Bowling For Easter

Bowling for easter

I almost forgot Easter. It didn’t occur to me until the Monday before. Of course, my second thought was “If you hadn’t stopped going to church you would have known that.” That second thought is always a bitch.

I called my daughter, Jennifer, immediately. Her son, Elijah, is the only member of our family young enough to qualify for a hunt and a basket. I was somewhat relieved to hear he was spending Easter with his Dad. I’d miss spending time with him, but at least he didn’t have to know I’d forgotten Easter. I mean, who does that?

I toyed with the idea of getting the decorations down from the attic. By this time in years past, the branches on the dogwood out front would have begun to droop, ever so slightly, thanks to the pull of dozens of brightly-hued plastic eggs. I especially like to use the mirrored eggs. It pleases me to know that everyone, even drivers circling our cul-de-sac at night, is treated to a flash of springtime color. As I reached for a hand towel in the bathroom, I remembered the Easter towel that should have been there…the one with the puffball sewn on where the bunny’s tail would be. I imagined climbing the attic stairs…over and over again…and then repeating the process in the opposite direction in just a few days. And that settled that.

For the first time in my life, there would be no family get-together at Easter. It would just be me and my youngest son, Shane. I vacillated between guilt at not having arranged a more festive holiday for him, and excitement that we could do whatever we wanted without worrying about anyone’s schedule, or what to cook, or cleaning up or…anything. This Easter was ours to do as we saw fit.

By Thursday, I still hadn’t formulated a plan…and I was okay with that. Spontaneity has always been my friend. After all, hadn’t I been counseled, just the other day, that surrender is the key to happiness? I surrendered Easter, and within minutes Jennifer texted me with the news that Elijah was coming home on Saturday.

Easter was on again.

Having already nixed the decorations, moving dinner to a restaurant in another town was an easy decision. My daughter chose a restaurant my grandson would like. Fortunately, it was one of those places that have something for everyone. Nothing was actually good, but everything was basically edible.

I had placed an assortment of candies and gifts on the table before anyone else arrived. When the waitress reminded us to visit the dessert bar, my oldest son, Josh, produced a Reese’s egg and said, “I’ve got dessert.”

I held up my hand in a bid for attention.

“This is just the first part of our Easter celebration!”, I teased.

Five pairs of eyes stared back at me with expressions of wary incredulity.

“We’re going bowling!”, I announced.

Other than a couple of gasps the group was silent, and at least two pairs of formerly wary eyes now held something resembling fear.

“I don’t know…”, Josh began while retrieving his cell phone from his pants pocket. He pressed a button on the screen. “I’ve got to be somewhere at 3:00.”, he sort of whined. A glance at his phone revealed it was 12:45.

“Okay, then we’ll just bowl one game. We can do that in less than an hour and you’ll still have plenty of time.” I would not be denied.

GPS coordinates were entered while the youngest among us calculated, in short order, how to maximize time in the front seat. Shane slid in beside his older brother while Elijah climbed in next to me. He fastened his seat belt with one hand while reaching for my Ipod with the other.

Thirty minutes later we’d gotten past wondering how many other people had worn our rented shoes before us, and amassed a large collection of ten-pound bowling balls in assorted colors. Elijah would soon bowl three consecutive strikes, providing his contribution to an ever-changing lead. In the end, Josh would out-bowl us despite his earlier complaint, “It’s been years!”

I can’t remember who first suggested we start another game. I do know we all looked to Josh, He of the 3:00 Appointment. Never one to be comfortable with expressions of emotion, he ducked his head to hide a smile that couldn’t be missed.

“It’s alright with me…”, he allowed.

There was some talk of requesting the bumper guards be raised and Elijah, unhappy with his score despite the strikes, launched a search for the perfect ball. Soon, we were heading into the last frame of the second game.

