Leaving on a jet car

Tonight is the last night at home for two weeks. Today was one of those days packed tight as a suitcase for an international flight. The dryer that was delivered last week, the one that the technician said he'd never seen one like and couldn't fix, was picked up. I paid JJ to clean the house and apartment--I, who never pay for cleaning service. My house sparkles, the apartment smells like cleaning stuff. I had my hair done, product applied, my toes and fingers painted as close to autumn orange as I could find in a bottle. And the highlight of the day was writing group, always is! I will pack my underwear and iPod and jewelry and clothes, hoping to run into cooler weather along the way, hoping to be overwhelmed, as I always am, by the colors of true autumn, wishing I could take you all with me.

When I came inside, my Buddha APP (can you believe there's an app for that?) told me this: Three things cannot hide for long: the sun, the moon, and the truth.

How wonderful it is to have friends who tell their truths and make mine bigger! I love you all!

Sacred Space

built by wind
and sun
and rain
wildflowers
blue sky
trees
lakes
and streams
god's architects
lend us
this earth
for
awhile

Back Door

silence, you
tiptoe
through the
back door.
our secret
keeps
if
they don't
see you
coming
-or
going.
we're
invisible.
ssshhhh,
don't tell.

The Back Door

It had a sound and a weight to it which was unique. It would creak when you opened it, and slap when it closed. Not the front door, not an interior door; it was a screen door. The back porch was built for utility – baskets of wash ready to be hung on the line, a shelf with a tool box, some paint, and stuff to shine your shoes. The back door would creak, and out we would go. Everything about that small, intimate space no longer exists. With air-conditioning, the idea of a screen door doesn’t make sense. Security – never thought about it then. The people -us, traipsing out the back door, wearing all manner of anachronisms - hats, gloves, ankle socks, handkerchiefs, mantillas. Off to Mass with the roast in the oven.

Coming back again through the screen door, the savory smell of meat greeting us in the back yard. Creak. Slap. We’re home.

Dad's Been on my Mind

I don't know why it hit me so hard- Dad's death. I should've known it was coming, but somehow I didn't. He'd been sick- first with emphysema- and then lung cancer. At 17, I must have still been naive enough to believe that doctors could cure anything, but reallly, they were all about experimenting on live guinea pigs like my father. In 1973, chemotherapy was not in wide use, but cobalt treatments were. For several days each month, Mom drove Dad from Abilene to Wilford Hall Medical Center in San Antonio. My sister had already married, so I was left at home to make sure my brothers got to school and to "hold down the home fort" as my mother used to say. The cancer specialists in San Antonio, at some point before the treatments began, operated, removing about half of Dad's left lung. For a short time he stopped smoking, but I think he realized his hope of a normal life was already gone, and he soon began sneaking cigarettes. Mom got angry at first, but eventually I think she came to the conclusion that he might as well die happy. Cigarettes gave Dad a pleasure I never understood.

I don't remember either of my parents ever saying that Dad was dying. I wonder if they thought because they knew, that we kids must have known, too, but even when a girl has a father she doesn't particularly like much of the time, she still imagines him as invincible- maybe even more so because she's been afraid of him for most of her life.

The night before he died, Dad and I were home alone. He practically lived on the sofa bed by this time. Next to him was a small end table with various bottles of medicine and water. I sat in a chair, and together we watched television. He loved MASH and a few other shows, and it didn't matter if he'd already seen them or not. At some point that night, Dad tried to get up and couldn't. The look on his face was terror, and I asked him what was wrong. He said he had to go to the bathroom, but he couldn't get there on his own. With Mom gone, it was up to me to take him. I tried to act like it was no big deal as I helped him up. I didn't realize until that moment how fragile he was. His bones showed through his skin-I recalled the pictures of the starving children in Africa as I put my arm around his waist which was smaller than my own. He weighed under 90 pounds, and I weighed about 100. I walked with him holding on to me the few feet to the bathroom, one step and then another- painfully slow going. I thought once we got there, he'd be all right, but he wasn't. He couldn't stand in front of the toilet without falling down, and there was nothing close enough for him to hold onto, so I had to stay with him. I turned my face away after helping him with his pants, but I could feel a shiver go through his body. His embarrassment was palpable. Afterwards, I helped him back to the couch, and before long, he slept.

The next day, I got the call at school to meet Mom at the hospital. She told me that he said to her, "The day that my own daughter has to be with me while I take a piss, is the day I go to the hospital to die." When I arrived at the base hospital, Mom was in the room with Dad, and I was told to wait outside. It wasn't long before Mom came out, obviously very upset. Dad was gone. Mom told me she expected him to just slip away, but this wasn't a movie with an easy ending for any of us. She said that as she sat with him, he suddenly panicked, "I can't breathe," he said, and he grabbed her hand and squeezed it so hard she thought it would break. She pushed the call button, but by the time the nurse got there, he was dead. That image of him gasping for breath haunts me still.

After that, everything happened very quickly. We were taking him back to New Jersey to be buried. My sister was called home, and we flew into Philadelphia, where relatives picked us up. We went to stay with my grandparents- my mother's parents. At the funeral home, I didn't want to look at him all laid out in his casket. It was my first funeral. Dad's five sisters and one of his two brothers were there. A sister made a remark about how "good he looked," but when I finally saw him, I saw a plastic cast of my father and not a very good one. The sisters went up to his casket, each of them kissing him on the cheek, making Mom feel like she should do the same. She said later that he didn't feel real but rather like a statue, cold and too smooth to be real. Back at my grandparents house, everyone gathered. My cousin, Tom, with whom I'd always been close, made a funny remark about Dad and his dad reaching through the ground to shake hands and catch up on old times. Dad was to be buried in the same plot as Uncle Charles, Tom's father. We laughed about it, and then I felt ashamed for laughing so soon after my father's death. But I heard my grandfather say Dad would want us to laugh- he'd want us to party and drink a beer as we sent him off to wherever it was he'd be going. My mixed emotions about this man, my father, wrapped around one another and tears came-angry tears, sad tears, tears for what could have, should have been. I cried for the years we'd lost, knowing we couldn't get them back or change the past. I cried for the grandchildren he'd never know because grandchildren give us all a second chance, and he sure could've used that second chance.

