from the Shoe Box to the mother bored

2011 - A Retrospective

2011-12-30T19:20:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are a few other things I learned this year:

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

30 Days of Gratitude - Day 2 - My Job

2011-11-04T22:06:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

30 Days of Gratitude - Sisters

2011-11-01T21:59:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homecoming

2011-10-14T21:24:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was Homecoming Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

Was that a flush of color on her freckled cheeks?

“Yeah…”

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

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

But I didn’t. I didn’t ask him.

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

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

“Really? Why?”

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

“What about his date?”, I asked.

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

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

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

Overwhelmed, I remained silent.

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

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

But I didn’t.

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

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

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

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

Homecoming, indeed.

Finally Determined: TBD, Facebook, and Girls Gone Mild

2011-08-03T23:35:00.001-04:00

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

Just ask…

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

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

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

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

Really alone.

Because, I have to be.

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

But I need it some of the time.

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

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

And, speaking of showing up…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, speaking of real life...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, I’m anxious.

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

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

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

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

“What’re you doing up?”

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

And, they’ve made all the difference.

And, That's When I Saw The Duck

2011-06-10T00:25:00.001-04:00

It was just a regular Thursday morning…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, that’s when I saw the duck.

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

ACROSS SIX LANES OF MORNING COMMUTE TRAFFIC!!!

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

My mind raced.

How had she managed the first five lanes?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who said there’s no such thing as miracles?

To Bake, Or Not to Bake

2011-05-20T22:50:00.001-04:00

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

And, that’s unfortunate.

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

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

“When am I coming to your house, Nonni?

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Copyright 2007-2011 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

Politics and Pharisees

2011-05-17T21:01:00.001-04:00

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

And, then there’s me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, then I “Googled” it.

“phar·i·see/ˈfarəsē/Noun

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

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

President Obama is definitely not Jewish.

But then, neither is June.

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

Luke 6: 41-46

Going To The Birds

2011-05-08T11:29:00.001-04:00

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

Female Cardinal

Male Cardinal

A Pair

Red-Headed Woodpecker

Female Purple Finch

Brown Thrasher

Robin Red Breast

Blue Jay

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

"...I'll come flying through your door, and you'll know what love is for. I'm a Bluebird. I'm a Bluebird."

"...Touch your lips with a magic kiss, and you'll be a Bluebird, too..."

"...and at last we will be free. You're a Bluebird. You're a Bluebird."

"We're living in the trees, and we're flying in the breeze. We're the Bluebirds. We're the Bluebirds."

Lyrics taken from "Bluebird" by Paul McCartney

Don't Ask, Don't Tell...Osama-style

2011-05-03T23:35:00.000-04:00

It was a Tuesday.

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

My desk phone rang.

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

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

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

It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

The world had just tilted on its axis.

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

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

And they believed.

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

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

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

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

But, not really.

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

It was the word “killed”.

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

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

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

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

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

No one said a word.

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

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

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

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

I admitted feeling relief in knowing Bin Laden was gone.

No one else said a word.

© Copyright 2007-2011 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

A Face For Hats

2011-04-16T21:39:00.001-04:00

Despite the fact I only read it last year, on Tuesday I couldn’t remember the name of one of my very favorite books.

But, on Saturday, burying a hand trowel into earth made forgiving by Spring rains, I remembered being eight and being dubbed “Messy Bessie” by my brownie leader.

I forgot to buy an onion at the supermarket.

But every time I see a hat, or a lady wearing a hat, or even a hat-rack, I remember being twelve and standing in the millinery department at Macy’s. My sister and I were accompanied by my grandmother in what was an annual After-Christmas walking tour of Perimeter Mall. I call it a walking tour because, while occasionally an item was returned, nothing was ever actually purchased.

My sister and I donned hats. Both of us posed in front of mirrors.

“Laura!”, my grandmother called. “Laura, you don’t have a face for hats. You need a plain face to wear a hat.”

There was a slight pause as we looked at one another for an answer to the question neither of us would ask before she provided it.

“Stacye…”, it was a statement. “Now, Stacye has a face for hats.”

At work on Monday, I panicked at the idea of creating a whole new set of contracts, only to discover I’d already done it, weeks before.

Wednesday night, as I reclined against the cold ceramic part of the bathtub not filled with warm water, I remembered John O’Conner turning in his desk to ask in his most sardonic voice “Was that really necessary?”, before I even had a chance to lower the hand I’d raised, in vain, to prevent the burp from escaping my fourteen-year-old lips.

