>Cookies for Breakfast

I just washed an entire load of pajamas. Just pajamas; flannel pants, t-shirts, and even one pair of actual pajamas, the old fashioned kind. They are black fleece and have polka dots. As my friend exclaimed when I unwrapped them, they are “me”.

That’s the kind of week it’s been, a pajamaed week; a week spent, for the most part, inside the flannel-lined cocoon that is my home. I’ve eaten cookies for breakfast. I’ve mastered most levels of my son’s new fishing game. Spear-fishing and bow-fishing are easy. It’s the rod-fishing that’s given me a little trouble.

I’ve watched hours and hours of college football between frequent, sometimes tiny, naps. I love the way that happens. The feeling creeps in like a cozy fog and I realize that if I close my eyes and tilt my head ever so slightly to one side, sleep will come. I’ve learned to embrace the feeling. And, I’m reaping benefits. Yesterday, the face that met me in the bathroom mirror was clearer, less lined, more relaxed, content.

We did go out on Tuesday. We had gift cards to redeem and Christmas money to spend. Shane bought a pair of Sperry Topsiders. Counting out seventy five dollars, he laid it on the counter taking great pains not to touch the hand of the clerk who congratulated him, repeatedly, for being a “good boy” and “saving” his money. I tried, once, to correct her.

“It’s Christmas money.”

She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, and continued to voice her approval.

Of course, my son believes he and his friends practically invented Sperry Topsiders. He winced just slightly when the clerk called out his total, but I’m sure he would have paid whatever it cost. The only thing of which he was not certain was the color. You see, it’s very important that one’s Topsiders are the proper color. I started to tell him that when I wore them we favored the darker brown. I started to tell him I could show him a photograph that hadn’t even had time to fade. But I didn’t.

While we were out, I was delighted to discover that Sirius radio continues to play Christmas music right up until New Year’s Day. I don’t understand why our local station doesn’t do that. They begin playing carols a week before Thanksgiving when people are mainly just thinking about food, and if they are thinking about Christmas it’s because they’re hoping that this year the family will draw names. Then, at midnight on the day after Christmas, the carols end. Sometimes right in the middle of a song! Okay, so they might not change formats in the middle of a song but it is abrupt. And, it does come before I am ready. It’s good to know Sirius “gets” me.

I take vacation the week after Christmas. I do this for a number of reasons. I do this because Shane’s Dad takes vacation the week before. I do this because I enjoy watching college football. And, as I recently came to realize while sitting in a tub of warm water after an emotional day during which I almost cried while watching a car commercial, I do this because I don’t want my holiday to end in a pile of torn wrapping paper and dirty dishes. Especially this year, I don’t want Christmas to end.

I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to work, or pay bills, or worry about children, or plan meals, or work out, or clean the bathroom. I want to wear pajamas and eat cookies for breakfast. I’ve still got one level of that fishing game to conquer. I want to stay up as late as I like, secure in the knowledge that there will be more than enough time for a nap tomorrow.

But there won’t…

So, I will.

>The Office

I used to write in the room that used to be the living room.

On the day his house became our house, My Beloved argued there was no reason to unpack my ten year-old Gateway when he had a perfectly good, practically newborn HP in the living room. The computer sat on an iron and formica contraption that had surely been salvaged from an office whose inhabitants had eventually developed a sense of taste in furniture.

The walls were eggshell. I know this because I made the mistake of calling them “white”. And color was not the only thing of which these walls were devoid. On the ten walls separating the living/dining room from the rest of the house, there was but one attempt at décor. I didn’t know the artist, and there was something about the depiction of sweltering slaves in cotton fields that felt inappropriate in a room where people were expected to eat food. To my credit, I didn’t snatch the print down immediately, but waited instead until I had another rectangular object to put in its place. Nothing was ever said…

Within months, the walls were russet. My great grandmother’s quilt dressed up one side of the room. Depictions of family in various stages of development filled another. The computer was a Dell, dude, and sat upon a massive desk carved from hardwoods and stained a luscious cherry. Across from the desk, a bank of windows looked out upon a suburban cul-de-sac where children might be playing, dogs could be walking, trees changed color, and the occasional student driver eased around the circle testing the patience of those on carefully curbed bicycles. More than once, this vista provided inspiration.

Often, though, the view was skewed by someone passing through.

“Mom? Could you explain the theory of relativity and how it relates to your everyday life?”

