Fall Festival

The woman threw her head back, and dark, luxuriant hair wafted down her back, as she gave into her laughter with full abandonment, unaware she was being observed. And, although I was out of earshot, I felt it as a loudly mellow, rolling sound of delight. She stopped walking and cinched up her simple cotton dress, as she wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the source of her amusement.

A young girl, maybe three or four years old, was scurrying away from the lake’s edge where a large mallard duck was thrashing about; wings flapping, dark neck arched. Wearing a left-over smile, the woman walked, again, towards the young girl, with a single hand outstretched.

Traffic at this midtown oasis is usually thick with fitness junkies running, young mothers pushing strollers, and older couples sitting on permanently mounted benches, tossing scraps of bread to waiting ducks until the trickling cascades of a large fountain, in the center of the lake, lulls them into reverie of days gone by.

So it was remarkable to realize that, today, there were just two visitors. I watched their interaction; the way the woman approached the girl with bemused compassion, and the tentative way the child turned to look at her. The autumn sun had painted them, and their surroundings, in multi-hued shadows, not visible just a few days before. Dark brown leaves stained the pristine concrete walkway on which they stood and a soft wind left the tops of the trees to swoop down, rippling the water before dancing in the woman’s skirt.

As Autumn blew in…

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

The five of us shared a two-bedroom duplex. The morning I parted the drapes to see a worn, herculon-covered couch adorning the muscle-car crowded front yard of the unit across the street was the first hint that, in my haste, I had, perhaps, not chosen the best of neighborhoods in which to raise children.

Practicality reasoned that moving was impossible giving our subsistence on financial aid and a part-time salary. And still, on my way home from school, or work, or both, I often detoured through the winding lanes of suburban subdivisions.

One house, in particular called to me. She sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of several gracefully curved streets behind towering pines, as though shy. Someone had, regrettably, slathered her in brick-red paint, which explained her reticence to be on display, and yet she stood. In the early morning, a thin fog caressed the pines, allowing her some dignity. As afternoon burned, worn gray shingles bore the brunt of the heat and the pines cast long shadows on her weathered face. In the black of night, she shone, as banks of unfettered windows bore witness to the lives she sheltered while lighting a set of weathered thirty-year-old handprints cast in the concrete walkway before her.

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

A hallway bath whose wallpaper had begun to unfurl in complaint, was stripped, sanded, and painted in a textured, earthy brown. Thirty year-old mediterranean tile was salvaged to complete the room. It is warm, inviting, cozy, and welcoming.

My youngest son spent a week with his sister in a neighboring town. While he was gone, his room was transformed to reflect his maturity. School colors adorn his walls, and his love of sports and music is reflected throughout.

The browns of the bathroom flow into the adjoining hallway and the border above my head reminds me, “All Things Grow With Love”.

In three days time, my oldest son had transformed the rooms facing the street by swabbing crimson on the walls. I marveled at his carpentry skills as he measured and sawed through the sweat dripping from his Arian forehead, to create a chair rail for my dining room.

Covering the unfortunate brick-red façade took a little more time, but, at last, she is complete. Bathed in a rich khaki that compliments her brick, she sits gracefully on the lot, and Chinese red double-doors provide a ready welcome.

The yards, too, have been transformed. Tropical plants shade the patio while providing color, and outside the sitting area, an English-style garden blooms wild, and free. Farther up the landscape, our vegetable garden yields tomatoes, squash, eggplant, cucumbers, various herbs, and an assortment of peppers during the summer, and fresh leafy greens in the winter.

I loved her, on sight, and knew I could restore her to her original beauty and grace. She has returned the favor by cradling my family and providing a warm and welcoming haven for all who come here. This house has become our home, and I am grateful…

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

Just Another Reason To Party

I’m not a person who feels tied into age. Age, to me, is a number, and really nothing more. When asked my age, I often have to stop and think. I am fortunate, (I guess), to have friends and family who, apparently keep up with these things…

Every year, as my birthday approaches I encourage everyone to see things as I do. “It’s just another day!”, “I really don’t need presents.”, “I don’t eat birthday cake.” Last year, on September 2nd, I announced I was done having birthdays. I mean, what’s so special about them? Everybody has one! They are like belly-buttons…

This year, as the day approached, my daughter called, wondering how I was celebrating Labor Day. I really hadn’t thought about it. She wondered if she, her friend, and her friend’s new, and completely darling daughter could visit. A son called. He was up for a cook-out. Another son called, also looking for free food…So, the plan was set. Labor Day cookout at my house!