I sometimes struggle to remember which son was born on what date. Although in two different months, their birthdates are just two weeks apart. Which one was born in April and which in May?

And, just the other day, as I pinched dead blooms from pansies’ heads, the image of long, yellow hair swirling around my sister’s snarl flashed across my brain. Anger reddened her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything in the world!”, she growled.

The toddler at my feet pressed her back against my legs as instinct tightened my hold on the baby in my lap. We all shrank.

They come in quiet moments, reflections of mis-steps, things I’d rather forget. They’re etched there, burned onto the surface, easy to retrieve. They come unbidden.

They are not who I am but they are, in part, what makes me, me.

Net-Overworked

2011-04-12T22:42:00.000-04:00

When it came to market, I was among the first in line for the IPOD. I had one of the early models, the one that looked like a space-age tic-tac dispenser. I later traded up to the Nano, which I rarely mentioned without thinking of Robin Williams, prompting the duplication pronunciation as in, Nano-Nano. My I-touch came soon after my son received one. Two years later, I’ve yet to meet a cooler gadget. Mine goes with me everywhere.

In all the time I’ve “podded”, I’d never downloaded a podcast, but that was before I ran out of treadmill diversions. Music doesn’t do it for me. Music provides a soundtrack. Rather than taking me to another place, it helps me focus on the task at hand. I don’t want to focus on the treadmill.

Television was an option for a while. Several years ago, I watched an entire season of American Idol on the treadmill. Since then though, I’ve moved it. I’ve taken over the Living Room, turning it into a Game/Workout room. It’s not carpeted, inviting every little noise to travel through a stoned foyer, down a similarly bare hallway, to the door of my son’s bedroom, and that’s a problem. Sometimes I use the treadmill before work. Waking my son at 4:30 AM would only mean trouble for us both.

After hearing someone on television discuss their favorite, a podcast seemed a viable solution; not to mention a reason to spend another hour or so poking around in I-tunes, which is for me, similar to shoe shopping in that I could do it until I run out of money or someone I’m related to shouts “Mom!”.

It took a few minutes to get acclimated, but after perusing “Staff Picks”, and “New and Noteworthy”, I chose a handful of podcasts to audition. I clicked on each icon, downloaded the latest entry, and it wasn’t long before I began to notice a pattern. Many podcasts are supported by websites, and those websites encourage participation in a social network of like-minded listeners.

Really?

Later that day, a friend sent me a link to a site dealing with Kabbalah. I know two things about Kabbalah. I know followers wear a cool, little, red, string bracelet, and I know Madonna is one.

You might say I’m a student of religion. I’ve studied and/or read the text of many religions, from Daoism, to Mormonism, to good old Southern Baptist theology. I even read “Dianetics” and, afterward, sent an email requesting information on becoming a Christian Scientist. I got no response. I never decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing…

I visited the site my friend suggested, and submitted the information required for a fourteen-day, free trial. Almost immediately came the email suggesting I join their social network for those new to Kabbalah.

Really?

Open Salon, too, has become something of a social network. The fact is, you can post all you want, but if you don’t take the time to read other’s posts, add them to your friend’s list, and message them when you add another post, your post probably won’t get read.

I joined Facebook. We all did, didn’t we? I mean, even if you didn’t join to catch up with old friends, or to cheat with old friends, or even just to lurk on old friends’ walls to live vicariously much as you did in high school, you joined to monitor your kid’s activity, right?

Facebook is THE social network of all social networks. All my “friends” are there. I put “friends” in parentheses because I have “friended” people I have never met or even conversed with, in any media, at any time, anywhere. These are people my “real” friends have suggested I “friend”. So, I did.

The fact is, I feel pressured. When a “friend” suggests a “friend”, I feel pressure to friend. When I post on Open Salon, I feel pressured to read. I am 4 days into my free, fourteen-day trial of Kabbalah Online and I feel pressured to rush through the videos so I’ll have something to offer the “group”.

Enough.

Are we this lonely? Where are our friends? Don’t we have anyone to talk to, to share air with?

Or, are we talking everything to death?

Writing Yoko

2011-04-07T19:42:00.000-04:00

My mother insisted I write letters…mostly to my grandmothers…mostly to her mother.