Okay, he never actually asked that question, but he may as well have. The first syllable broke my concentration. And, as he posed his question or told his story or vented about a perceived slight, I fought to keep my eyes on his face while my mind wrote sentences I wouldn’t allow my fingers to type.

It was after one particularly inquisitive afternoon that I arrived upon the idea of turning a bedroom into an office, a place with a door, a door that could be closed.

Last week, I moved in. The Navajo blanket that had adorned a wall in the living room of my “Cool Single Mom” duplex lived to hang another day. My desk is small, but large enough to accommodate the pencil canister Shane made in first grade and my favorite pewter candlestick. My antique tables are doilied. Incense burns incessantly. Drawings drawn by a favorite artist fill a wall warmed by twinkle lights.

And the pressure is on…

The act of carving a niche for my writing makes it more important, somehow. Now that an entire room of my house has been set aside for the act, it seems I should be doing it not just more often, but more effectively.

But, I’m not.

I’m not writing. I’m working, and shopping, and baking, and wrapping, and partying, and marveling at my creation. I created a room, and it’s a great room, a room my family has dubbed “The Zen Room”. But sitting inside it I realize that the room, as zen as it is, is but a symbol of another, more important, creation.

I’ve created a home. I’ve created a family. I’ve created a relationship in which my partner allows me to dance to the music I hear even when he can’t hear it.

No walls were built and the boundaries, such as they are, drew themselves.

2010 will be remembered as the year I finally found the wisdom to shed that which is unnecessary, and in the process found me.

One day I hope to write about it. I have the room…

>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?

>Verbs

My friend Jeff is a thinker. I’m a thinker, too. We do not, however, think alike. Our thoughts seldom travel the same wavelength and/or velocity wave. Despite, or possibly because of our differences, we enjoy hearing what the other has to say about…most anything.

We are both participating in NaNoBloMo. Both of us have posted twelve blogs since the first of November which makes us both eligible for a prize. (Yay! A prize! )

In many ways, we’ve already won.

His post today was a series of prompts. He invited friends to participate. I’m a friend.

This is my take on his subject.

“No one really knows what it is to live until he can truly say these eleven great verbs of life; I am, I think, I know, I feel, I wonder, I see, I believe, I can, I ought, I will, and I serve. Life is but the process of learning through daily experience the meaning of these eleven wonderful, little verbs of life and acquiring the power of each.”

I am a Mom, with a capital “M”. A friend said that to me once. He was/is right. I am a Mom.

I never meant to be. I didn’t want children.

Like every other 14 year old girl in 1979, I babysat. Unlike most, I hated it. Every minute of it.

I never planned to have children. They were messy. They were mouthy. They were every unflattering “m” word you can imagine.

At 14, at my idealistic, ultra-dramatic best, I decided to adopt. I wouldn’t marry. I would adopt.

And she shall be called…”Tanganika”.

Well into my twenties, I learned that Tanganika is the largest lake on the African continent.

My daughter was born when I was 22. Her name is Jennifer.

I think often. Too much, really. I spend much of my time inside myself. This is not necessarily a good thing, but I do think most writers share this affliction. I am, currently, participating in a debate (inside myself, of course). On one side are those who would change me. On the other are those who are sure that who I am is what allows me to be what I have to be to do what I do.

So far it’s a draw.

I know…very little. Fortunately, I’m a free spirit. I can go with the flow. If what is true today is not necessarily true tomorrow, my day won’t be ruined. I consider it a challenge. We’ll figure it out. And, of course, what we can’t figure out, we’ll shove aside. Where there’s a will, there’s a way…

(Reading over this I am struck by the use of “we”, as in “We’ll figure it out.” I began changing it until I realized there is some meaning in the use of that word. I’ve let it stand. I’ll figure it out.)

I feel happy more often than not and, for me, that’s an improvement. I’ve realized my blessings. There’s this man…he’s a good man and he cares for me. More importantly, he cares for my child. Nothing, (Did you hear me?), nothing, marriage aside, nothing endears a man to a woman more than his love for her child.

I wonder if those I’ve left behind think of me. I wonder if my mother really does look over my shoulder. I wonder how long I’ll be here. I wonder what my kids REALLY think of me. I wonder if it matters….