I tried focusing on the good times we'd had, though I initially struggled to remember them. I have to give him credit for doing the best he could under the circumstances he was dealt. He left me many lessons. I don't drink because of Dad. I love with all my heart because of Dad. I work hard and play hard, and I am a person he helped create. I hope he's found his peace, and I hope he forgives me for not loving him like a daughter should love her father. I understand him now, and maybe he understands me, too.

Back Door

I used to think I was laid back. Those of you who know me, don't laugh, I really thought I was. I wasn't so much trying to fool you, but me. Years ago, though, a therapist told me I was "tense and intense." Damn, I thought, I wanted to be someone else, someone whose bones, even, were calm. I thought I was an open book, that I could hit things head on, and that I could be approached directly and just open right up. Perhaps in the same way George Bush must believe he was a beneficial president, I believed I was easygoing. Who knows where we get these crazy ideas or why I so needed it to be true.

Then a therapist, a different one this time, told me, "Everything has to come through a side door, maybe even a back door, with you. You're too skittish and defensive, afraid for the front door."

I felt I'd been annointed with clear spring water, petals spilling over me. A truth spoken with kindness sailed to my bones and from there, my work could begin.

Two-three's the count
Nobody on
He hit a high fly into the stands
Round'in third, he's headed for home
It was a brown-eyed handsome man
that won the game
It was a brown-eyed handsome man

Chuck Berry

Voices

The chattering stopped. I don’t know when exactly, but it’s gone and hasn’t returned. Too bad I didn’t recognize the date and time the voice ended. It’d be nice to celebrate that anniversary each year like a birthday. The day I was born. The day I decided to bear dominion over my thoughts and my life. Whenever it was, that was the day I stopped telling myself I couldn’t. That I was wrong or bad or not worthy. It’s funny how it just vanished without my realizing. You’d think that when something that powerful goes away I’d notice. What probably happened is that the voice gradually diminished. It got softer and softer until I couldn’t hear it any more. The voice gradually lost its influence over me and in a snit of impotence just stopped and took its negativity elsewhere.

I always thought of it as mine. The voice belonged to only me. But, when it no longer resided in my head, did it go hound someone else? Is my voice now in someone else’s head telling them not to bother? Telling them to just quit? To accept the fact that they are not as good as everyone else? Second guessing them and asking who they think they are?

Every time I read something about schizophrenia I think of my voice. Thankfully there was only one. But it was like a loud and disrespectful roommate that behaved as if I didn’t exist. Its job was to scare the piss out of me every single day in every single way. My singular voice was so powerful that I can’t imagine how frightening it must be to suffer the schizophrenic continual bombardment of many voices all at once. I suppose the only consolation would be that those voices are from someone or someplace else. My voice was me. My voice was self defeating. I owned my voice. I allowed my voice to exist and rule my life. How crazy is that?

I don’t remember inviting the voice and I can’t recall when it arrived. I think it was around for a very long time before I realized it existed. Once I acknowledged it I believed that it was just a part of life and I had no choice. The voice was as integral to living as breathing. The voice wasn’t an intruder, it belonged in my head. For years, I not only indulged the voice but I gave it credibility. When sides were chosen between me and what I wanted or thought or believed and the contrary opinion of the voice, I stood in line with the voice. It always sounded more experienced and more reasonable and definitely safer. The voice would pat me on the head and remind me of my faults and inabilities.


Now that I have some perspective on the chattering I look around in amazement at how many people are battered by their own voice. Like gamblers they each have a tell. A behavior, a mannerism, a voice pattern that gives them away and announces the self destructive messages they deliver to themselves. The sneaky ones appear to be thinking about something when they tilt their head back and roll up their eyes. But I know they are at the mercy of their hypnotic voice. They aren’t evaluating what the voice tells them. They believe it and commit it not only to memory but to action. The empiric voice rules the serf like self. The voice is the master that whips them each day.

The tricky thing about these voices is that they have just as much influence over the talented and successful as they do the not so talented and not so successful. The chattering voice is an equal opportunity brute. It haunts the best of us. It scares what is best in us away. The chatter dispels our possibilities. Maybe the story of Cinderella and her cruel step sisters is really a metaphor for what we do to ourselves. Cinderella was plagued by her wicked step sisters who constantly demeaned her. We have the chatter in our heads instead. Maybe the silk slipper is a symbol of our strength. Once Cinderella put on the magic slipper her life became manageable and happy. When we have the courage to find our inner strength and allow ourselves to trust it we gain dominance over the voice that denies who we can be. Like the slipper that protected Cinderella from her evil step family, our emotional authority inoculates us against the chatter.

The voices are identity thieves. They are body snatchers. They steal our souls and wreck havoc with our lives and our sanity. They ruin any potential for happiness and satisfaction. They deny our abilities and our goodness. The voices are biblical and epic in scope and depth. They are the true serpent in the gardens of our lives. The voice tells us to concentrate on the worm instead of the apple. The worm’s objective is to second guess, to criticize and demoralize. Some of the most often used worm lines are “you should have known better” “what were you thinking” ‘you’ll never make it” “who do you think you are?” The worm bores through our sensibilities and rots the fruit of our lives. It is the disease that kills our orchards of hope.

Once we realize the voice is us we can take control. The constant chatter can be stilled only if we ignore it or tell it to be quiet. As soon as we realize that we, not the chatter, own our lives the voice is vanquished. We can then gather our tools and become the gardeners of our future. The chatter poisons our soil. Our strength of character tills and fertilizes it.

Now that my inner chatter has hushed, I realize there are other equally destructive voices that surround me. Do this. Do that. Think this. Think that. This is true. No it’s a lie. Some days I long for my one nagging voice, even if it was false. The volume of the badgering voices outside my head can be just as oppressive and dangerous. I’m grateful for the calm, clear voice that now resides not only in my head, but also my heart and soul. It may not always ring a universal truth, but it rings my truth and guides me away from the lies and protects me from the worms.

Our grandmother egged us on in the fantasy; the five sisters, and two girl cousins. We did everything in a pack. Of course, there were occasional squabbles and meanness. But overall, there was a sense of solidarity and community. There were enough of us to stage plays, have exciting card games, and play team scrabble. At Mama’s house there were strict rules. No talking during Lawrence Welk. That was how we got the idea. We would be the next Lennon sisters.