Grandmother Eakes (We called her “Eakes” to distinguish her from Grandmother “Howell”, though the two were as different as night and day.) never answered. Never. I don’t mean to suggest she forgot. I don’t mean to infer she was busy. She just never answered. Period.

I mentioned it to my mother once…the lack of response. The meat of her answer escapes me now, some thirty-plus years later, but the flavor remains. I taste it often. It serves me well. After all, there are many occasions in which when we are called upon to “rise above”.

Eventually, my mother presented me with a pen-pal. The how’s and why’s faded over time, but I know her name. It was Yoko, as in Ono, but no…Ono was not her name. It is, however, the way I’ve thought of her since John Lennon died. One day she came to mind as she always had; she was Yoko Yakushima. And, the next, she was Ono. I don’t know...

I can’t stop thinking about her.

We exchanged letters for a couple of years. Hers were always enthusiastic, filled with life, and all the drama a thirteen year old girl could muster. I tried to keep up. I pretended. I crafted excited sentences and feigned filial frivolity I didn’t feel; until I didn’t.

I stopped writing Yoko. Her letter came, wrapped in onion skin that labeled it foreign even before seeing the postmark. I read it, but I didn’t answer. I felt guilty for as long as allowed between volleyball games, swim meets, and clandestine bumper pool lessons given by Bernard, a seventeen-year-old boy my parents hated that I would have followed to the ends of the earth.

Even without response, Yoko continued writing for weeks; until she didn’t.

And now, I wonder where she is.

I hope she’s okay. I wish I’d kept writing. Are her children safe? Did her house wash away? Was hers one of the faces standing in bread lines? I worry.

The tragedy in Japan compelled me to break my years-long boycott of television news. I watched as death flowed onto the beach and kept on going.

Over and over and over, again, I watched houses join other buildings, unidentified debris, and the occasional vehicle, in a watery swath that wrapped its arms around everything in its path, until I couldn’t breathe.

Yoko wasn’t the kind of girl that would have left home.

Days passed. I continued watching.

An elderly man excused himself as he passed between two people standing in a line that wrapped around the grocery store he exited. He walked down the line handing out loaves of bread from his ration.

Diane Sawyer, appropriately devoid of makeup, happened to be standing nearby. In a voice filled with just the right amount of disbelief, she asked the man why he was giving away the food he’d waited in line for hours to receive.

“I only need one.”, was his answer.

And I wonder, “Would that ever happen here…here in the land of “me”?”

No matter her actual proximity to the destruction, nothing I have survived can come close to what Yoko has endured. That knowledge serves me every day; that and the image of that man, the one who shared his bread.

Combined, they are grace. In deference to their sacrifice my spirit quiets. I am more giving. I strive to share what they have taught me.

Today the earth shook again.

And still I pray.

Collateral Damage

2011-03-13T11:09:00.000-04:00

I’ve never given much thought to birthdays. They come, they go, I mark them in the usual way. I pay little attention to the numbers that go with them. One year in fact, after expressing surprised delight at all the celebratory gestures that shouldn’t, after this many birthdays have been much of a surprise at all, I realized with genuine amazement that I was a year younger than I had thought for the entire preceding year.

This past August though, as my birthday drew near, I felt something nag at me. I studied myself in a mirror. I searched every tiny crevice time has stamped upon my face, but the answer wasn’t there. Long ago I realized there are good days and there are bad days. On good days, the lines are there, I just don’t notice them.

Was I worried about being attractive to men? After all, as a late bloomer, I had a short window. I tried to remember the last time I stopped a car, or just caused one to slow down. It seemed it had been a while. There was a time in my late thirties and early forties when I could still attract a man eligible for coverage under his parent’s insurance policy. Those are generally the ones who stop. After all, it’s easier to hang your head out the window and/or yell “Baby” over the din of Atlanta traffic if you stop the car first.

Then I remembered a day not so long ago when it rained, as per usual, during rush hour. About half my drive is bumper-to-bumper, and on this particular day the two men in the front seat of the car to my left seemed determined to get my attention. There’s a certain look in a man’s eyes when he’s hoping to catch yours. These guys had probably switched insurance companies a number of times. They may have even added dependents. That’s okay. They still had eyes. It felt good. Some days, I’ve still got it.

I am bothered by a sudden sense of the finite, the certainty that you’re over halfway through, the knowledge that there’s less left than you’ve already lived. It’s as though one day you think, as you have for the preceding decades, “I’ll get to it.”, and the next you wistfully wish you had.