I see only what I want to see. And, this makes me no different, no more important, and certainly no less culpable than anyone else. Many years ago I learned that my serenity is key to my functionality. Defense mechanisms I never knew I had kicked into over-drive. The evening news went off and newspaper subscriptions were cancelled. Political discussions went on around me, minus my participation. My children called to tell me their problems. I got the gist, asking no questions. I remembered how I had gotten through other difficult times in my life by asking the question “Is there anything I can reasonably do to make this situation better?”. If the answer is “yes”, I have an impetus to move on to the solution. If the answer is “no”, I move on.

I believe I can do it. I have to.

I can sing. I really can. I sing all the time. I sing with my IPOD. I sing with the radio. Sometimes I sing for no reason at all. I sang with a band. It was called 28 Days…it was a girl band…do the math.

I can cook. I really can. I can cook with the best of them. Unfortunately, for those who would have me cook all the time, I don’t like to cook all the time. I like to cook when I like to cook. I like to cook on holidays. I like to cook for parties. I like to cook for other people.

I can write. I can. We all can, really. Some of us just write stuff other people might want to read. And, that’s the difference.

I can roll my tongue.

I can blow smoke rings.

I could blow smoke rings.

Actually, I can probably still blow smoke rings, only I don’t smoke. But, if I did, I could.

I ought to get out more. See “I think…”

I will do what I have to do. I will also do what I want to do. I will not necessarily do what you want, and or, expect me to do. Therein, lies the rub.

I serve a purpose. I know this because I know there is a God, a God who created me, a God who has better things to do than create something without purpose. Therefore, I have a purpose. This purpose is different things to different people and that is as it should be.

>Robert D. Rogers and Me

I don’t remember meeting Robert D. Rogers; I just remember his being there. Always. From the age of eight or nine until we moved when I was twelve, Robert D. Rogers was always there.

I never called him anything else. He was never Bob or Bobby, Rob or Robbie. Sometimes his mother called him “Dee”. He didn’t like it much.

Everyone knew a Robert D. Rogers. Mine was blonde, the kind of blonde that renders one’s skin allergic to sunlight, the kind of skin that blooms bright red with the slightest physical exertion. Ever-moist cheeks the color of maraschino cherries only served to accentuate his otherwise pasty pallor. And, his nose was more than crusty. It was dirty. We never touched. I never forgot.

Robert D. Rogers was a bit of a story teller. For those of you not raised in a southern state during a time in which all public facilities featured shadows of the words “White” and “Colored” under a fresh coat of institutional paint, story teller meant liar. He told tall tales, grandiose tales of his family, or his abilities, or his adventures. His cheeks would often cherry as he told, and I knew that he knew that we knew that he was lying. But he didn’t stop. He went on until another boy, an athletic boy, a boy the other boys followed, made him stop.

Sometimes they stopped him with words; it always started with name calling. But, Robert D. Rogers was tenacious. Sometimes the words didn’t stop him. Sometimes the only sign he’d heard the words was the tears that collected in the inside corners of his pale blue eyes. And, he kept talking.

When words didn’t work, they used their hands. They pushed. Each push deepened the scarlet of Robert D. Roger’s cheeks, and he kept talking. They pushed harder. Falling to the ground knocked the tears from his eyes; they streamed down his face as he sat there, and I screamed.

Silent, but loud enough to crowd out any noise other than his occasional sob, I screamed, “Don’t get up! Please, don’t get up!” He didn’t, until they left. Sometimes I stayed behind to help gather his books, or his lunch.

We didn’t talk. Perpetually dirty hands left brown tracks on either side of Robert D. Roger’s milk-white face as he swiped at his tears as though punishing them for falling. I looked away.

His weakness provoked young and old, alike. The first and only time I every heard my father use the word “Queer” was in reference to Robert D. Rogers, as in, “Why do you hang around with that Queer?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I hadn’t actually heard a person call another person “Queer” in person. I didn’t expect that person to be my father. I answered with all the eloquent defensiveness an eleven-year-old could muster.

My father and I debated frequently, usually about race. I remember proudly hurling the word “underdog” into his blustering face. To this day, I hear the word and an image of Robert D. Rogers flashes through the View-Master inside my head.

And, all the while, I knew he brought it on himself.

“If you would just be quiet!”, I should have said.

If he had minded his own business.

If he had allowed the life he led to be enough, they would have left him alone.

But he couldn’t, and I knew, so I didn’t.

>Shoes, Shopping, and Shame

My grandson can’t tie his shoes.

You might imagine a boy of three or four, his brow knit in Pre-K concentration. The harder he tries, the more his chubby fingers become entangled in the laces.