The older girls took charge, coming up with the play list, and drawing elaborate costumes. The part about hitting the big time was easy – we just had to sing, loudly, in public, riding in cars, anytime we got the chance. Sooner or later, and this was what would make it a great story, we would be “discovered”.

As the hot Texas summer dragged on we became desperate but not despondent. The most extreme plan was to lie down flat in the street. Lawrence Welk would screech to a halt, and we would jump up and burst into song.

Meanwhile, while we were waiting to become famous, Mama had us practice our singing. She had a flair for the dramatic; gathering us around her elaborately carved Victorian bed. Plumping up the pillows, and arranging her white hair as she lit a cigarette, she gave us our stage directions. “Sara Francis, you stand over there, Mary Ellen, get over on this other side, you little ones get up close where I can see you.”

“ Now when you sing the part about the silver spade, I want to see you really digging, and when you sing about the golden crown, put your hands up high like this, and wave your fingers, like you’re wearing a crown on your head.”

We gathered ‘round and sang her favorite song with all our hearts: “You Can Dig My Grave with a Silver Spade”, (‘cause I ain’t gonna be here much longer!) Mama cried, like she always did, and asked if we could sing it just one more time.

Singing with the Boys

This is still rough, and I probably won't enter it, but I had fun writing it:


My grandsons, Aden and Abram, love to get me to sing. This is funny to me because my youngest son, Eli, used to cover my mouth with his hand when he was little whenever I'd begin to sing!

We'll be driving along, my little boys and I, and Aden will shout, "Sing the Spider Song, Bubbe!" I'll start "The Eencey Weencey Spider," and their sweet little three and four year old voices will join in. From there, it's Abram saying, "Sing the doggie song," which brings about "How Much is that Doggie in the Window."

Eventually, they run out of ideas - but not really."Sing the Daddy Song, Bubbe!" one will say, and I'll reply, "I don't know the Daddy Song- sing it to me instead."

"No," Aden says, "YOU sing it."

Abram will chime in, "You sing it, you sing it!"

So, I'll make up a tune and sing, "Oh, I love my Daddy so, he's the greatest daddy I know. He reads me books; he can even cook. I love my daddy so."

From there, we have to sing the Mommy Song, the Bubbe Song, the Papa Song, the Auntie Song, the Uncle Song, and whatever else they can think of.

One recent day, we also had their little brother, Khalil, in the car. He's right at 13 months, and a tell-tale smell began to emanate from the back seat. Aden said, "Sing the POOP Song, Bubbe!"

Abram began to laugh and mimic his brother, "Yes, sing the POOP Song, sing it, Bubbe!' So what's a grandmother to do? Of course, she must sing the Poop Song:

"My baby brother pooped his pants, poo-pah, poooo-pah.
He's stinking up my bubbe's car, poo-pah, poo-pah.
Aden and Abram are holding their noses 'cause I'm telling you
it doesn't smell like roses!
My baby brother pooped his pants in Bubbe's car today....HEY!"

We laugh and laugh and sing it over and over until everyone knows it. Even the baby "culprit" is cracking up, not really knowing exactly why, but enjoying himself just the same, holding his nose, too.

My daughter and son-in-law, I'm sure, love it when their boys return home and begin to sing, but really, isn't that what bubbes are for?

Singing (my entry to THE SUN magazine)

Singing

It was New Years Eve, 1959. We were traveling a long stretch of highway, and my parents were singing.

After a few regulars we all sang together (“Chattanooga Choo Choo” and “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain”); after the usual tattling (“He’s on my side! Make him move his foot!”) we back seat riders would fall asleep. Then the love songs would start.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” they’d sing. Their harmony was the soundtrack of every road trip.

“This is something you should be awake for,” our father said, rousing us from sleep. “Right this very minute, a new decade is being born.”

With no seat belts to restrain us, my brother and I turned around and gazed out the back window of the Pontiac. I wanted fireworks,a bright neon light in the sky--something!--to mark the passing of the Fifties and the birth of the Sixties. But the only light on that dark two-lane highway that night was the beam of our own headlights.

I stayed wide awake for the rest of the trip, turning my memories of the Fifties over and over in my mind, saying my own private good-bye to my first whole decade.

Nothing changed that night, but we all agreed--the stars were brighter than ever before. When they began to sing again, their first song of 1960 was the one that reminded us of their stories of wartime romance. “I’ll be loving you, Always. With a love that’s true, Always.” We knew well that this was “their song”--a relic of a decade before we were born.

At the age of 80, our father died of pneumonia. A month earlier, his doctor had assured him he had the “heart of a forty-year-old.” A month earlier, I’d been playing the piano at their house, and he’d stood behind me singing, his voice as strong as his heart.

After the machines were disconnected and the lines on the monitor told us he was leaving, we stood in a circle around his bed, bereft. My throat was too tight to speak, much less sing.

But our mother, saying good-bye to the love of her life, held his hands. “It’s been a great trip,” she told him. And then--incredibly--she began to sing. Her voice was remarkably strong and beautiful. “I’ll be loving you, Always,” she sang. “With a love that’s true, Always.”

The nurses who had cared for him and hoped, along with us, that his lungs would clear, were attracted by the sound of my mother’s singing. They stood with us until the lines on the monitor went flat. One of his friends said, “He was a giant of a man.”

Even when he was unable to sing, she sang for them both. What I heard, what I’ll never forget, is the echo of both their voices, a harmony that I carry with me always.

Hi Everybody!

I can hardly wait to hear about Iowa, Janet and Deb!

I've been away from the blog for a bit--working on a DVD for my mother's 85th birthday. I just posted the piece I wrote today for the READERS WRITE section of The Sun. The topic for this month is SINGING--and you have almost a month to do yours.