By this time, we’d learned some things. For instance, no one knew until he won the first game that Josh used to own a pair of bowling shoes and a ball. At one time, he’d apparently enjoyed bowling a lot! Elijah taught his mother the “granny roll” even though he was too old to do it himself. And Jennifer’s husband, Chris, paid attention when I shared a tip I picked up in the bowling class I took in high school (Yes! High school! Those were the days…) and used it to win the second game handily. I smiled as I realized I’d been right to trust my instincts. Easter dinner was nice, but it wasn’t enough. We needed time together…fun time…a time to remember.

Two years ago we lost a member of our family. Things have never been the same since, and they never will be. Those precious memories can’t be duplicated but we can make new ones…different ones. We can make the most of what we have left. That’s what he would want us to do. I’ll bet he would have loved bowling for Easter.

Photograph can be found at: http://playandgo.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/kingpin-easter.jpg

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Thanksglibbing

To my mind, Halloween has always represented the top of a slide; a long slide, the big metal kind that burns your legs in summer, but not so badly that you don’t mount the ladder a second, and even a third, time. And, it doesn’t go straight down. There are twists and turns, and bumps and dips. All in all, it’s a pretty raucous ride.

Thanksgiving used to represent one of the bumps, a high-point on the path towards the next bump of Christmas, on the way to the New Year’s sand pit that leaves tiny black flecks on the backs of your calves and the palms of your hands.

Nowadays, though, I would characterize Thanksgiving as more of a twist, a turn requiring careful navigation before resuming the descent.

My reticence about the holiday became clear to me a couple of years ago as I read posts on a social website to which I subscribed. There were several prompts along the line of “How Will You Spend Your Thanksgiving?”, and “Share Your Favorite Thanksgiving Memory”. As I scanned menus I wouldn’t choose from and ticked off strangers’ guest lists, complete with anecdotes, I began to feel sad. It became clear, relatively quickly, that my plan to post a virtual cornucopia of familial dysfunction would elicit a reaction similar to that experienced by a person unable to quash a particularly loud belch after finishing an elegant meal. Not that I have ever been in that exact situation, mind you. My embarrassing belch came disguised as a yawn, which I shielded prettily with one hand, in hopes that our English teacher wouldn’t mistake a night of late-night TV for impolite disinterest. The offending sound was as much a surprise to me as it was to the quarterback of our high school football team, who sat in the next row and two desks closer to the front of the room. His was the only face to turn in my direction.

“Excuse you!”, he bellowed through his laugh which soon became a chorus.

I responded with a weak smile, refusing to acquiesce to an overwhelming desire to escape the room. My intention here, though, is not to write about teenage angst.

My mother was a product of the times in which she lived. The decade of the sixties is widely associated with peace, love, and rock and roll. But due to a burgeoning space program, the sixties also ushered in canned vegetables, enveloped spice packs, and crystallized orange drink. Grocery stores remodeled to make room for the “Freezer Section”, and my mother was all over it.

She made an exception, though, at holiday time. Thanksgiving dinners were prepared fresh, with only the finest ingredients, and usually featured the same dishes year after year. One holiday she decided her Coke Salad was boring, and introduced instead a pale, orange concoction featuring apricots. Realizing our dinner wouldn’t include plump, juicy cherries confined by coke-flavored cottage cheese, I loudly bemoaned her decision. My sisters echoed my sentiment and the cherries were back in place the following year. What I didn’t realize until recently, though, is that while the center of our table might have been held by a large pine-cone, threaded with multi-colored strips of construction paper, my mother was truly our Thanksgiving centerpiece.

This year, Thanksgiving will find my sister, Candi, hosting her husband’s family at their beach-side condominium. It sounds like a lovely way to spend the holiday, but I wasn’t invited. After assisting with accommodations for the in-laws, my father called seeking reassurance that his three remaining daughters could provide a holiday at “home”. Two weeks later, he called again.