No. Elijah is seven. He’s in the second grade. He’s among the brightest children in the second grade.

But he can’t tie his shoes.

He doesn’t like shoes. He sheds them at every opportunity, necessitating frantic hunting expeditions before he can play outside, or accompany me to the market, or help with walking the dogs. He finds them, though. The speed with which he finds them is usually dictated by his interest in the reason for wearing them, but he always finds them.

What he doesn’t find is socks. I don’t mean to suggest he searches for socks, because he doesn’t. It seems he holds socks in even lower esteem than he does shoes.

It would be his obvious disdain for socks, in fact, that led to the purchase of new shoes which he then had to tie and couldn’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself….

High school football is a big deal in Georgia. In fact, when compared to professional football, there’s very little difference in terms of fanfare, music, noise, face-paint, dancing mascots, and other related tomfoolery that a seven year old might find entertaining. Elijah had never been. That and the fact that, at thirteen, my son is sure that missing even one game would be instant social suicide made choosing Friday night’s entertainment a no-brainer.

I exchanged pleasantries with the parent manning the gate as he halved our tickets. My son’s hand barely grazed mine as he grabbed his share, darting off in the direction of a group of boys that appeared cloned, from their unruly mop-tops right down to their khaki cargos. Elijah and I picked our way through knees and feet to gain seats on the fifty yard line.

The game didn’t hold my interest; our team is two and five and they play like it. Instead, I watched the girls sitting next to me. I decided that the one with long blonde hair was much too young for the skin-tight hip huggers she wore under her cheerleader’s vest. Attempting to get an answer to the question, “What kind of mother lets her daughter walk around like that?”, I craned my neck in an effort to see further down the bleacher.

That’s when I smelled it.

I knew right away what it was. And there was no question as to the source.

“Elijah?”

“Yes?” Bent in half, he shooed his shoes under the seat.

“Did you take your shoes off?”

“Yes.” Sitting up now, he spoke quietly while instinctually covering his shoes with his bare feet.

“We don’t do that. We don’t take our shoes off at football games.”

I watched as he hurried to replace them. The laces had been cut and knotted, making them slip-ons. They looked like they’d been slipped on a lot.

The next day, at the department store, I grabbed a package of socks before heading for the shoes. I slid sneakers over his freshly socked feet, tied them, and pinched the toes the same way my mother always pinched mine. Hiding the others inside the box the new ones came in, we headed out to find more things to buy.

Minutes later, he whizzed by me. One shoe had come untied.

“Tie your shoe, Elijah.”

I walked a few paces before stopping to read the label on a jar of protein shake mix. The air around me moved as he whizzed by me again. At the meat counter, I waited my turn in front of the steaks. Seems lots of us were planning to cook out. Elijah squirmed around one corner of the refrigerated case, dragging one shoelace behind him.

“Tie your shoe, Elijah.”

“I did!”

“It’s untied. Tie it again.”

Pouting, he plopped to the floor. I watched him make shoelace bunny ears, then everything fell apart. He started again. One bunny ear, two bunny ears, and a mess. And, again. One bunny ear, two bunny ears, and something resembling an attempt at a bow that came unraveled as soon as he made a move to stand. I cursed silently at the memory of knotted laces and bent to help.

I’m not one of THOSE Moms. I don’t give my daughter parenting advice unless she asks for it. And I can count the times she’s asked for it on one hand.

This was different.

On Sunday, I passed Elijah off to his parents with a kiss to his begrudging cheek. My grandson did not inherit my penchant for “kissy face”.

Ten minutes into the drive home, I dialed my daughter’s cell phone.

“Did you know Elijah can’t tie his shoes?” Either the question or my complete lack of pleasantry surprised her. It took her some seconds to answer.

“I saw you bought new ones.”

“Well, I was going to buy laces. One of them was broken. But then he took them off. He doesn’t wear socks, you know…”

“I know…”

“It’s the knots. Someone is tying knots in his laces. He’s forgotten how to tie. This isn’t good.”

“I know. I’ve asked him to stop.” “Him” is always her husband, my son-in-law.

“Do I need to ask him? Because, I will. I’ll ask him to stop.”

I hadn’t used that tone with her since she was a teenager, a teenager who’d held so much promise, a teenager who’d seemingly lost her mind, the answer to my mother’s twisted mantra, “You’ll get yours! I hope you have a daughter just like you!”