Geometry

When I was in high school, I became infatuated with Geometry. It was fantastic! You could draw flat lines on a piece of paper, and end up with a perfectly formed 3-dimensional object. Tirelessly, I cranked out the forms, which increased in complexity. I stayed up late nights working on the project, wide-eyed and sleepless. As the turn-in day for what was in fact a minor portion of the grade approached, I considered the presentation. I t just didn’t seem like enough to simply submit the white cardboard objects without a “context”. And then I had a brainstorm; - a hand. I would submit an enormous hand holding the fragile shapes like precious jewels. Furiously, I worked on the giant hand, adding details realistic and humorous. For the first time ever, I marched into the high school full of confidence, carrying the gigantic hand. Students moved out of the way, making comments which I was sure were favorable and admiring. Awkwardly, I negotiated the door to the math room. I was early to class; - good, I could engage the full attention of the math teacher. There was one thing I hadn’t considered. He was a math teacher. He wore glasses and a short sleeved white shirt with a pencil and a pen in the pocket. Coolly, he made a small checkmark next to the assignment. Whether from professionalism or lack of attention, he didn’t see me sobbing in the back of the classroom.

OK. Here's what I did for the date prompt

“No, I don’t want to go there. I hate that restaurant and I’m not in the mood for Chinese. Let’s try that new steak place instead” I suggested. It was way too hot out and the humidity had drenched me while we walked in the sun the short distance from where the car was parked in the driveway to the house. We had spent the day running errands, washing the car and looking for a new house. Between the onerous chores and the weather, plus the impending change that was going to up end our lives, I was cranky. Pete was too. It didn’t help that it was nearly 6pm and that we’d skipped lunch and hadn’t had a thing to eat since breakfast that morning. “Ok, that sounds good. Do you remember where it is?” asked Pete. I told him I’d call our friends Joel and Margo and make sure they liked it and find out how to get there.

Pete unlocked the back door and I followed him in. He didn’t stop or pause as he headed directly to the refrigerator and grabbed two cold Russian beers. I had started going to a Russian woman for my pedicures and she had gotten me interested in Russian cuisine and beer. While she spruced up my feet, we talked about food and shared recipes. Mostly, I took recipes from her. We love Eastern European food and Anya’s recipes were easy and, relatively, healthy. She had told me one day about Russian beer and where I could buy it. After the first one, we were hooked. Pete guzzled several huge swallows of the frosty liquid straight from the bottle. I was a bit daintier and poured mine into a glass and then chugged it down.

“Go ahead and take your shower first while I call Margo,” I said. “OK, boss woman,” he replied as he pecked me on the cheek with lips that were cold and wet from the beer. As he lumbered up the stairs complaining about the weather, I dug around in my purse looking for my phone and called Margo. After several rings, she answered out of breath and told me she’d spent most of the day cleaning the house and had just returned from the grocery store. After a brief chat, I asked about the restaurant and she confirmed that it was called Mac’s and that they had enjoyed their meal and service. She said it was very easy to find and gave me directions. I thanked her and we made plans for them to come over to our house for barbecue the next night.

I had finished my beer while I was on the phone and figured Pete had swilled his down, too, so I grabbed another one from the fridge and headed for the shower. When I got upstairs, Pete was ironing his shirt and I handed him the beer with instructions to save at least a little for me. By the time I was dressed and ready, Pete had returned downstairs and was sitting at his computer. “Come on, let’s go!” I said. “I’m driving and I’m headed out the door. You’re either with me or not,” I threatened as I opened the door without turning around to see if he was coming. I had heard the familiar swearing as he’d quickly turned in his chair and cracked his knee on the desk on his way out of the office. “Happens every time,” I thought to myself.

Margo was right. Mac’s was a short and easy drive from our neighborhood and it only took 15 minutes to get there, park the car and sit down at our table. We couldn’t decide whether to stick with beer or order wine so we examined the menu. After a couple minutes, we both looked up and Pete said “red wine, definitely.” “Your turn to pick,” I said, “but I’d prefer an old deep musky one. Are there any there that sound like they’d taste like a barn yard? That’s what I’m in the mood for.” Pete leaned back in his chair while he concentrated on the menu. We try not to be goofy or snobby, but we do like our wine. We can live with so so food, but bad wine can ruin a meal. “They have a cotes de Rhone that looks interesting. Wanna try it?” My husband can ask the dumbest questions. Honestly. “Of course,” I said. My taste buds were standing at attention and ready to hop all over one of my favorite wines.

With that most important of decisions made, we looked around for our wait person. Funny, we’d been sitting there for at least 15 minutes since she had dropped off the menus and she hadn’t been back. “Do you see her?” I asked. Pete turned around in his chair and swiveled his neck. “Nope, and it’s too late to move to that other table. They seated a guy there already.”

When we had been seated Pete had commented that he might prefer the table across from us. The hostess had already returned to her station by the front door so we decided to ask the waitress if we could move. When she’d come by with the menus we’d forgotten. “Oh well,” I replied. “This one is fine. But where is she? I’m ready for wine.”

Pete managed to catch the eye of the hostess and crooked his finger. She responded by coming over and we told her we were ready for our waitress but couldn’t find her. The hostess commented that it was slow and that the wait staff tended to lose their timing when they didn’t have a busy room to take care of. She said she’d find her and send her out.

By the time our waitress made it back to our table we were thirsty, hungry and even crankier than before. She introduced herself and told us her name was Sheila. Pete and I looked at each other and we each knew the other was pretending to roll their eyes. Both of us had worked our way through college waiting tables. We had never introduced ourselves to our customers. The purpose was to wait on them not become friends. It was a professional transaction. Now that we were customers, we felt the same way. We were there to be served and we were paying for the privilege. We did not want to make it personal. It always seemed so inappropriate to have the server tell us their name. Knowing their name didn’t sweeten the tip pot. Good service would do that. We’d prefer they remain nameless, but that hardly ever happened.

We were ravenous so we ordered appetizers and entrees all at once with direct orders to bring the wine first and quickly. Sheila was happy to oblige and she promptly returned with our wine, expertly opened and poured it and set the bottle on the table before she left.

“Cheers!” We both said as we clinked our glasses and took our first sips. It was just what we wanted. There was a hint of hay mixed with the taste of dirt. It was delicious. “Ok, “I said. “Who cares about food?” “I know,” Pete agreed. “This is really good. Better than the last one we had, don’t you think?” Pete had an uncanny memory for wine. It was the same with golf. It must be a man thing. When he got together with his golf pals they could all remember courses and particular holes they had played years ago. Not only that, they could remember what club they used and where the ball had gone. Ask him about something truly important and he had no recollection, but the eighth hole at the Santa Ana golf course in Albuquerque he could describe to you in minute detail. He was the same with wine. Frankly, I think he made the wine memories up just to sound like a big shot. For me, I savored the good wines until the bottle was empty and then forgot about it.