Several telephone calls later resulted in our “family dinner” being held in Cleveland, Georgia, a picturesque mountain town about an hour and a half outside of Atlanta. My sister, Holly, is excited to serve turkey she raised from a chick. I visited the unfortunate fowl a couple of weeks ago. At that point she hadn’t decided which of the several strikingly unattractive birds would make the sacrifice. That’s okay…I didn’t really want to know.

All three of my children have chosen to settle near the town of their birth, necessitating a seventy-five mile drive to my house for Thanksgiving. My daughter will work until four in the afternoon, pushing our dinner late into the evening. They will settle for a store-bought turkey, smoked the day before, and my impressions of the earlier celebration. They will bring friends. My house will be packed to over-flowing, and laughter will fill every corner of every room.

But, I’ll still miss the cherries…

Comes With Eggroll

When I was a kid, Chinese food was Chop Suey, served warm and fresh from a can. I remember dodging lots of water chestnuts in an effort to uncover tiny shreds of meat that justified use of the word “chicken” on the label. The best part of the whole meal was the topping of “noodles” which were not actually noodles at all, but tiny strips of crunchy pastry. Years later, my grandmother would introduce me to another, even tastier, use for Chinese noodles. After melting equal parts of chocolate and butterscotch chips in a double-boiler, she stirred in a package of noodles and dropped the mess by heaping spoonfuls on waxed paper. The finished product was called a “haystack” which quickly became a mainstay of childhood Christmases…but I digress.

While in college, my friends and I discovered this great little place in a strip-mall where four or five of us would meet for lunch. The “special” was a combination plate which offered a choice of two entrees, rice, soup, and eggroll. Everyone ordered something different and we shared. The price was reasonable, and there was so much food that we easily got by on just one meal a day.

As the mother of growing boys during the 1990’s, I welcomed the advent of the Chinese buffet. Not only could my sons eat until they were full for one low price, but the proprietors played to their audience by almost always filling a tray or two with traditional American favorites, such as pizza or french fries.

Saturdays usually began with a weekly visit to a local flea market that spanned an entire city block. My friend Hallie usually accompanied us and, fortunately, she too enjoyed Chinese food. After stowing our finds in the trunk of my car, we headed all the way across town for China Star Buffet. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to hear that this was the highlight of the trip for the kids.

The place was cavernous in more ways than one, as muted lighting camouflaged stains on the garishly colored, indoor-outdoor carpeting padding the seating area. My children’s behinds never even grazed the top of the tattered, vinyl-covered booth before heading for the brightly-lit, tiled buffet area at a controlled gallop. A row of six stainless steel buffet tables reflected light from exposed bulbs. in a manner that I suppose was meant to compliment the colorful display of food. The kids always made for the pizza first, before attacking the pan of beer-battered chicken, meant to be covered with sticky sweet-and-sour sauce. The last two buffets featured piles of freshly cut fruit and a full salad bar. My children’s feet never touched the tiles surrounding them.

Hallie and I also worked together, and often lunched at a more upscale establishment featuring an awning supported by four huge, gilded columns sprouting from the backs of statuesque lions. The food at Peking was considerably better than that enjoyed at China Star Buffet, which sat just around the corner. I’m sure it was this proximity that provoked Peking to install a lunch buffet. Theirs, however, was much smaller and featured only the food Americans think of as Chinese which one would never actually find in a restaurant in China. There was not a slice of pizza in sight.

When my oldest son, Josh, decided he liked his girlfriend enough to introduce her to his parents he requested we meet at Hong Kong Buffet; China Star Buffet being out of the question, as I had by now returned to Atlanta. Hong Kong Buffet had, apparently, purchased carpeting from the same manufacturer as China Star Buffet, and it was interesting to finally see what it looked like under sufficient lighting to confirm that it was indeed possible to remove stains made by toddlers flinging foods soaked in red sauces.