She got there so quickly. In that moment of separation, that space of time during which I could speak and also watch in horror as the words left my lips, my mother was there. She lives in my snarl.

“No, Mama…” My daughter’s voice was tired, because she’s not like me. And most of the time, I remember, most of the time that’s okay.

It’s just sometimes….

>You Know?

“I watched this movie, you know…”

I’ve come to realize that “you know” is anyone within listening distance. Sometimes, “you know” is his Dad. More often than not, it’s me.

We’re in a car. My son is strapped in on the right side of the backseat. Occasionally, his breath bends around the headrest into my hair. He balances a cardboard tray of medium-sized sodas on his thigh pads. We stopped for burgers after the game.

“And this guy was in college. And he made, like, really good grades, and he was the captain of the football team, and he killed himself.”

The smell of things fried in oil that had already fried many other things wafted up from the floorboard where the bag of burgers warmed the insides of both my ankles. I remained silent while reaching down to make sure the top of the bag was folded closed.

“They tried to help him. I mean, you know, he wasn’t acting like himself and his friends were like, “Hey are you ok?”, and he said yes, but they knew he was depressed so they tried to help, but it was too late, and he hung himself.”

The night is cool. The windows are down. He raises his voice in competition.

“They didn’t believe him, you know.”

Realizing he addressed me directly, I respond with an equally loud “Uh-huh..”

“They told him “Oh, you’ll be alright.”, and they, like, patted him on the back and stuff, and they just left him in his room, and then they found him and he had hung himself.”

I allow for several seconds of windy silence before speaking.

“That’s pretty common, actually.”, I begin. “You take someone like Carlton, on your football team. He’s a great student and a star athlete. It’s hard to imagine he has any problems.”

“I was like that.” The words come out in a rush. He isn’t done yet.

“I was like that last year in basketball and baseball. Everyone thinks you’re so great and you’re such a great player and they think you make really good grades and everything, and I was having a hard time. And, I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I knew you’d be disappointed and so I hid it all through Christmas. And then, at Christmas, I got everything I wanted and more, and I felt so bad. And, I was going to tell you then, but I couldn’t. And then you got the report card, and you saw the C’s, and you, like, grounded me and stuff.” He pauses, giving us both a chance to catch our breath.

“And you know the funny thing? I was so glad! I felt so much better when you did that, you know?”

Yeah, I know.

>Not Fit To Be Around

I’m surly when I’m sick. I don’t whine. I’m not demanding. I’m surly.

I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Southern Dictionary, but if there isn’t there ought to be. For my purposes, let’s pretend.

If you looked up “surly” in the Southern Dictionary, the word would be defined as “not fit to be around.” And, while I don’t remember hearing my mother use the word “surly”, she threw the definition around quite a bit. And, not just when we were sick…

Bad behavior would get a “not fit to be around”, as would poor hygiene. And anyone who “pitched a fit”, was definitely “not fit to be around”.

Demonstrating our unfit status, she required us to spend sick days in our bedrooms; in the bed with the lights out, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere, almost like another layer of blanket.

After successfully seeing my sisters off to school, mother eased my bedroom door open. Light in the hall glinted off a chrome television stand as she attempted to navigate shag carpeting. As long as I didn’t move, her progress continued quietly, albeit slowly. If I so much as opened an eye though, she burst forth with a string of whispered epithets that seemingly propelled the stand over the bumpy surface. She plugged it in. She turned it on, and after several seconds, the tiny light in the middle of the screen burst open to reveal Bob Barker and “The Price Is Right”. It was never anything different. It was as though he waited for my mother to plug him in. I dozed as buzzers buzzed, wheels spun, and curtains opened. “But wait, Bob! That’s not all!”

The next time I saw her, my mother held my lunch tray. Lunch was always chicken noodle soup and saltines. And, no matter what ailment waylaid us, we drank ginger ale. The only other time I ever had ginger ale was in the Shirley Temples I was allowed to order with my birthday dinner. Ginger ale became important.

The sound of my sisters’ excited voices accompanied blinding sunlight splitting the curtains. The room grew warmer. I shucked blankets, wishing for a break in their footfalls, a hand on the doorknob. Their voices faded as they dispersed.

Smells of supper seeped under the crack between my bedroom door and the floor. I could always tell what she was cooking. I could also tell it was time for Dad to come home.

