Seen With Joy

I see him in you sometimes.

He lives in yours eyes,

behind your brow,

and in the bridge of your nose where it crinkles when you grin.

He comes with joy.

Daddy’s Girl

My father fathered four females.

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am. We all are. We have a Daddy…we are girls. And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”.

Addressing him that way comes naturally. Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image. My blonde hair is long, as are my legs. My eyes are large, and probably blue. There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red. And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands. His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!” I especially loved that one. “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something. He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance. He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins. It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”. Perhaps there was another Joe. I don’t know, he never said. But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon. We’d probably just dropped my car off…again. The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road. They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas. They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas. No one did. Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me.

“Why don’t you divorce her?’ My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face. The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.” He said it as though it were true. He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars. He didn’t change his own oil. He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that. But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine. We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids. When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it. I kept the shirt. I even wore it a few times. Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

What is Love?

As a child, love meant racing to be the first to greet Dad as he pushed through the screen door.

As a teenager, I shared confidences with girlfriends, building a love that protected our vulnerably emerging selves.

As a young adult, it was all about the chase; romance, flowers, stolen embraces, and the fever pitch of emotion that tied the rhythm of my heart to the sound of a voice.

Mother-love is unlike any other; constant, sweeter, deeper, purer, and ever-growing.

One of the gifts of this time in my life is the ability to integrate all these different kinds of love, and to see how they build, one upon the other. And, with this cache of love stored away as reference, I now see love in places I had never considered looking before.

Love is a progression. I remember the first time I really heard the following lines, the way they moved me, and the promise in them. They were read by my ninth-grade Sunday school teacher, and many years later, served as my marriage vows.

“1 Corinthians 13:1-13

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels,
but have not love,
I have become sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains,
but have not love, I am nothing.
And if I dole out all my goods, and
if I deliver my body that I may boast
but have not love, nothing I am profited.
Love is long suffering,
love is kind,
it is not jealous,
love does not boast,
it is not inflated.
It is not discourteous,
it is not selfish,
it is not irritable,
it does not enumerate the evil.
It does not rejoice over the wrong, but rejoices in the truth

It covers all things,
it has faith for all things,
it hopes in all things,
it endures in all things.
Love never falls in ruins;
but whether prophecies, they will be abolished; or
tongues, they will cease; or
knowledge, it will be superseded.
For we know in part and we prophecy in part.
But when the perfect comes, the imperfect will be superseded.
When I was an infant,
I spoke as an infant,
I reckoned as an infant;
when I became [an adult],
I abolished the things of the infant.
For now we see through a mirror in an enigma, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know as also I was fully known.
But now remains
faith, hope, love,
these three;
but the greatest of these is love.”

Later, I discovered the writings of the ancient poet, Rumi.

This is Love

“Love is reckless; not reason.
Reason seeks a profit.
Love comes on strong,
consuming herself, unabashed.

Yet, in the midst of suffering,
Love proceeds like a millstone,
hard surfaced and straightforward.

Having died of self-interest,
she risks everything and asks for nothing.
Love gambles away every gift God bestows.

Without cause God gave us Being;
without cause, give it back again.”

A steady mist fell as I drove into work this morning. The light changed, and as I rolled to a stop, I noticed a flurry of activity to my right. A young, heavy-set, African-American man, clothed in ill-fitting blue jeans and Arizona Cardinals football jersey, filled the wet sidewalk. Drawing my attention was the huge bouquet of heart-shaped balloons impeding his progress. Blinking silver and red, they danced and bounced above his smiling face. As he wrestled with the large, red bow serving as his hand-hold, I thought, “Now THAT is love.”

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

Super 8 Childhood memories

I realized today, as I traveled across Atlanta to share lunch with my sisters, that my past has become a dark cave. I am fascinated and sad at once. Fascinated, continually, by the swiftness of the process, and sad, because what I always feared must be true.
Growing up as one of 4 female children proved challenging for me, given that I have always preferred my own company to that of others, and I enjoy the company of other females least of all. Being the oldest of 4, only served to sharpen the challenge.
I never understood until recently why my childhood memories are so patchy. On the rare occasions I have sought to replay the images, I have found them so blurred and lacking in detail as to be almost indescribable. I listen, as my sisters recount the funny/sad struggles we faced as we experienced childhood “together”. While I appreciate the humor and empathize with the pain, the stories are new. All my life, the stories they share bear no resemblance to those that play in fits and starts in MY brain. I’ve often remarked that it is almost as though we were raised in separate households. I listen as they laugh at the absurdity of an event, and smile to cover my confusion.
Remarkably, my memories are mostly singular ones. I can remember sitting beneath an enormous oak tree whose roots had, in my mind, formed the shape of an equally enormous tortoise. Despite the fact, that by the age of 8 or 9 I already had 2 sisters, this tortoise was my best friend. I literally spent hours under that tree, talking to my friend. The importance of this tortoise, whose name escapes me, is obvious by the brilliant colors contained in this memory. It seems I wore a lot of pink. I can feel the hot Atlanta sun on my bare arms as I lean against the tree and absentmindedly draw in the sandy soil with a crooked pine twig while I pour my heart out to a root.
I also took great joy out of tormenting our really ugly little dog, Jo-Jo. My parents always proudly announced to anyone listening that Jo-Jo was a Manchester Terrier, and I’m sure he was but what he mostly was, was ugly. I have distorted visions of poking a gnarled stick towards his pointy little snout, and rejoicing at his growling. When tired of the stick game, the front tire of my bicycle produced the same results, to equal enjoyment. I don’t remember my mother ever discouraging my aberrant behavior, but I definitely remember her mentioning it years later at a family gathering, and I remember feeling myself shrink in my usual way under her tongue.
I can’t remember my mother smiling. None of the “Super 8″memories of my childhood include a smiling mother. That might be all I need to say about that.
My father, on the other hand, fills the screen of my mind, not with his physical presence but with his emotion and spirit. Strong words echo even today, “Remember who you are! You are a Howell, and nobody is better than you are.” countered by “Look at your calves! They’re as big as my thighs!”. Of course, they weren’t, and years would pass before I realized my father had chicken legs.
I spent those years, covering up my calves.