We chatted about the upcoming move and the houses we’d looked at that week. We discussed work and then paused while we simultaneously looked around for our waitress again. “Where the hell is she?” Pete asked. Then, to our surprise, both of us realized that the guy at the table across from us had been joined by a woman. That woman was Sheila. Sheila our waitress had sat down at the table next to ours. She was apronless and sitting there enjoying her own glass of wine. Like cartoon characters, we both opened and closed our eyes and looked at her again, then at each other as we shrugged our shoulders and lifted our brows. Pete leaned forward and whispered, “is that her?” I shifted toward him and said “sure looks like her, minus the apron.” “What the hell?” said Pete. “Beats me,” I responded. We were dumbstruck. What was the proper etiquette for telling your waitress that you expected her to remain standing, stepping and fetching? Is it polite to go over to her table and ask where our food is? Should we introduce ourselves using our first names and ask how she was enjoying her meal? She was cutting into a slab of steak and we didn’t even have bread on our table. “What the hell?” Pete said again as he aggressively turned toward Sheila’s table and glared.

“pssst! Pete! Shhh! Don’t make a scene!” I loudly whispered. “What the friggin hell?” Pete asked as he firmly placed his wine glass on the table and turned toward me. “That can’t possibly be her,” I said. “I’ll go get the hostess and tell her we need our waitress again.” I took my napkin from my lap and placed it on the table as I moved my chair back. I started to stand when I heard Sheila say, “May I help you? Do you need something?” I looked up to see where the voice had come from wanting desperately for it to not be coming from the woman at the next table. But it was. Sheila was still chewing her steak as she started to get up from her table. “Sorry, this is so awkward. My friends set me up on a blind date and I ended up having to substitute for another waiter tonight. I knew it would be slow and so I decided to combine work with pleasure. You don’t mind, do you?”

There were so many ways to respond to this insolence but I decided to count to ten, and then twenty, before I answered. Pete was vibrating he was so angry, but thankfully, he was speechless. While I silently counted and debated my response, Sheila cut herself another bite of steak. By the time I’d hit the number twelve, I realized that her blind date was just sitting there and hadn’t eaten or spoken or moved. Was he as stunned as we were? Some blind date. I wondered if he was going to tip her. I wondered if Sheila expected a tip. I wondered if he had known ahead of time that his date would also be his food server. I wondered where the restaurant manager was. By the time I hit the number twenty I knew what I would say to Sheila.

“So, Sheila, does your boss know that you decided to kill two birds with one stone tonight? Is your boss aware that you are blithely sitting at a table and dining when you are on the clock and supposed to be waiting on us?”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s the beauty of all this. I am the manager.”

With that, Pete held up his arm to me as if to say “I’ll take it from here” and directed his attention to Sheila. “So, Sheila, let’s just say hypothetically that we have a problem tonight. A problem with you, let’s say. And we want to talk to the manager and complain about you. Are you saying that we would voice our criticism about you to you?”

Sheila must have been an English major because by now it looked like that not only had she grasped, but was also beginning to understand and appreciate the irony of the situation. She looked puzzled at first and then giggled as she replied, “Well, yes, I guess that’s about it. Pretty funny, huh? You don’t like your waitress so you ask for the manager and the manager is your waitress? Whoa! Would that be embarrassing?” She turned to her blind date for confirmation that this was indeed hysterical. She gave him a look that invited him to participate in the joke. Who knew life could be this amusing? By this time, I’d decided her blind date was truly blind and maybe deaf. He wasn’t responding to any of this. His hands remained in his lap and his face wasn’t giving away any of his thoughts, if he had any.

“Sheila, where is our food,” I asked.
“Oh, are you ready?” she said as she put down her fork. “I’ll just go check and see what’s taking so long.” As she got up, she took another quick sip from her wine glass. We both stared at her as she left her table and headed for the kitchen. We looked around to see if anyone else was noticing this odd turn of events. The hostess had been correct. It was a slow night. The only other diners were sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant and their waiter didn’t appear to be dining at their empty adjacent table. Too bad there wasn’t anyone sitting nearer to us. We had no witnesses. There was nobody to turn to and ask for confirmation that this bizarre scenario was really happening. There were no other diners who could offer us sympathy and agree how preposterous this all was. It was just the two of us, Sheila the dining waitress and her mute blind date. Oh, and the hostess who had also disappeared.

“Here you go,” said Sheila as she set the plates of food in front of us. “Sorry it took so long. Can I get you anything else? More wine?” She stood by our table but turned her head to wink at her blind date. True to character, he remained stoically silent. We, too, were voiceless and just stared at her. She jutted her head forward and bugged out her eyes as if to say, so? Did you not hear me? I cleared my throat and murmured, “Um, no, I guess this is it for now.” Pete continued to gape at her with his mouth hanging open. I was wordlessly double dog daring him to ask her for the manager. Sheila put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, okeydokey, then, if you need something just let me know. I’ll just go back to my table but I’m happy to get whatever you need. Your main courses will be ready by the time you finish your appetizers.” She stood there a moment longer and then did an about face and took the five steps over to her own table, sat down, spread her napkin on her lap and poured her own glass of wine.

The food was surprisingly good. The warm goat cheese covered with piquant chile raspberry sauce was unusual and delicious. The calamari was tender and not drenched in batter like it is in most places. “I wonder if she’s also cooking.” I asked Pete. “That’d be even funnier, huh?” Pete was exasperated and sighed to prove it. I told him we might as well make the best of it and that I was now curious how it was going to play out. He grunted and then picked up his fork and knife and began to eat. He agreed. The food was delicious.

For the next several minutes we chatted about our day and the houses we’d looked at. We immersed ourselves in the pleasure of the food and wine and forgot about our waitress who was enjoying her own meal at the next table. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Sheila leaving her table and returning to ours with two hot plates in her hands.