He always stopped. He opened the door with his shoulder, his head turned in the other direction. He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him. His weight on the edge of my bed pulled me towards him.

“Well!” To this day, he starts many sentences with a hearty “well”.

“How’s my girl?” Awkwardly, he stroked my hair from my forehead.

“Okay,”, I squirmed, delighted at the attention and unable to contain a smile that might be interpreted as a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be sprung.

He answered my word with a pat to my head and a “Good”, before turning to leave the way he had come.

I continue my mother’s tradition with my own kids. A sick day means a day spent in the bedroom. Wheeling in the television would be much easier over hardwood floors, but I don’t have to. The television is always there, behind the doors of an imposing armoire, and the remote control is within easy reach. What with all we’ve learned about food in the last forty years, I’ve altered the sickroom menu by substituting broth for soup and foregoing crackers altogether. Perhaps some nice yogurt if you’re still hungry?

And, no matter how much time passes, nothing pacifies me as well as a darkened room and a softly playing television.

Don’t open the door unless you’ve got food.

>Sorry, We’re Closed

“El Porton” sat a little off the beaten path. You didn’t stop there on your way to somewhere else. You went there. It wasn’t my first choice for Mexican food. My first choice was “Fajitas”. But “Fajitas” was small and situated just feet from a busy highway. Closely spaced wooden tables didn’t allow for the bulk of construction workers and landscape laborers who regularly filled the place. In contrast, “El Porton” was large and well appointed. Ambient lighting showcased the sheen on highly-polished, hand-carved booths.

Yesterday, I learned “El Porton” has closed.

“Eagle’s Landing” was a gift given to our community by Katrina. The founders of the restaurant resettled here, bringing with them their best Cajun recipes. They fashioned a restaurant out of a former bank building, leaving much of the interior intact. Large parties were often seated inside the vault which featured the original foot-thick, steel door. Formal white linens belied the casual atmosphere. And the food! “Eagles Landing” introduced me to barbequed shrimp which isn’t really barbequed at all. Instead, medium-sized shrimp are cooked to perfection in a savory, herb-infused butter sauce and served in a large bowl decorated with crispy chunks of fresh french bread. I found a recipe that comes very close. My family loves it, but it’s not the same…

“Eagle’s Landing” closed six months ago.

“Miss Priss” was a specialty shop that was everything the name implies, and more. If a man shopped there, he was sure to be tailing his woman, picking up hints as fast as she could drop them. Mine usually involved jewelry. The owners, two savvy women of a certain age, catered to a community caught up in school sports. If it came in orange and blue, they carried it. If it didn’t, they had it made. Over the years, I’ve been presented several variations of orange handbag. One is fur trimmed, one is quilted, and I have a straw bag for summer. I own a white scarf featuring orange paw prints. I have orange and blue necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. And, every game day, I don a large-faced, rhinestone-encrusted watch featuring a wide orange band. Serving as Team Mom, four years running, had its perks.

“Miss Priss” closed just after Christmas.

Boris is a crotchety old man. Many times, as I perused shelves of herbs and vitamins, I cringed while he scolded a customer who expected magic from a pill bottle. He titled himself a holistic healer, and I can’t argue the point. From herbs to soothe an anxious child to mineral management of mid-life malaise, Boris’ advice has served me well.

“The Herbe Shoppe” closed last fall.

There’s a Kroger less than a mile from my house. My buyer’s reward card entitles me to a ten-cent-per-gallon savings on Kroger gasoline, but I don’t use it. I gas-up where I always have, at a small convenience store just around the corner. The business is owned by an Indian family who, until recently, were always there en masse. Last month, their daughter left to attend Columbia University. She has a full scholarship and plans to use it to attend medical school.

Very often, when I go inside, her mother and father are the only people in the store. Both of them welcome me warmly, often with words I don’t understand but, we get by. One day I hope to take Geeta up on her offer of henna tattoos. Trailing her arm, or the length of her caramel colored neck, they provide a beautiful contrast to her Americanized style of dress.

I can’t help but wonder how long they can hold on. As I pull up to one of the antiquated pumps, I peer inside to assure myself they are there. They lack the flash of the convenience store on the corner, the one serving five dollar pizzas. And, they can’t compete with the prices charged by chains with big box buying power. How long will they remain a part of our community?