A couple of days ago, I heard, again, from my daughter, who, in her best little girl voice, wondered, hypothetically mind you, if I WAS going to eat birthday cake, not that I would, what kind of cake I would like. I thought for several seconds before telling her, and with that I made a decision. I was having a birthday party. Did I say party? Make that a birthday blowout!
And here’s the reason we have birthdays…

I slept in this morning, just because I could. I checked on Dad who is stubbornly riding the storm out in Destin. And the calls started, interspersed with texts from people, some from whom I rarely hear, who appreciate my being here. As I took the calls, I opened my mailbox to an assortment of good wishes. Sweet!

Around 1:00, my grill master arrived with a variety of meats and mysterious seasonings, and set about preparing to cook out. As the guests arrived, they were greeted by loud music, and louder laughter. Red wine made everyone a better dancer as children ran between our legs, glorifying in the luxury of a game of chase inside the house!

The food was great, the company wonderful, and everyone left feeling just a little better for having shared my day.

And, as for me? I was queen for a day! Cared for, pampered, and fawned over by family and friends. I ate food I rarely allow myself, I drank good wine, I danced to my favorite music, I watched my children enter the house as sophisticated adults and revert back into playmates in the way only siblings can, and I laughed.

As the party ended, and guests began to filter out, my daughter brought the baby to me. She is gorgeous, with Asian features, and soft, marshmallowy limbs. She played with my jewelry, babbled sweetly, and threw her toys to the floor in front of us in sweet anticipation of a ride down to pick them up.

Pudgy hands flayed desperately in an attempt to rub her sleepy eyes as she nestled into my side, and we napped…

Friends, it just doesn’t get any better than this…

Rollercoaster of Love

Spent the better part of this morning carrying a large rock, dead center, in the middle of my chest…

And, then the questions began…

“What are you thinking about?”

“Are you having a good day?”

The phone rings, and I grope, desperately into and around the seat behind me to get it before it stops. And I do. And it’s not him…

And the reassurances…

“I love you, Mom…”

And the “click” on an empty email icon…

And the caring…

“You can’t drive around like that. Let me take the car in for you. We’ll settle up later…”

And…silence.

And laughter at shared experiences, and the wonder of physical prowess, and sweet rest, much needed…

A day that began in tears, and ended in gratitude.

And, I will ride again, tomorrow…</div

Almost Touched

I live in hot, and now arid, Atlanta. A city that moves at the speed of light, and barely notices that it hasn’t rained in months or snowed in years.
A much-needed break in our drought came some time around November, and the rains fell. The lakes are still wanting, but reservoirs are filling, allowing the lakes to hold their precious raindrops a little longer.
Today, it snowed. The weathermen were right, for once, and it snowed! As I sit in my tiny car, forced upon me by the length of my commute and soaring gas prices, I idle, as I do every day at this time, waiting for other weary commuters to pass on an adjacent roadway.
The snowflakes dancing across my windshield are a miracle only a true southerner could enjoy, and I muse as I watch them fall and melt, fall and melt. I enjoy the whiteness of them, their fluffy, irregular shape, and their rarity.
Glancing to my left, I see a small bespectacled boy, buckled snuggly into the backseat of his mother’s Mercedes. As my gaze lands on him, he spies the swirling miracle outside his window and stretches one pudgy hand towards the window in the kind of pure joy only a child can experience. His swarthy face breaks into a crooked grin as he turns towards me. His smile glows brighter as he discovers someone to share this miracle with, and he gestures wildly with his hands as if to say “Look! Look at that! Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?!” His mouth moves, and he must have made some noise, because his 30-something mother turns in her seat. She sees the joy in her child’s eyes and her face, too, breaks into a smile. She looks across to me and acknowledges my presence in her child’s miracle. She waves and mouthes something I’m sure would have warmed my heart even more had I been able to hear, as she softly wraps her child’s waving hand softly inside hers. And the light changes from red to green.
In a city like Atlanta, where so many are wrapped up in their own agendas, and schedules, and stresses, 3 people stopped at a traffic light, and enjoyed a snow flurry, and almost touched.