Josh’s girlfriend, Heather, and I returned to our assigned booth at the same time with similar looking plates of which the largest portion was covered by a gooey, cheesy, crab concoction. Well, I say crab. In truth, the chef had made no effort to hide the tell-tale, dye-reddened edges of faux crab he had sautéed with onions and butter, before swaddling the mix in an unnamed, but sinfully delicious, white cheese sauce. We shoveled the greasy mess into our mouths simultaneously, groaned at the same time, and shared a smile.

Shane and Roger, carrying platefuls of saucy meats and pastry encased cheese, soon joined us. Several mouthfuls later, we realized that Josh was missing. Scanning the stainless steel maze of buffets, I found him standing amidst a group of large African-American women holding empty plates while looking hungrily towards the swinging door that led to the kitchen; or as I thought of it at the time, Mecca. I could see the resolve on my son’s face as he tightened his grip on a single, thick, white, ceramic plate while staring into an empty, steaming bin where crab-legs used to be. He was first in line, and he would not be moved.

A swath of yellow light assaulted the colorful carpeting as the kitchen door swung wide, revealing a small, dark-haired woman of oriental descent who bent one knee just as the door began to arc back in her direction. The door stopped, and she gave it a little kick before entering the dining room. carrying a steaming metal dish in the direction of the buffets. Several of the women surrounding my son began to stir; their plates balanced precariously on multi-colored talons above their carefully coiffed, swiveling heads. Joshua’s eyes remained trained on the steaming hole before him.

The dark-haired serving girl cut her eyes in the direction of the milling crowd surrounding the space where crab-legs used to be, and shooting an apologetic smile in their direction, made for an adjacent buffet. Several of the women leaned in her direction, as though fearful she had taken a wrong turn, or planned a covert dump in a different pan. As she began to scoop greasy, green onion fronds mixed with bits of beef through the steam, they settled back into position, training their eyes once again on the nautically-inspired steel door.

Several minutes later, as I wiped oily remnants of crab casserole from the corners of my mouth with a napkin that definitely wasn’t cloth but wasn’t exactly paper, Josh returned to the table, slightly out of breath.

“Here…”, he growled, shoving a plated mound of steaming, orange crab legs between two sweating glasses of sweet tea. Before we could thank him, he was gone again.

I turned to see him pull a plate from the buffet and hand it to a large, blonde woman sporting a Dallas Cowboy’s jersey. Grabbing another, he meandered through the buffet maze, stopping occasionally to spoon food onto his plate. When he returned, several of his precious crab legs had been reduced to orange-colored shards.

Sighing heavily, Josh sunk into the booth beside his girlfriend and in the same motion lifted a bundle of swaddled cutlery.

Leaning in her direction he stage whispered, “Watch that door!”, motioning with his fork towards the swinging door to Mecca. “I’ll have to get up there fast if we’re going to get anymore.”

*******

Sometimes even twelve-year-old boys are needy. Take last weekend…

It wasn’t anything he said. He went about his normal routine, but something in his demeanor told me Shane needed one-on-one time; the kind you find under an immense, sparkling chandelier in a Chinese buffet. This one was called Asia Buffet and featured hand-rolled sushi and made-to-order stir fry.

“Hey?” I called out from the next room.

Shane gathered his limbs, which he had sprawled across a recliner while watching a football game.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry?”

The question warranted standing, as he answered. “Yeah!”

“Chinese buffet?”

“Cool! Let me get my shoes!”

And, I realized then that many of my family’s most pleasant memories come with eggroll.

A Numbers Game

I spent the better part of my thirty-fourth year dreading my thirty-fifth. It wasn’t that I expected anything to change. I didn’t see thirty-five as some kind of horrific milestone, though now looking back on it, I think subconsciously I knew I’d reached a realistic half-way point.

What I couldn’t get past was the ugliness of the number itself, the overt roundness of it, the slovenly way it sits on its protuberant bellies as though fully sated and content in its rotundity. For twelve months I avoided, at every opportunity, speaking my age. The image invoked by the words disgusted me.