Because that’s what all of these businesses were. They weren’t just merchants. They weren’t just buildings filled with items for purchase or food to eat. They were people, people who’d invested in our community, people with whom we’d enjoyed a symbiotic relationship. Some of them offered items we won’t easily replace. Many of them supported community programs. A few became friends. All of them generated tax revenue, providing green space, parks and recreation, and emergency services. And they had families. Their kids go to school with my kids. We’re neighbors…

I hear it often. The arrangement of words may differ but the message is always the same, “Our economy is in trouble.”

And, it’s costing us much more than money.

>Welcoming Twilight

I am three hundred and four pages into “Twilight”.

I know what you’re thinking. Well, I know what some of you are thinking. Some of you are thinking “Ewwww”. If we were in the same room, sharing air, I’d see that look in your eyes; the one that says “I think you’re ridiculous, but I’m trying, really hard, not to say it”.

Some of you are thinking, “I took my kids to the movie, and that was enough.”

At least one of you has read it. But, you didn’t just read it, did you? I believe “devour” would be a more appropriate verb, don’t you? And, after you finished, you watched the movie, never before, always after, always in that order, book, movie, book, movie, book, movie, book. You’re waiting now. Hollywood has you in a holding pattern. There’s just one more movie, and while you can’t wait to see it, to see how everything turns out for Bella and the boys, you’re mourning, too. Because, you know it’s over. You’ll never feel that way again…

I have just described my fifty-nine-year-old colleague. By the time she read the first book, all three had taken up space on the New York Times Bestseller List. But she adhered to the pattern. She read a book. She watched the movie. She read a book. She watched the movie. As the saga unwound, so did she. I believe she refers to herself as “Team Edward”. I’m proud to say I have no idea what that means.

A seven-year-old attempted to enlighten me.

On the way out of town, I stopped at Burger King. I know! But it was my grandson’s turn to pick, and he really likes chicken fries. As far as I know, Burger King is the sole purveyor of chicken fries. And this is as it should be…

I shepherded him across the parking lot only to be accosted by a life-sized poster of Robert Pattinson at his blood-sucking best.

“I’m team Jacob!”, my seven-year-old grandson shouted at the poster through a scowl.

“You’ve read the book?”, I asked, knowing that he hadn’t.

“No…”

“Then how do you know you’re Team Jacob?”, I played along.

“’Cause Jacob is a werewolf and werewolves are tougher than vampires.”, he growled to illustrate.

I’ve done my time with romance novels, or as my friend refers to them, “bodice rippers”. And I can tell you, nothing gets the female adolescent blood boiling like a Kathleen Woodiwiss novel. To this day, I can conjure the picture I painted, inside my head, of one of her heroines. Shanna was an Irish redhead.

A couple of years later, I worked with a woman who was a (gasp) “single mother”. My shift began as hers ended, which is how I came to meet her mother and her daughter, Shanna. Only this Shanna was blonde, platinum blonde, with terrifically long eyelashes which her mother trimmed to “make them grow longer”. But I digress…

Ms. Woodiwiss, it seems, set the standard. Since that time, countless romance novels have revolved around Irish redheads, and while I can’t be sure, I think it’s reasonable to presume that Fabio may have been inspired by the artist whose work graced the covers of her paperbacks.

Over time, though, the stories grew stale. The characters ran together. I anticipated dialogue. Nothing spoils a rugged embrace like expectation….

But “Twilight” is a phenomenon. I felt I should read at least one book just to see what all the fuss is about.

So, I came to “Twilight” jaded, jaded and late. By now, all four books have been released and two of the movies are available on pay-per-view. My colleague just saw the third a second time at the Fox Theatre. She went with a group of friends. The youngest was twenty-eight.

I began reading with no intention of viewing. Leary of disappointment, I often avoid movies based on books I’ve read. This time is different.

Stephanie Meyer writes things you want to see, like skin that sparkles with frigidity.

And, I’m not invested. I know what Edward looks like, and I like it. If forced to pick a team, I’d pick his based on physical attributes alone. But, Stephanie writes him fragile. She also writes him strong. Beautiful, fragile, and strong? Sign me up!

It occurred to me last night, as I inserted the business card I use as a bookmark between a page I’d read and one I hadn’t, that I’ve read this before. This is King Kong. This is Beauty and the Beast. This is Rocky. Beautiful, shy girl meets isolated, misunderstood man/beast and falls in love. In all its incarnations, the story captures female hearts of all ages. And, despite knowing how this turns out, I’ll probably read the next one.

The more things change…