And then it hit me. It wasn’t about me. It’s about them, the people who pepper my life; the ones who listen, the ones who’ve been there, the ones who know me and love me anyway. Because, I’m not the only one getting older.

One of my closest friends is eighty-six. She still works three days a week and puts dinner on the table for her husband every night at seven PM; not six, not seven-thirty, always seven PM. Four times a year, she drives her 1996 Toyota Corolla over 200 miles, alone, to see her daughter in Tennessee. She is blessed with a sharp mind, a keen wit, and a nose for good perfume. But…realistically..for how long?

Another friend is sixty-five. We joked, for years, that she was old enough to be my mother. She loves to eat, she loves to read, and she loves her grandchildren. Despite medication, her blood pressure often peaks to stroke level, and a valve in her heart isn’t working. She should have surgery but she already owes the cardiologist money she’ll never be able to pay. Sometimes she doesn’t hear the ring on her new smartphone which she describes as “good for everything but making telephone calls”. When she doesn’t answer, my first instinct is to joke with her about it. But what if it isn’t a joke? What if she doesn’t answer because she can’t and never will? I don’t leave a message. I call back later.

I resent having to think about these things. It’s one thing to face my eventual demise. I can put that away. When it pops to the surface I can push it down with a sense of purpose. After all, I’m healthy. I’m active. I’m doing the things I can to prevent the outcomes I dread.

But, I can’t do that with the others. The folds around my friend’s seawater-green eyes remind me. The sound of exertion as she painfully plods towards the entrance to the grocery store worries me. The certainty that one day they won’t be there saddens me.

So I do the only thing I can do.

I love them.

Now.

They're Still Dead

2011-02-20T20:32:00.000-05:00

I never met Neibi Brito. And, despite passing it almost daily, I never saw her children playing in the yard of the house in which they lived. I would have noticed. It was a great house, cottage-like and quaint, a small-scale Cape Cod. Someone painted the exterior powder blue. Had I been consulted, powder blue would not have been among my first choices but, accented by white trim, it worked.

My subdivision sits just a block off the main thoroughfare which acts as a sort of suburban life-line. It’s the way I get to the market. It takes me to my son’s school. If I follow it one way, it takes me downtown. The other way takes me to the highway and, from there, I can go anywhere. My house sits on one side of this road and what’s left of Neibi Brito’s powder blue cottage sits, smoldering, on the other.

On Thursday evening, my friend’s teenage daughter reported seeing Neibi running around her front yard. She was screaming and waving her hands. One of her neighbors later explained she was screaming “My babies!”.

A construction worker, drawn by the commotion, stopped and went into action unloading a ladder from the back of his truck. At times like these, communication barriers are of no consequence. Desperation is a universal language.

Seeing the construction worker leaning his ladder against the side of the house, two nineteen-year-old neighbors offered their assistance. By now, flames licked the outer edges of the front window frame, and black smoke billowed towards a street filling with onlookers and distracted rush hour motorists.

The men worked as a team to remove three children from a second story bedroom, through a window, down the ladder, to the ground where it was confirmed that three-year-old Ivan Guevara had died. His four-year-old brother, Isaac Guevara, and eighteen-month-old sister, Stacy Brito, immediately began receiving treatment from paramedics who had arrived on the scene minutes before. They arrived alongside firemen, whose boots flattened the garden hose Ivan Gonzalez had grabbed in hopes of squelching the flames without the assistance of emergency personnel. The last thing Ivan Gonzalez wanted to see was men wearing boots and badges.

As the children were loaded into waiting ambulances, Ivan stood attentive, just outside the vehicle’s gaping back end. The right side of his face oozed anew as soon as he removed the soiled rag with which he dabbed at it. He was missing an eyebrow. He relayed, to the paramedics, his intention to follow the ambulance to the hospital. It was a request made by most fathers; fathers who made awkward attempts at smoothing hair while crooning their children safely inside the emergency room.

Ivan did neither.

Ivan never showed up.

Ivan wasn’t their father.

Ivan was their mother’s boyfriend.

Twenty-six-year-old Ivan Gonzalez was a chemist,

a chemist who cooked methamphetamines,

a chemist who cooked methamphetamines which were later sold by his girlfriend, their mother, twenty-two-year-old Neibi Brito.

And that explains a lot.

That explains the fire.