What makes this behavior remarkable is the fact that I assign no importance to age. I couldn’t tell you the age of my siblings, and it takes an appreciable amount of ciphering to determine my father’s. I know the age of my children, but only because I am expected to recite it with some frequency. If you admit to having children, you are expected to know when you had them. I suppose that’s fair…

For a full twelve months, while in my early forties, I aged myself by one year. As my birthday neared, a friend laughingly pointed this out to me, proving her point by counting backwards from my birth-date. She jokingly held forth my lapse as proof of some kind of mental instability, and her jeering bothered me at first, until I realized that my behavior only proved what I already knew; it really didn’t matter. For years, the question “How old are you?” forced me to think. It just wasn’t a number I carried around in my head.

Until now…

I still hesitate when asked my age, but not because I don’t know the answer. I hesitate because being forty-nine means I’ll soon be fifty, and I don’t want to be.

As my birthday nears, I find myself surrounded by two types of people; those who know, and those who don’t. And, it is those who know who have made it difficult to share with the others. For the first time in my life, people seem to feel it acceptable to pronounce me “old”. And, they do so, loudly, and often.

My father was the first to raise the baton. Months ago, as we chatted on the telephone, he mentioned my upcoming birthday, casually asking “How old will you be?”. He’s in his late seventies; the question didn’t surprise me. This was before I’d learned to hedge, and my answer came quickly.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” His voice was loud. “You’re going to be fifty?” This time his volume was accented by an accusatory tone. “Do you know how old that makes me feel…to have a daughter who’s going to be fifty?” He laughed as though he’d told a joke. I struggled to see the levity, while chuckling softly so as not to hurt his feelings.

Since that time, my birthday is never mentioned by anyone who doesn’t feel it perfectly appropriate to point out my longevity. Some appear awestruck; as though living fifty years is an accomplishment worth considerable thought and recognition. Some seem to feel as though my age poses a ticklish predicament. They giggle and point as though I’ve caught my heel in a sidewalk grate. And, of course, there are those whose faces fall in sympathy. I prefer not to know what they are thinking.

A dear friend mentioned my birthday the other day, and immediately asked how old I would be. As we’ve known each other only two years, he had no reason to know. Because he is a man, and younger, I really didn’t want him to.

I vacillated between simply ignoring the question and employing my finest southern accent, reminding him how improper it is to ask a lady her age, sure that in his usual manner he would soon turn the conversation in a different direction. While I hesitated he began to throw out numbers, “Fifty-five? Seventy-six? Fifty-two?”, until I could take no more.

“Fifty.” I said it, again.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” His response resounded with authenticity, imbuing me with the courage to explain. He listened quietly until I finished.

“I have to admit that while you were talking I imagined myself fifty…and my heart did a little flip.” That one didn’t even hurt.

Last Saturday, my children and several friends celebrated my birthday by coming to my house for a cook-out. My oldest son manned the grill, and everyone else brought plates and plates of my favorite foods. The broccoli casserole my daughter-in-law made was the best I’d ever tasted, and by the time I discovered the potato casserole my daughter had cooked, I had to scrape the sides of the dish just to get a taste. My delight in their cooking skills was enhanced by the feeling that they belonged to me. I hugged them both, telling them how much I appreciated them. They did me proud…

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Despite my warnings, my daughter insisted I have my favorite cake. The raspberry-filled, white-chocolate cake she produced was perfect. As we admired her creativity, in scattering wine-colored cherry blossoms around the perimeter of the plate, she produced the obligatory package of black and white candles; the kind that usually come with a set of gray, plastic headstones.

“Do you like the Emo candles?”, she asked demurely.

“Where are the matching headstones?”, I countered.

“I said they were Emo, Mama.”, she answered with quiet forcefulness. “I’m being sweet.”

I meant to mark this day. Had all gone according to plan, I’d be wearing a jacket against an early chill as I clicked down a neon-lit sidewalk in Times Square. We’d be on our way to dinner, fashionably late of course, in a restaurant requiring reservations be made months in advance. Tomorrow would have been our final day in New York City. Our visit to the fashion district would be a wonderful memory as I laced my sneakers for one last run through Central Park.