“Here you go as promised. Let’s see. You ordered the trout and risotto and the gentleman gets the filet with sautéed yams and onions.” Said Sheila as we pushed our empty plates aside to make room for our meal. She placed our plates in front of us and began clearing the rest of the table. “OK. You know where to find me if you need anything.” With that she returned to her table. I looked over at her date. I noticed that he had actually eaten some of his dinner and his wine glass was nearly empty. As she resumed her place across from him he looked up and I could have sworn I saw just the teeniest smirk pass his lips. “What are they up to?” I wondered. I looked around and noticed that the other table was now empty. When had they left? There was nobody else in sight. “Very odd,” I said to myself.

“Hmmm? What did you say?” asked Pete. “Oh nothing. I just think it’s weird that we are the only people here. I feel oddly captive or vulnerable or, I don’t know…something is not right.”

“Well, thanks for pointing out the obvious to me,” said Pete. “I can’t wait to tell Margot and Joel about our evening at their new favorite steak joint.

“It’s not their fault,” I said. “But, I can’t wait to tell them,” I agreed.

We finished our dinner and began negotiating desert. If we were going to share, we needed to compromise and that wasn’t something we were good at. I finally relented my lobbying efforts for ice cream and told Pete he could order the carrot cake. We turned to Sheila’s table to tell her we were ready for coffee and desert and realized she wasn’t there and neither was her date. When had they left?

“OK, that’s really weird. Did you even notice that they’d left their table?”
“Nope.”
“Are we hallucinating this whole thing? Have we lost our minds? What the heck is going on?”

We slumped back in our chairs and waited.

“OK,” I finally said. “This is crazy. I’m going to the ladies room and on my way there see if I can find someone to bring us the check so we can get out of here.” I got up and headed toward the lobby where I found the ladies room. I didn’t see anyone. On my way back to the table I peered into the other sections and bus area and saw no evidence of anyone else in the restaurant.

“There’s nobody here,” I said as I walked up behind Pete.
“Did you look in back? In the kitchen?”
“No. I was even afraid to go to the bathroom. This is getting too much like a Stephen King novel. While sitting on the toilet I kept imagining Jack Nicholson on the other side of the panel door. You can look in the kitchen.”

With that, we both got up and headed toward the back of the restaurant in search of the kitchen and a restaurant employee. After passing a room full of empty tables, we stopped, looked at each other and silently agreed to turn around and head for the front door as fast as possible. Even in college, we had never bolted on a check, but we were now. The possibility of jail wasn’t nearly as scary as this empty and silent restaurant.

“What if the door is locked?” I asked as we hurried in that direction. “What if we can’t get out? Oh God. Pete, I’m scared.”
“Just keep moving,” Pete said as he grabbed my hand and yanked me into the lobby. When we got to the door he body slammed it and we nearly fell out of the restaurant. The door closed behind us, we looked at each other and ran to the car giggling. Once we were in the car with the doors locked we started to laugh hysterically. We were terrified and giddy. We had escaped Mac’s with full stomachs and no harm.

“Do you think we should call the cops?” I asked.
Pete struggled with his seatbelt and replied, “And say what? Do you think anyone will believe us? I’m not even sure I do. No, let’s just go home and forget about it.” He started the car, pulled out into traffic and headed home.

Surprisingly, we both fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. The next morning while I made coffee and heated up croissants, Pete walked out to the driveway to fetch the paper. The next thing I heard was Pete screaming and yelling as he ran through the house making his way back to the kitchen.

“Look at this! Holy shit! No wonder we were scared! We could have been killed! We should have been killed!” he threw the paper at me as he ran into the bathroom and I heard him throw up. I picked up the newspaper and looked at the front page headline. “SERIAL KILLER DINES AND DASHES”. Under the headline was a photo of the deaf and mute blind date. He was a serial killer?

Early this morning, police discovered a strange scene at Mac’s, a new restaurant on the northwest side of town. A 911 call from the parent of one of the restaurant employees called them to the scene where they found the staff from the evening before bound and trapped in the walk in cooler. When her son who is a busboy at the restaurant did not return home by midnight, she went to the restaurant to look for him. She found the restaurant unlocked and undisturbed until she walked into the kitchen. It was there she discovered a note taped to the walk in door. The note said “Thanks for a lovely dinner. My meal was absolutely perfect and my service sublime. You all behaved perfectly and I have decided to reward you with your lives. The staff at the Hungry Tiger in Phoenix was not so good or so lucky. Remember every day is precious.” When she opened the walk in door she found the two chefs, her son and another busboy, 2 waiters, the hostess and the manager. They were all tied together and sitting on the floor of the cooler. Police are still unraveling the incomprehensible chain of events that allowed this notorious killer to take and hold captive the eight employees. “It’s a mysterious miracle that any of them, let alone, all of them are still alive,” said police detective Simon Romo. Detective Romo said that the fingerprints and DNA of the man who single handedly took over the restaurant for a few hours, match those of man wanted for several homicides in restaurants around the country. He is on the FBI Most Wanted List. Two other people escaped death at the restaurant and the police are trying to locate them. “We are looking for an unknown couple who were in the restaurant last evening. Sheila, the manager, served them and she is currently working with our artist so we can publish sketches of them. We need to find and question them. At this point, it is uncertain whether or not they know anything which will help us. Mostly, we are concerned that the killer also knows what they look like and may want to find them on his own. We are concerned that he is not yet finished with his crime spree in this area.

Hands

Hold my hand
while I hand you my heart
It is the most sacred gift I have
Other than my trust
There, now my heart is in your hands
Hold it carefully

While I keep my life to myself
I will share it with you and let you
Hold portions of it in your hands
Here is a precious piece
Hold it carefully

As we explore our future together
We are as one
And yet remain two
Our four hands work in unison
To link our lives and
Hold us together carefully

Our two hearts and minds
Remain our own as they merge
To form our life in concert
As we move through the day we each
Hold the other’s heart in our soul
We hold it carefully

My hand gives as yours takes
then we reverse
your hand gives to me
I reach out to receive
We hold the other’s offering carefully

Though we are united, we are still separate
The touch of our hands binds us
We hold our hopes like a bowl of fruit
That must be treated tenderly and eaten mindfully
So that it does not spoil
We hold it carefully

Some Suicides are never Recorded

He knew the answers
But never raised his hand

She knew it was wrong
But she did it anyway

He neatly folded the job application
And put a match to it

If she stayed he’d hit her again
She stayed anyway

He watched her walk away
And said nothing to stop her

He had everything he’d ever wanted
And he let it slip away while he sat in a chair all day

At the crossroads choices are made
And lives are irretrievably altered

Some suicides are never recorded

The piece I just posted is not the one I sent to THE SUN, Readers Write--but it's a too-late-to-be-considered shorter version. This is about the length of the READERS WRITE contributions, and the next topic is MAKING IT LAST, deadline August 1st.

