one of our group suggested a meet-up. Meeting at the beach, combined with the aforementioned wit, suggested the title “Girls Gone Mild”. This year, regardless of social ineptitude, I’m one of the girls.

I’d tell you I’m excited, but the word isn’t big enough. I’d say I’m nervous, but that word suggests anxiety…

Okay, I’m anxious.

There are the pounds put on as a result of dying glands and overworked ovaries. And, there’s my hair. It’s long now. He likes it that way. But the color’s all wrong and, in this heat, it hangs.

And there are the shoes. We’re going to the beach. No one wears heels at the beach…but I’ve got this reputation.

For days now, sleep has been elusive. Last night, after what seemed like hours, I finally turned the clock around to see “4:15”, large, blue, and LCD. I’d been awake for a while. The alarm was set to go off in forty-five minutes. I gave up.

A double-click opened my home page. It had been hours since any of my friends posted. I scrolled and read, and didn’t think I’d given myself away, but a red “1” lurking over the message box said different.

“What’re you doing up?”

That’s when I realized that since joining “TBD”, I’ve never, really, been alone.

And, they’ve made all the difference.

And, That’s When I Saw The Duck

It was just a regular Thursday morning…

I go in late on Thursdays. My schedule was changed a couple of years ago to accommodate customers in other time zones. Personally, I felt those customers could have used the same method they use when planning to watch a program on television. For example, if an Alabamian hopes to catch an episode of “House” advertised to air at eight, eastern, she knows to pick out her spot on the couch no later than 6:58. They are used to it. They’ve always done it. My bosses weren’t having it.

Actually, I enjoy the extra time at home in the morning. I get to see my son and we can have a conversation that doesn’t necessarily include grunts. I can water my garden and/or pick flowers to take to the office. I’ve even been known to start a load of laundry. The real advantage, though, is that I can take my son to school.

School ended for most kids almost two weeks ago. But Shane plays football and, in this town, football players are expected to take summer courses in order to free up time in their fall schedule for weight-lifting, film-watching, and any other activity the coach might deem necessary to win the next game. Of course, all of this comes under the heading “PE” so as not to violate any Board of Education mandates. But I digress…

After throwing seed at the chickens and shutting off the sprinkler, I climbed into the driver’s seat beside Shane who always sits in the car for at least ten minutes before anyone else is ready. Two of his teammates waited in a driveway around the corner, soon filling my backseat to capacity, and the shrunken airspace with just a hint of man/boy funk.

The drive to school was short and quiet, as a local DJ hinted at lascivious content after the next commercial break. The backseat boys exchanged nervous glances.

Banter began as we took our place on line in front of the designated drop-off point. As we inched forward, the boys in the back opened their doors while Shane slid in for a good-bye kiss that could be my last. Every one could be my last. I know this; the preciousness of what I have left. I was also acutely aware of the amount of testosterone sliding out of my backseat. I turned my head, offering my cheek.

Summer should mean lighter traffic. For some reason, that hasn’t happened this year. So far, the lights are just as long, the lanes are just as clogged, and drivers in tiny cars with loud mufflers are just as annoying.

My commute takes me through several very large intersections which, when combined, include fourteen lanes of traffic. I glided to a stop at one of them while considering whether or not to listen to a CD rather than my beloved “Fresh Air” on NPR. The topic was electric cars and the batteries that propel them…snore…

And, that’s when I saw the duck.

She was small, smaller than the ducks I visit at our local park, and brown; mottled brown and white that would turn beige in a squint. Five look-a-like ducklings waddled, in military-like precision, behind her.

ACROSS SIX LANES OF MORNING COMMUTE TRAFFIC!!!

One hand grabbed the door handle, while the other found the console.

My mind raced.

How had she managed the first five lanes?

How would she manage the last? The turn-lane to my right always moved with a steady flow of traffic.

I considered getting out, but didn’t want to frighten her. She’d done such a good job, so far…

All I could do was wait; wait and worry, worry and wait, while white-knuckling my car’s interior.

Sweat beaded along my hairline as I eyed the rearview mirror. Nervous, I shifted my eyes to the passenger-side mirror, while wondering what I might do if a car appeared there. “They’d never see her.”, I thought. “She’s so small.”