As it is, I accept the blessing of over-time with a company hedging its bets against a fragile economy. I’m schlepping my son to football practice, and I’m writing. My gift to myself is my writing. I will document my half-century in words, and feelings, and words, and epiphanies, and words.

Happy Birthday to me…

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Seven-Revisions

Day seven of the Seven Day Mental Diet, and, I’ve learned some things:

I’ve learned that being, and remaining, in a positive frame of mind requires work and attention.

Accordingly, I’ve learned that the course, when darkened, can be corrected with relative ease, when aware of your thoughts.

I’ve remembered that, with effort, there is almost always something positive to be found in any situation, and that there is merit in the search, as there are benefits to everyone involved.

I am reminded of the freedom inherent in experiencing real feelings, and in welcoming the journey, and the lesson.

Over the course of the last week, I have cried a little more often, and I have whistled, gaily. I have looked for opportunities to praise and felt appreciation from those who must have wondered if I would ever notice…

I have remembered not to worry, in a time when there is much to worry about.

And, just as the author promised, on day seven, a positive outlook comes much more naturally to me than before this experiment.

The door opens on a blast of cold air,

and you.

A relative peace, tended by careful attention, endures.

You speak, I listen, as you share your appreciation of the warmth with which I surround myself.

And, this is how it is…today.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Six-Blessings

One Christmas, a few years ago, I completed my shopping, online, with several spirit-filled weeks to spare. Since discovering the ease, convenience, and seemingly endless choices available from the comfort of a chair that has memorized the precise dimensions of my oft-perched ass, I never looked back.
The requisite shipping deadlines, too, work to my advantage. Knowing there are only “five days left to order in time for Christmas delivery” forces me out of my usual procrastination, and while I don’t always match my inaugural performance, I have yet to fall into my former mall-inspired pattern of waiting until the very last minute.
This year, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I clicked the “confirm order” button for the last time two weeks ago, secure in the knowledge that the few, small, miscellaneous items still needed could be purchased locally at a small store free of jostling shoppers, long lines, and the need to invoke “The Secret” in order to obtain a parking space less than a mile from the entrance.
Several days ago, during a lull in workday activity, I sat in front of a different computer monitor, eager to take advantage of another handy online tool. Tracking my purchases not only assures that I have, indeed, met the deadline, but it also provides me with an exact arrival date, allowing me to game-plan the sport of hide-and-seek my delivery man delights in playing.
All but one of my purchases had been shipped, and, to my horror, the approximate delivery date of the errant package flashed in holly-adorned graphics: “For arrival after December 25th.” After several hours spent in impotent outrageous indignation, I returned to the site, cancelled the order, and resigned myself to the reality of jostling shoppers, long lines at the check-out, and a rare winter-time opportunity to break out my hikers. I strengthened my resolve by inviting my son to go along, while reminding both of us that he, too, had some shopping to do.