Medicine

Good Medicine

The first time I heard the word, medicine: I was sitting on the toilet, my bare feet not yet touching the floor. My mother was kneeling beside me, my father mopping my face with a wet cloth. Pouring liquid from a brown bottle into a silver spoon, he said, “This medicine tastes just like Coca Cola.”

The power of suggestion being what it is in the mind of a two-year-old, that’s exactly the taste I remember--though I can’t be sure which came first, the medicine or my first actual taste of Coke, icy and cold in a green bottle. In 1950, at least in our house, soft drinks were not refrigerator fare, but were rare treats reserved for road trips. My brother and I would split a coke in the back seat, our parents singing forties love songs in the front.

Any illness or injury was my father’s domain. I remember spending days in a darkened bedroom after a massive bee sting, a poultice of his chewed up tobacco on my swollen eyes. If a splinter of glass or wood burrowed into my foot, he’d wrap the foot with a slice of raw bacon, which would--magically--pull the splinter out of the foot and onto the bacon-greasy cloth.

We rarely went to a doctor. If one of my father’s remedies didn’t work, he would drive to the drug store and ask for whatever pill or liquid he deemed best. The pharmacist never hesitated to fill a bottle of penicillin or cough syrup, no prescription needed. Then, at home, standing at the kitchen counter, he’d crush pills into a peanut butter and sugar paste, then spread it on white bread, crusts cut off just the way I liked it. Then we’d sit at the table together, each eating half of the same sandwich, his without a crushed pill.

In the months preceding my divorce--after a nearly thirty-year marriage--I wrestled with insomnia and depression. The medicine I took to alleviate one seemed to worsen the other, and I discovered that I couldn’t blast the pain away with pharmaceuticals. To add to the soundtrack of it all, I developed an angry hacking cough.

When I did sleep, I’d wake up at three in the morning, feeling ragged and alone. My parents were four states away, and I stared at the blank walls of a sickness without a name or a home remedy.

On those mornings, I got into the car and drove in the darkness. At the twenty-four-hour convenience store, I’d buy a large fountain Coke and two miniature Reese cups. Soothed by the combination of Coke and peanut butter, I’d drive back home--such as it was--and find a peaceful sleep.

Fifteen years later, the ache of divorce a distant memory, I still start every day with a drive, now in my own car, and get a fountain coke with two mini Reese cups. The combination of coke and peanut butter follows well-worn grooves in my psyche. Together they lead all the way back to childhood. My morning ritual is my path back to a time and a place where I had the good fortune to grow up with a beloved medicine man, my father.

And the first reveiw is in.....

Yesterday, I was driving with a friend on our way to a girls brunch. As we drove down Durango, we realized we'd made a terrible mistake. We were swimming upstream against a mammoth flow of AA conventionites leaving the Alamadome on foot and in car. After detouring our way through streets lined with crack houses and several bbq joints and several areas that resembled the set for The Wire, we finally made it back to 281. All that AA congestion got us to talking about AA and the irony of an anonymous bunch strutting their stuff through town bearing huge ID badges around their necks. My friend commented on the lovely column in the paper that morning by one of our local writers. She went on to say what a great writer she thought this person was. I agreed she was good but said that I thought the writing exhibited in my writing group surpassed her writing on many levels. So, this morning, I sent her a random sampling of my favorite bits from the blog - anonymously. If you want credit, tell me and I'll tell her who wrote what even though she doesn't know any of you. Anyway, this is her response:

"These are wonderful!!!!! You are right every bit as good - or better - than ____________"

Applause Applause! Applesauce! Applesauce!

It is the 4th of July--still. Just as it was when I wrote my morning rambling about McDonalds. I have had a wonderful day of solitude, reading, writing, and listening to the background sound of patriotic music on NPR. I'm sending you a short poem by Mary Oliver that Dominique Browning uses as an epigraph to one of her chapters:

THE USES OF SORROW

(in my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift.

Mary Oliver

finding me

Lost
on the road
to nowhere,
heart in
hand
searching
for the
soul
once
bright
with
innocence

from
somewhere
the light
beckons
a reminder:
don't give up-
there's still
much to
do

4th of July

The Man at the First Window at MacDonalds takes his work very seriously. He asks too many questions. Is everything on my screen correct? Would I like something else besides the Senior Diet Coke? Would I like to try one of their new smoothies? Perhaps a latte?

Mannerly and polite, in the style of a pleasant automaton, the Man at the First Window never deviates from the script, and you get the feeling he's practiced it at home, over and over, with his mother. Nor does he ever show the slightest sign of recognizing me from the day before. As he hands me my change, he always says, "Thank you. Please come again."

At the Second Window, the young man (who over the years I've found to be quite moody) shows signs of having been coached. He's started winking! It doesn't fit him. He does it in the awkward style of someone whose older brother has recently taught him to wink--a gesture he probably bestows on all his customers, old and young. I'm not quite sure how to respond. Do I wink back? Do I pretend I don't notice this newfound facial tic, or do I receive it as a semi-flirtatious gesture? If one eye is winking in the forest.....?

On the days he's not on duty, the tattoo girl is. She reminds me of a mean first grade teacher, and I drive away, coke in hand, with a distinct feeling that I've broken a rule I didn't know was a rule. Once I told her she looked pretty--because she did (she had curled her usually wild hair) , and because I wanted her to lighten up a little, maybe be my window pal.

Hearing a compliment, she brightened a little, and I thought we'd made a breakthrough. The next day, she had forgotten. She looks at me now in the old way, like I'm one more obnoxious customer who needs training, Should I give up on the project, or launch a new campaign: Where did you get that lovely tattoo? What do you do when you're not serving cokes and burgers and fries? Is there somebody out there who loves you?

At the Other MacDonalds, the window people are different. "Hi Sweetheart!" Clarence says. He calls me by name, has the coke ready when he sees the Mini driving up, and rarely charges me. "It's on me," he'll say.