That explains the $193,000.00 stashed between two slabs of drywall which explains how, despite appearing unemployed, they paid rent for a home in an area that demands anywhere between $1, 200.00 and $700,000.00 per month.

That explains what one neighbor dubbed “unusual activity” at their home.

Tragic as it is, that even explains the “signs of child cruelty” reported in the local newspaper.

What it doesn’t explain is the question the rest of us keep asking, “How could THAT have happened HERE, in THIS neighborhood?”

The question is asked in shock at the realization that our triple digit incomes don’t provide immunity from a “certain element”, which is a good Southern girl’s way of describing illegal immigrants, criminals, drug dealers, child abusers, or any other unsavory individual, or group of individuals, from which we hope to protect ourselves by ensconcing our families inside gated communities, which offer the privilege of being able to touch the house next to yours by simply extending an arm from an upper level window.

Anyone who looked at Neibi Brito, particularly as she wheeled her 2011 Cadillac into her rented driveway, knew she didn’t belong. She was twenty-two. She had three children under the age of five. She lived with a man who was not her children’s father, and neither of them left the house everyday at the same time and returned at a different same time. There was no visible means of support.

I’m not here to point fingers. There’s plenty of blame to go around; from the real estate agent, to the car dealer, to the neighbor so eager to share her suspicions of “unusual activity” on the 6:00 news. Ivan Gonzalez had been arrested just days before as an accessory to a child stabbing case. We could go there. But we won’t.

Three children died, and it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. They’re still dead. What matters is that next time something doesn’t fit, we ask the questions, we be the "buttinsky", we care.

Suppose a neighbor had shown up on Neibi Brito’s doorstep on moving day? Suppose she carried a basket of muffins, and when Neibi answered the bell, she handed her the muffins and took time to speak to each of the three children pulling at Neibi’s legs? What if she came back, with her daughter in tow, the next day? What if she offered to take the children for a walk, while Neibi had some much needed alone time?

Would a drug dealer have set up a meth lab in Gladys Kravitz’s neighborhood?

Sometimes caring really is a matter of life and death.

Valentine Red

2011-02-13T11:50:00.000-05:00

It seems as though Valentine’s Day always fell on weekdays when I was a kid. It feels that way because I have this image. It’s an image of my father, work-weary and possibly a little buzzed, leaning forward in order to catch the screen door with one mud-encrusted workboot. The lean caused the shopping bags dangling from his huge Dad-hands to swing, leaving flashes of red, and white, and chocolate in their wake. I fight the urge to clasp my hands in anticipation…

Mother’s box came first, and it was huge. Though he may have chosen pink on occasion, my memories are of red, bright red, deep red, heart red, love red. And white; white lace, the scratchy kind, bunched along the border. The largest of these heart-shaped, satin-wrapped boxes featured silk flowers in the center, roses, of course. As my mother tore through the plastic on the outside of this candy-stuffed work of art, my sisters and I leaned forward slightly, in anticipation of a chocolate waft.

She never ate one right away. There was no spontaneity to the way my mother chose chocolates. Should you have happened upon the still beautiful box even a day or two later, you would have found most of the candies pinched. She always pinched before she ate. She was picky that way. And, I couldn’t help but think that at least part of her motivation lie in making her candy less palatable to those of us with smaller hearts, emptied sooner.

In elementary school we made valentine boxes. At first, we crafted as a class. We bent construction paper, and scrunched doilies, and shot arrows through our hearts with red and pink crayons. Later, left to our own devices, the boxes became more ornate or, maybe, just more shiny. Either way, they were impressive…and, to a girl who feared her valentines would be few, somewhat menacing. As I slid my box between two others whose owners’ low expectations directed them to end of the table furthest from those expecting the most traffic, I began to devise ways to remove it with as little fanfare as possible.

There was always a party during which someone else’s mother served cookies or cupcakes. We drank red juice and peeled red foil from thick chocolate hearts.

At the end of the day, I’d jump from the bus and run up the driveway, through the door and up the stairs to the first bedroom on the left. Closing the door, I’d dump the contents of my now disheveled valentine box onto the folds of my unmade bed. My favorites were the ones with red lollipops threaded through the message. They had white hearts painted on them and tasted just like Luden’s cough drops.

In high school, Valentine’s Day was marked by the Band Department’s carnation sale. In what proved to be a stroke of marketing genius, strategically placed posters throughout the school suggested that carnations weren’t just for “couples” anymore. Carnations could also be purchased for friends, and at two-for-a-dollar they were a steal. The Popularity Derby was on!