The driver of the car to my left tapped her horn as though to hurry her along. I bounced in my seat in an effort at moral support.

I watched Mother Duck gain the curb, before checking the mirrors again. “Hurry!!!” (It was a silent scream.) Like molasses, the ducklings flowed over the curb behind her. She poked her billed into the underbrush several times before choosing a path and, in agonizing fashion, they were gone.

In a gush, I exhaled the breath I’d sucked in upon seeing the duck. Tears came to my eyes, and I wondered how she’d known. What force told her it was time? Whose hand held traffic at bay?

Who said there’s no such thing as miracles?

To Bake, Or Not to Bake

So, apparently, The Rapture is scheduled to take place tomorrow, May 21^st. Or October 21^st. Or, possibly some time in between. I guess that’s why, though he announced a date, Reverend Camping left us guessing as to time.

And, that’s unfortunate.

You see, it’s clean-up day at the high school tomorrow. All football players and their parents are expected to attend. I suppose we could blow it off. I mean, it’s not as though they’ll be taking attendance, right? But there’s this feeling that if you don’t show up, the coach will notice. You’d be passing up an opportunity for face time, a chance to make an impression so indelible as to create a presence he won’t be able to ignore while fine-tuning the starting line-up. Yes, there is the perception that a day like tomorrow could make or break a kid’s high school football career, rapture notwithstanding.

I spoke with my grandson yesterday. He finished the conversation the same way he always does.

“When am I coming to your house, Nonni?

Had Reverend Camping seen fit to settle on a time, I might have planned a short visit. I could have arranged a sort of Bon Voyage party, just in case. I mean, granted, Elijah probably hasn’t been born again, but that could be because it hasn’t been an awfully long time since he was born the first time. Surely the selection committee wouldn’t hold that against him, right?

My son’s birthday is Monday, and he really, really wants to be fourteen. After all, he’s had a whole year to plan. In anticipation of the event, I purchased a pretty fancy guitar. It’d be a shame if he never got to play it, but I could probably get my money back. There are sure to be plenty of guitar players left behind…

And, of course, a pending rapture calls into question the need for cake. To bake, or not to bake? The cake my son has requested is, when complete, three layers of decadent gooey goodness. The ingredients aren’t cheap and preparation takes some time; time possibly better spent on “making arrangements”, if you catch my drift…

On the way to dinner tonight, my son gave a lecture on rapture. His knowledge was impressive considering his formal religious education is spotty, at best.

“The whole thing is bogus, Mom. I mean, anybody who reads the Bible knows that even predicting the rapture is a sin! Nobody’s supposed to know when that’s going to happen!”

This is the point at which I realized my son has been receiving Bible lessons from someone other than me. We’ve discussed God, rehashed stories, investigated traditions, and read many of the Psalms. I love the Psalms. David is among my favorite poets. But we only discussed Rapture once. I remember we were watching VH1….

Politics and Pharisees

I work in an office populated by political people, the majority of whom prefer their chairs roll only to the right.

And, then there’s me.

Clinton was still in office when I started this job. Those were the salad days…

Other than a few last-minute shenanigans for which he reportedly employed official pardons and office equipment to, in essence, give his successor the finger, my office-mates had little to complain about.

Political discussions, many of them heated, became more the norm after Bush took office and particularly after he made the decision to invade Iraq. They reached such a fever pitch, in fact, that administration mandated they stop. And they did, forcing those so inclined to perfect the use of loaded questions and pointed barbs as a means to draw political blood.

“What do you think about Donald Trump running for president?”

I studied the face of the asker for signs of sarcasm and/or levity, finding neither in her blank stare.

“I don’t know…”, I started, hoping she’d take the bait and declare her position.

“I saw him on Entertainment Tonight last night! He’s got some good ideas!”, she gushed around the hook.

I leaned back in my chair and focused on attaining the same level of blank upon my face as that with which she’d greeted me.

“Really? Like what?”

As I spoke, my mind flashed back to an earlier conversation in which she had detailed Gary Busey’s firing from “The Apprentice”. So she knows, I thought. She knows, and she’d vote for him anyway. Despite my efforts, I felt a twitch begin in the crow’s feet surrounding my left eye.