Lists in hand, we set out early, determined to complete the task well before his 1:00 tip-off. Careful planning set our route, and we finished with an hour to spare, thanks to several very helpful salespeople. We sat down to lunch at my son’s favorite hamburger joint, where the portions are so big that neither of us could finish.
As was his usual custom, Shane had shed his coat much earlier in the day, encouraging his rush towards the car ahead of me in an effort to escape December winds. I aimed my key fob and clicked the locks open. A young girl with dulce-de-leche skin approached in my periphery. She held a cardboard box underneath her needy expression.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft, hesitant; prepared for refusal.
Shane, his hand already lifting the door handle, stopped, and turned.
I looked down at the girl, giving her permission to launch a whispery, mostly unintelligible pitch. My hand went to the wallet stashed in the back pocket of my jeans on finally deciphering nine words of what proved to be a rather lengthy, possibly practiced, speech.
“….so we can buy some presents for my Mom.” Her facial expression never changed.
I handed her a five dollar bill, and selected two plastic-beaded key chains from her boxed collection. Her hand folded the money while heading towards her pocket before she stopped and asked, more clearly this time, “Do I owe you any change?”
Somehow, the values spoken by her words assured me I had done the right thing.
“No, honey. Merry Christmas!”
I barely heard her wispy “Thank you.”, as she disappeared behind another car.
“Who was that, Mom?” Burgeoning masculinity laced Shane’s voice with protectionism.
“I don’t know honey…a girl trying to earn money to buy gifts for her parents.” I answered, distractedly, as we slid onto our seats.
“But, how do you know?” His skepticism surprised me. I stopped and considered my answer.
“You know? I don’t. But, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In this case, she was offering something for sale, and I chose to buy it; whether that be a hand-made key ring, or hope that my contribution may brighten another family’s holiday, does it really matter?”
Shane thought in silence.
“We can’t control what others do with the gifts we give them. All we are responsible for is the spirit in which we give.”
As our seatbelts clicked into place, his silence continued, even as my blessing doubled.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Four-Surrender

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

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

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

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

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

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Three-Hope

Upon my arrival in Destin, no matter who is accompanying me, my first order of business is a trip up two flights of concrete stairs that lead to my father’s condominium. After hours of mindless, sedentary driving, the sprint is welcome, as is the artificially cooled air that greets me as I reach the top, pushing open the storm door that separates him from heavily humid ocean breezes. He is, almost always, ensconced in an ergonomically perfect chair, placed strategically, in front of a flat panel television. Salt infused sunlight pours through vertical blinds meant to defray it, highlighting a conglomeration of books at his burnished bare feet.
The titles range from bestseller to obscure, dogmatic non-fiction, and he will read from each of them before the sun sets.
If reading is his favorite hobby, golf runs a close second. Philosophy ties both of them, and anything else important to him, together.
Marking my birthday, his celebratory telephone call has become a ritual. He delights in reminding me of my age. And, every year, I react in the same way.
“Well, if I am old, what does that make you?”
He laughs, as though considering the question for the first time, before answering.
“Really old!”

Over the years, our telephone calls, regardless of original intention, almost always stray onto another subject; something deeper, an arguable point, an opportunity to wax philosophical. And, as we talk, my father leafs through all the knowledge lying at his feet, and shines.
Today, after discussing my sister’s recent hospitalization, our conversation meandered into the state of our economy, and despite the horrific landscape, my determination to remain positive won the day.
“You want to know what I think?”, I ask, rhetorically.

“What do you think?”, he answers, automatically, through a smile.
“I think things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” I pause here, for emphasis. “I think next year could get really rough, and, I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were. And, you know what?”
“What?” The word carries appreciative anticipation.
“I think that’s ok.” I pause, for the sake of argument.
“You might be right.” I picture him shifting inside ergonomic perfection.
“You know? I look at my son. And, he’s not alone…I look at my son; he’s eleven years old, and trotting out onto the football field. He’s got $200.00 worth of padded plastic on his head. Another $200.00 sits beneath his jersey, in the form of shoulder pads. His shoes cost $125.00. And, his gloves! He wears $30.00 on his hands, and he’s eleven years old! Add to this, the cost of registration, and the expense of fuel, required to travel back and forth to the practice field and games, which can be as much as twenty-five miles away! All told, Pee Wee football costs almost a thousand dollars to play!”