In high school, Valentine’s Day always seemed to fall on a Monday. It feels this way because I have vivid memories of Sundays marred by an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment yet to be experienced, and dread. Or, maybe it was just dread, and the embarrassment is embellishment supplied by experience.

Flowers were distributed during homeroom when two or three flute players interrupted morning announcements with a tentative knock on the institutional door. I know they were flute players because flute players didn’t look like anyone else in the band. Flute players were exclusively female and cloned apparently, as all were thin, and wore their wheat-colored, stick-straight, long hair parted in the middle so that, at times, it fell forward in cascades, hiding, for just a moment, their carefully cultivated poetically pained expressions.

They flitted about the room, dropping carnations on desk corners, often making return trips to the same two or three desks, over and over, again. White carnations were sent by friends. A pink carnation meant someone wanted “to know you better”. Red carnations were the real prize, and usually only appeared on the aforementioned two or three desks. Occasionally a boy received a red carnation causing the boys with empty desks to shoot him glances filled with envy later hoisted on pointed barbs.

As it does for so many things, age takes the guesswork out of Valentine’s Day. It isn’t about wondering anymore. You either have a Valentine or you don’t. If you have a Valentine you get a valentine. If you don’t, you don’t. For someone who used to retrieve her box from the other end of the table with as little fanfare as possible, it’s a better plan.

Roses are a mainstay. I’ve received them singly and in bunches. They’ve been wrapped in paper, shipped in boxes, and presented in vases. I enjoy them presented, preferably at the office. After all, it’s not about the flowers; it’s what they represent. Whoever came up with the idea of shipping in boxes fails to understand the power of presentation.

And, while I like roses, I would trade every one, even the salmon-colored ones and the yellow ones with red-tinged edges, for a single tulip. A red tulip.

Today I woke to winter sunlight filtered through empty branches swaying in winds that carry the hope of spring. In front of the window sits a table and on the table a vase filled with a fountain of red tulips.

The Huff, The Peas, and the Egghead

2011-02-09T18:44:00.001-05:00

Like many before me, I write from angst. I haven’t had much lately…

Today, though, I feel need. It’s a nice place from which to write. I much prefer it to sitting in front of a monitor willing an idea to form in between the occasional guilty click on my facebook page, which mocks me from its shrunken state on the bottom of the screen.

I’ve got a few things stuck in my craw…

Arianna Huffington sold out. Despite the rather dismal projections offered by many who know much more than I about these things, I understand the motivation from a business point of view. But I didn’t see Arianna as a business. I saw Arianna as a pioneer, sort of a new age Annie Oakley with a sexy foreign accent. And, I ask you, would Annie Oakley have sold her gun? Even if it meant she could grow her audience? What if more people took her seriously? Would she have sold it then? I don’t think so.

For me, Arianna represented “The Total Package”. She is smart, beautiful, savvy, brave, maternal, and charming. She gave the appearance of having “It All”. Recently, I listened to an interview in which she was asked why she wasn’t “seeing” anyone. (The fact that this is considered a pertinent question in 2011 is something that could get stuck in my craw if I let it. For now, I’ve decided not to let it.) Paraphrased, her answer was that she just hadn’t found anyone who was worth it. She was busy. She loved her life. She was a self-fulfilling female. I suppose she still is…in a way.

Did I mention I actually like the “Black Eyed Peas”? I do. They opened for “No Doubt” about a million years ago in a lofty, former Baptist tabernacle-cum-tiny concert hall now called simply, “The Tabernacle”. My date hated them. I suffered them in anticipation of things to come. But, even so, I could see their appeal.

Will. I. Am., despite obvious identity issues inherent in the chosen spelling of his given name and the unfortunate choice of headgear, is a brilliant musician and businessman, which is precisely why Intel recently named him “Director of Creative Innovation”.

Let’s agree they were over-ambitious. And, given that, and Mr. .Am’s recent recognition, there was no room for mistakes. If your desire, Will. I. Am., is to be known to the world as a creative genius, then you’d better think before you take on a job of this magnitude. Before you decide to create a light-show the size of a football field, teeming with human bodies, you should be absolutely sure the mikes will work. It’s a small thing, but in the end when we’re watching, and Fergie is singing, only we can’t hear it because her mike is going in and out, over and over, that small thing becomes huge.