“Well, like Afghanistan. He said in the old days, when we declared war on a country, we just went in and took over. He wants to do that in Afghanistan!”

“It’s not really that easy, you know?” Only conscious effort kept the “Mommy” out of my voice.

She was silent for two beats before dragging her sneakered toe across hopelessly unattractive institutional carpet.

“Yeah….”, she managed to mumble, deflated.

My “smartphone” was impressed enough by Trump’s decision not to run that it alerted me immediately.

I, in turn, went to a different co-worker, who soon after declared she had never watched a single episode of “The Apprentice”.

“Trump’s decided not to run! Who will we vote for now?” My moan dripped with sarcasm.

Cora, a seventy-five-year-old woman who delights in telling people she’s known me for over forty years, turned in her chair.

“Well it sure as hell won’t be Newt Gingrich!”, she nearly shouted. “Can you believe he’s running?” Many more sentences followed before she ended with, “I mean he’s obviously a very smart man but he just can’t keep his pants on!”

I’ve noticed that those in my office (This might be read as everyone except me.) who support Republican/Libertarian/Tea Party candidates seem to do so with a “religious” fervor.

Take June, for example. Sunday mornings find June, her husband, and any college-age offspring who happen to be home for the weekend, in “their” pew inside a large sanctuary replete with ecclesiastical “Jumbo-trons” necessary for those in the very back of the church to see the pastor.

At work, June occupies the cubicle next to mine. Her youngest daughter, fresh from freshman year at UGA, has joined her. And, yesterday morning, her brother stopped there on his way to his own office. Did I mention I work in a family business?

I don’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t hear anything before the word “Pharisee”.

It’s not a word you hear everyday. I can’t, in fact, remember the last time I heard it.

“Isn’t that rich?”, June giggled in that way she has, reminding anyone within listening distance that she still has lunch with several sorority sisters once a month.

“I mean Obama, the Pharisee, was actually quoting from the Bible!” She giggled again.

Her family members remained silent until her brother offered up a weekend anecdote.

I made the decision to forget. I filed away her words, her giggle, and the surprising spark of indignation I couldn’t deny feeling.

After all, I haven’t been this disillusioned by another human being…ever. Obama wasn’t my first choice but, by the time the election was held, he was the only choice. I did my best to believe in him and, despite his admittedly inspired rhetoric, he turned out to be just like the rest of them…

But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t forget. I thought I knew what a Pharisee was, but I wasn’t absolutely sure. It nagged at me all day.

I held my own special brand of indignant curiosity at bay until I got home from work. I fed chickens, collected eggs, checked in on the garden, flipped through mail, and gave my son an extra-big hug before sitting down at the computer.

And, then I “Googled” it.

“phar·i·see/ˈfarəsē/Noun

1. A member of an ancient Jewish sect, distinguished by strict observance of the traditional and written law, and commonly held to have pretensions to superior sanctity.

2. A self-righteous person; a hypocrite.”

President Obama is definitely not Jewish.

But then, neither is June.

41“Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 42“Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take out the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye. 43“For there is no good tree which produces bad fruit, nor, on the other hand, a bad tree which produces good fruit.44“For each tree is known by its own fruit. For men do not gather figs from thorns, nor do they pick grapes from a briar bush. 45“The good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth what is good; and the evil man out of the evil treasure brings forth what is evil; for his mouth speaks from that which fills his heart.

Luke 6: 41-46

Going To The Birds

My very favorite place to spend a spring-time Sunday morning is on the patio in my backyard, where the birdsong is exquisitely varied and sung at a pitch that is awe-inspiring. I’ve often thought I should bring my camera with me. Today I did.

Female Cardinal

Male Cardinal

A Pair

Red-Headed Woodpecker

Female Purple Finch

Brown Thrasher

Robin Red Breast

Blue Jay

And, my very favorite. They live here year-round and still, they take my breath away.

“…I’ll come flying through your door, and you’ll know what love is for. I’m a Bluebird. I’m a Bluebird.”

“…Touch your lips with a magic kiss, and you’ll be a Bluebird, too…”

“…and at last we will be free. You’re a Bluebird. You’re a Bluebird.”