“Yeah….”
“I’m not involved in the expense. I leave that to his Dad. But, he’s not alone. This is what is expected…And, I look at all that money and think about what it could do!”
“Yeah…I understand.”
“So, I think it could be a good thing to get back to real values, you know? Obama talks about caring for our fellow man, and he’s labeled a socialist. I just think it would be a good thing if this economic crisis forced us to take a look at our excess, and reminded us of what’s really important.” Another breath.
“Truthfully?”, I ask, without waiting for an answer. “Crazy as it sounds, I welcome the challenge!”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right…I know.”
And, I feel good. Not just because my father allowed me to win the point; there is more. I welcome the realization that instead of worrying I am welcoming. Instead of wringing my hands, I am going forward; with an open mind, and, more importantly, an open heart; confident in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass, and, with any luck, we’ll come out better on the other side.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

Large, multi-colored lights, strung around the perimeter of the lot, winked at us for the last mile of the ride. My sisters and I occupied both rear seats, the one facing forward, and the one facing backward, in the woody “Vista Cruiser” station wagon my mother usually piloted. On this night, as on any occasion on which my father accompanied us, she rode the passenger seat.

For many years, our girlish chests swelled as we glimpsed the large, blue and white, wooden sign announcing our arrival at “Big John’s Christmas Trees”. The only “Big John” we knew, was my father, also known as “Mistah John” and “Mistah Howl”. He allowed us our sin of pride until we were old enough to know better.

As we disembarked the Buick, clay dust rose from the bottoms of our sneakers as we raced to be the first to breach the string of lights; and the search was on.

A plumbed line of Frasier firs stretched in either direction, as far as our young eyes could see, tethered at the top with a piece of simple cotton string. Each tree stood separate, tall, and full, allowing my father to reach inside and give the trunk a turn, as my mother stood apart; arms crossed, eyes squinting. A simple wave of her hand signaled my father to turn again, and wait, while she searched for “holes”. With her “No…” we moved to the next row. In the meantime, calls of “Here! Over here!” rang out from all corners of the lot.

After mounting the carefully chosen tree in the rickety metal stand, my father left us to complete the task. My mother took her job of lighting the tree very seriously, employing a step-stool to clip bulbs to the tallest branches. When she was done, she assumed a familiar stance; arms crossed, eyes squinting, looking for “holes”, until, satisfied, she dragged large, worn, brown paper boxes into the middle of the floor signaling it was time to hang the ornaments.

“Ohh, look at this one!”

“I made this!”

“No! I made that in kindergarten, I remember! Didn’t I Mom? I made that in kindergarten, remember?”

For the next couple of weeks, I spent countless hours on a living room couch that still carried the scent of the furniture store from which it was purchased. I laid and “watched” the tree…and dreamed.

“Mom!” The word was accompanied by a tug on the end of the shirt that was hard-wired to my heart.

“Mom! When can we get a tree?”

Shrugging on my coat, I felt inside the pockets, assuring my gloves were still where I left them, and I saw dust rising under my sneakers.

Horror diverted my attention as my oldest son entered the room, wielding a small, yet toothy, saw. Reaching to retrieve it, I sent him to get his coat.

Covered, from head to toe in an assortment of colorful, warming fibers, we began our trek. The woods behind our little farmhouse offered an assortment of acceptable firs. One year we found a perfectly shaped, five-foot scotch pine. The next, we settled for a scraggly cedar. And, then there was the year of the table tree; as we decorated, Snoopy played piano inside my head.

For the last ten years, the day after Thanksgiving has been set aside for Christmas decorating.

We roll to a stop in a parking place in front of a big-box hardware store that offers trimming and bagging at no extra charge. Tying our jackets about our waists, we head towards a pile of meshed Frasier firs in our shirt-sleeves. We stand them. We twirl them. We look for “holes”, with eyes wide open. The orange-aproned employee mounts our selection atop my car, securing it with bungee cord I provide.

A single-construction plastic stand screws on in minutes, and the tree is placed in front of the living room window. Carols, old and new, flow from wall mounted speakers as we begin decorating. Twenty minutes, and two boxes of ornaments later, the sound of a video game wafts in from the next room, and I realize I am hanging ornaments, alone.

And I remember; “Big John’s”, squinting eyes, sibling rivalry, “watching” the tree, tugging children, toothy saws, table trees, and Snoopy’s music.