As she lay bleeding, the vultures wheeled. If I had a dime for every time I’ve read a headline that promised tantalizing details of the time Fergie wet her pants, I could buy a cup of coffee…and a biscotti. Okay, so Fergie wet her pants. Video evidence is unequivocal. And, so what? She didn’t wet her pants at Cowboys Stadium, but she did do a bitchin’ Axl Rose impression.

Why is it that, once the bleeding starts, that’s all we know? We smell the blood, and nothing else matters. Why do we work so hard to bring down those we worked so hard to elevate? What is wrong with this picture? Are we really that bored…jealous…unhappy…small? Well, I guess we are.

Sometimes I only read the headlines; case in point, the recent brouhaha over abortion rights.

When I was in college, our English teacher gave us a choice of essay subjects. We could write about abortion, or we could write our own “Bill of Rights”. Declaring abortion rights a dead issue since it’s particulars seemed to have been bandied about since the time of my birth, I chose to construct a “Bill of Rights”. The paper is one of few I socked away for future generations. In it, I addressed the quandary that is dishwashing and made what proved to be a convincing case. After all these years the A+, written in red ink, shines bright atop the cover page.

And yet, here we are some thirty years hence, and my inbox is deluged with emails from “Move-On” and “NARAL”, imploring me to take action against Republicans who, they insist, would rather a woman die than end an unwanted pregnancy.

Oh, how I have waffled.

On the one hand, I sincerely believe that a woman who doesn’t wish to be a mother should not be. On the other hand, I have trouble arguing the point that a human is not conceived at conception. I know it’s just a bunch of cells. But, it’s THE bunch of cells. It’s the only bunch of cells capable of human life. Doesn’t that, in and of itself, constitute life?

And, on the other hand, why are we legislating human anatomy and physiology?

I don’t have answers, but I am fascinated that we are still talking about it. And, by the way, whatever happened to those cool foil suits our professors said we’d all be wearing by now? Nobody talks about THAT anymore…

I can’t decide if it’s cool or scary. Facebook may have incited a war. The headline reads “Inspired by Tunisia, Egyptians Use Facebook to Set-up Protest”, and we all know what happened next.

According to “The Social Network”, Facebook is controlled by a 20-something, egg-headed cuckold. I have children older than he, with much more life-experience, and still, I wouldn’t be comfortable following them “as to war”.

Once again, I find myself torn. I’m awestruck by the way Facebook shrinks borders. My friend’s list, alone, covers several continents. I socialize with people living in other countries every single day. I’m not sure my mother ever met someone from another continent, and if she did, I’m sure they didn’t converse daily. Facebook has improved my life in many ways. I’m more intelligent. I’ve learned things from people I never knew I wanted to know. I’m more worldly. I ask questions of my international friends. From them, I’ve learned more about Ireland and South Africa than I ever learned in Social Studies class. I’ve broadened my horizons. I’ve found new music, read new authors, and picked up health tips. Through Facebook, I’ve cultivated my interest in photography and found a new audience for my blogs.

And, I waste lots of time. There’s just no two ways about it. At least half the time I spend on Facebook is empty, mindless, and most important, time I should be spending looking at, or into, someone else’s face.

Like it or not, though, I believe Facebook, or something like it, to be a permanent part of our culture. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to learn how to maximize the positive parts of the experience and still have plenty of face-time with our favorite faces.

Not Watching

2011-01-22T09:52:00.000-05:00

I’ve always meant to watch “The Biggest Loser”. Over all the seasons it’s been on television, I may have seen one and one-half episodes. Many of my friends find the program inspiring and motivating, and it’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that I had to choose between that and writing. And, writing won.

I’m not sure I’ve ever watched an entire episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” even though I’m a sucker for medical dramas and found myself falling for Kate Walsh, in a big way, while watching her in stilettos, pressing the accelerator in a Cadillac commercial. The ad came on during football time-outs. I always make time for college football. But it’s difficult to fit in other television programs, and still find time to write a blog post that must then be submitted to three different websites.

I did watch the first installment of “Downton Abbey”. I tend to forget how much I enjoy Masterpiece Theatre. Of course, I had to reschedule my manicure. I wonder if I can fit that in while watching “The Biggest Loser”?

I have, of late, listened to interviews with Jon Stewart that convinced me I am truly missing out by not being able to stay awake past 10 pm. I’ve considered recording the show, but that would engender watching and when would I? I’m committed to posting one photograph every day for a year. And I have to actually take a photograph first.