“We’re living in the trees, and we’re flying in the breeze. We’re the Bluebirds. We’re the Bluebirds.”

Lyrics taken from “Bluebird” by Paul McCartney

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell…Osama-style

It was a Tuesday.

I had already worked long enough to induce desperate glances at the clock in hopes that it would soon be time for lunch.

My desk phone rang.

Ann calling to say she’d be late wasn’t unusual. The frantic tone in her voice was. It took several minutes and many incomplete sentences, for me to realize something truly terrible had happened.

The need to call my husband was visceral, not so much to relay the news as to hear his voice.

I would have given anything to call my son. I fought the urge to pick him up at school, take him home, lock the doors, and hold him…forever.

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

The world had just tilted on its axis.

I shared the small amount of information I had gleaned from Ann with my husband who, in turn, filled in with what he’d heard on the radio. As he spoke, images of other recent acts of terrorism flashed across my brain. When he finished I said, “It was Bin Laden. I know it was. He’s the only one smart enough, evil enough. This has his fingerprints all over it.” And, it did.

I felt a sense of triumph when the Bush administration announced American troops had entered Afghanistan in search of Bin Laden…until they didn’t. The subterfuge began. Personal agendas superseded national security, and suddenly Sadam Hussein was painted as the new face of the Taliban.

And they believed.

People I know to be intelligent, successful people, learned people, people who contribute to their communities, people who knew better, believed. Even now, as I attempt to write about it, nausea threatens and a whirring begins inside my head. Everything about that time defied reason. Everything.

It took decades for me to learn not to worry about things over which I have no control. The lesson came in handy as I read a memo, circulated by two vice-presidents of our company, forbidding negative commentary about the Bush administration and/or its policies. The directive was, of course, couched in language less than direct, but the message was clear. I turned off the television. I removed NPR from the pre-sets on my car stereo. I pushed the newspaper out of the way when I sat down to eat lunch. I dropped out.

To be honest, I haven’t given much thought to Osama Bin Laden. Oh, I paid attention when he released videos. Well, they said he released them, I was never quite sure.

At one point, I heard he had kidney disease. Soon after that, I began to imagine him dead. It was a coping mechanism, I’m sure, and goes a long way towards explaining my shock upon hearing he really was.

But, not really.

The shock came with the words, President Obama’s words, “Tonight, I can report to the American people and to the world that the United States has conducted an operation that killed Osama bin Laden…”

It was the word “killed”.

Inside my head, the sentence compressed, and I heard “…the United States killed Osama bin Laden…”. Even now, I get stuck on the word “killed”. Perhaps his speechwriters could have chosen more carefully?

“Killed” is raw. “Killed” is brutal. “Killed” is harsh, and cold, and violent. On “24”, Jack Bauer might have used the word “marginalized”. That’s a good word…

I’m not comfortable with killing. I don’t kill bugs. Okay, I’ll kill a cockroach. But that’s it. Well, and a bee, but only if he’s expressed an intent to get me first.

And then, there’s the other side, the side that says, “We created him, and now we’ve destroyed him.”. I can see justice in that.

I go in late on Mondays. By the time I get to the office, everyone else has been there for hours. Even so, I thought someone would say something. When Joe Biden commits a verbal gaffe (which is, admittedly, almost every time he appears in public) the talk is incessant.

No one said a word.

I breached the office door of the only other non-dyed-in-the-wool-republican in the building and asked, “Have they talked about it at all?”. He shook his newly hairless, Carvillesque dome from side to side while wearing a look of reluctant resignation.

Sometime around ten yesterday morning, I felt relief. By noon I was ready to admit it. An older woman, the mother of one of the memo-writing vice-presidents, finally tossed it out there just before she left for the day.

“What do you think about our troops killing Bin Laden?”, she asked, loudly, as she reached for her $400.00 handbag with one hand while flipping the light switch with the other.

An officemate who had recently declared her intent to vote for Donald Trump in 2012 spoke first. For the first time in a long time, she was proud to be American. (Cue the fireworks…has anyone seen Lee Greenwood?)

I admitted feeling relief in knowing Bin Laden was gone.

No one else said a word.