My son and I love tennis. John Isner’s marathon performance at Wimbledon last year placed him atop my son’s list of favorite players. I like Rafael Nadal for obvious reasons. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a great tennis player, too. The Australian Open opened on Monday. So far, we haven’t watched a set, but they’re still in the early rounds. The important matches will be played next week, and I’ll watch some of those when I’m not watching my son play basketball or trying to fit in an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill or catching up on emails I should have been answering when I was watching Denis Leary’s latest stand up routine, which I recorded last week while I was completing my profile on yet another blogging website. This one is aimed at recipe hounds.

I’ve watched American Idol with my children since the very first season. I took my son to the live show the year that the pudgy, gray-haired guy won when everyone knew Daughtry should have won. We have never, and will never, do that again.

I was very excited to hear that Steven Tyler and Jennifer Lopez are joining Randy Jackson at the judge’s table. While not attractive in the traditional sense, Steven Tyler is one of those men who grew into his unattractiveness. Kind of like a Shar Pei puppy, he’s so ugly he’s cute. And, of course, he’s got mad skills….

Jennifer Lopez, on the other hand, is like Paula Abdul 2.0. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet, she’s talented, she’s experienced…she’s younger, she’s relevant, she’s someone the contestants’ Moms don’t have to explain.

We don’t usually bother with the first few weeks. I get no kicks out of sharps and flats, and the segments appear contrived. Last year, they allowed a contestant who is old enough to be my father to try out. I couldn’t tell you what he sang or even if he was on key. All I could think was “What is he doing here? Whatever happened to the age limit? Why aren’t they following the rules?” Of course, next day “Pants on the Ground” was an internet sensation. That guy got his fifteen minutes of fame…and yours…and mine…

I had hoped to catch the premier performance of Tyler and Lopez, but last week’s record snowfall left a pile of white stuff on my desk…paper, lots and lots of paper, paper that must be looked at. Some of it actually requires reading. All of it requires shuffling. I worked late that night…

I’ve taken steps to simply my life. I’ve ended time-stealing toxic relationships, I’ve downloaded scheduling software. I meditate. I sacrifice. I sift through the unimportant in the interest of “being there”. And still, there just isn’t enough time in the day to catch up with “Brothers and Sisters”.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. The seasons of our lives are fleeting. The day will come when I’ll have more than enough time and I’ll remember my season of chaos as some of the best years of my life. For now, I’ll take solace in the knowledge that as long as I have a DVR, there’s a chance I’ll get to see an episode of “Glee”.

The Forecast: Rain

2011-01-05T21:59:00.001-05:00

It rained today. As often happens, the storm coincided with rush hour. A colleague wished me luck as I left the office since it’s a well known fact that people in Atlanta don’t know how to drive in rain, or snow, or ice, or at night, or any time except daytime as long as the sun is bright and traffic light.

Other than the obvious road hazards, I don’t mind rain. I’m an avid gardener, and even though I am not actively gardening, I think of water soaking the ground and I know we’re putting in reserves for next summer, when all the hand-wringing in the world won’t make it rain.

I’m not crazy about the old adage “raining cats and dogs”. I’m a visual person and this is not a pretty picture. It doesn’t make sense. Who decided domesticated pets best describe heavy rainfall? Wouldn’t it be more descriptive to evoke elephants and hippos? Couldn’t we could just say, “Wow! It sure is raining.”?

I remember the first time I heard “It’s Raining Men”. I loved it immediately. It is a big song, sung by big women, with big voices and even bigger personalities. The song skidded in on the last lap of the disco era and hearing it today reminds me why we all loved disco; even those of us who won’t admit it.

On Monday, it rained birds in Arkansas. On Tuesday, it rained birds in Louisiana, and today Sweden reported the same. Some scientists are explaining the deaths by speculating that large flocks, alarmed by New Year’s Eve fireworks, might have flown into each other.

Call me cynical, but I don’t think so.

Cookies for Breakfast

2011-01-02T09:15:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-19T22:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-02T20:59:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-13T00:25:00.000-05:00

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

2010-10-26T22:20:00.000-04:00

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

2010-10-20T19:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2010-09-19T21:49:00.000-04:00

“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

2010-09-06T17:31:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-05T10:44:00.000-04:00

“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

2010-08-31T21:35:00.000-04:00

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…