Another, a young woman named Maria, always asks me if she can take a ride in my Mini. I truly intend to pick her up after work one day, take her for a spin down Austin Highway--but, alas, I never think of it until the next time I'm at her window.

A serious young man who looks to be about eighteen--you wonder how he got a window position--never, never once, makes eye contact. I've tried to engage him in conversation, but he absolutely refuses. He looks away--it's unnerving and touching-- as if the very sound of a voice is frightening to him.

Arghhhhhhh

My mother used to call it "ants in your pants," this restless feeling that is all too familiar to me. I can't sit still, but I don't have anywhere to be. I look in the refrigerator, but nothing looks edible, and I have no idea what it is I want. I find myself wandering from one end of the house to the other, and there's plenty I could be doing, but it doesn't interest me. I sit down to write, and no words are the right words. I look at the entries in my phone; maybe a long conversation with someone I care about- or more importantly right now, someone who cares about me. Yet, I can't dial any of the numbers because I don't know what I'd say. I don't even like to talk on the phone. It feels forced- running out of interesting topics to discuss- those long pauses I feel I must fill, awkward moments spilling into one another until goodbye, which can't enter the conversation soon enough. I feel like an alcoholic must feel- a desire in the bottom of my stomach, but an alcoholic, at least, can identify his desire. I consider that lucky in a way. When I was a kid, Mom had all kinds of suggestions: "Clean your room, read a book, go outside, take a warm bath, eat a sandwich, how about a nap?"…I mentally go through that list now, but nothing appeals to me. I couldn't wait to grow up, to make my own decisions, to do what I wanted to do. When will that happen? When will I know? Someone told me once this feeling is "depression talking," but I'm quite happy, so how can it be depression? It's more like I've forgotten who I'm supposed to be, and I keep searching and searching for me to no avail. It's also not a midlife crisis…I feel generally good about where I am in my life's journey. So what is it? I wish I knew.

Tears --

Tears -- I'm updating this piece -- welcome any comments/edits




Linda Morningstar told her when they were both in their twenties that her tears “had all been cried up – tears ducts all dried out.” She’d said it in a peppy way, laughter in her voice, as they’d driven around town in Linda’s Mazda GLC, running some errand related to their jobs. They hadn’t known each other for long at that point, and she believed it was said in service of the ‘spiral of intimacy’ – where two people reveal more and more as they test a new relationship. She’d learned that term in a college communications class. Linda, being the Director of Communications for the company they both worked for, well, she’d have known about the spiral.

“Really? I cry all the time. I wonder if I could have my tear ducts removed,” she’d answered, taking another step up and around.

It didn’t take long for the truth to be revealed, that Linda did indeed cry, and also whine and complain, and the friendship never took off. Perhaps they’d climbed that spiral a bit too far, or too quickly. Still, she remembered that line again and again over the decades, “all cried up … ducts all dried out”. She wasn’t even using that much hyperbole when she said she cried all the time. There were stretches where she cried every day, sometimes more than once. Without getting too Gabriel Garcia Marquez about it, she sometimes imagined her tears filling vessels of all shapes and sizes, from thimbles to Grecian urns, from puddles to lakes. More than that, she began to fear that grandmothers all around the world were right, that in the worst of a crying spell her face would freeze that way. She knew she wasn’t pretty when she cried the way some people are, like Natalie Portman or Laura Linney. If a lifetime of laughter could cause laugh lines around the eyes, if smoking could cause wrinkles around the mouth, couldn’t a life of crying distort a whole face? She was vain enough to give it some thought, but not so much as to make her brow furrow. She was trying to put off Botox for as long as possible.

Once she cried when she was walking across a field in the middle of campus and saw a young woman with a puppy, a little golden lab. Even if those were only Hallmark tears at a scene too cute for comfort, they hurt. In a stairwell of an old building at a different campus a lifetime later, she cried huge, gut wrenching, body wracking mortifying tears; there were no puppies around, just a classroom full of students waiting for her at the top of the stairs. Her tears ducts were not drying up at all. Instead, they were more like breast ducts, able to produce tears easily when stimulated, like a mother whose breasts fill even at the sound of a stranger’s child crying.

She had a cousin who cried fairly easily, but on her it was charming, her tears always appropriate, in context, quick to stop, her face returning to a smile with no puffy eyes or red nose to betray her, just a beautiful relaxed face freshened by a few tears. Joan’s tears were as mysterious to her as bubbles blown through a wand to a small child – where did they come from? Where did they go? It all happened so gently. Her own outbursts were neither charming nor gentle, and certainly not particularly interesting, and she knew she’d never show up in one of Oliver Sachs’ books, that there’d never be a title “The Woman Who Mistook her Shirt for a Kleenex”, and she began to envy people with Tourette’s, whose outbursts could be explained neurologically.

And then one day, that’s right, they stopped. She first noticed that they’d stopped while sitting in a movie theater with a group of friends, the aisle filled with people young and old, male and female. They were watching The Titanic, and if people weren’t crying at the poor children locked in the hull of a sinking ship they sure were by the time Leonardo DiCaprio lost his grip on that piece of driftwood, leaving the brave and tragic Kate Winslet to float away on the sea alone. Only two dry eyes in the house, and they were both hers. She understood the impulse to cry, after all, it was sad, it was sad just like the song said. Still, didn’t everyone know the outcome? Wouldn’t Leo and Kate be gorgeous on the red carpet accepting Oscars later that very same year? Please. Years later, watching Marley and Me with her gorgeous hunk of husband, didn’t he know that that adorable golden lab puppy would grow old and die? Was there a movie sad or sweet enough to bring tears? If so, she hadn’t found it.

That’s what it became over time, a quest for tears, because sometimes she missed them. At most she experienced a mild burning in her eyes, maybe a slight tingling in her tear ducts. When that happened she’d squint her eyes slightly, try to give the moisture a little shelf of skin on which to collect, perhaps form a tear that might even spill over onto a cheek. Once in a while a tiny tear would form in the inner corner of her eye, and she’d try to squeeze it out, but it was so scant that it wouldn’t roll even as far as her nostril. She re-read Sophie’s Choice. Nothing. Went through old photos of her father, her baby girl, and Hallmark cards – still nothing. She walked on campuses, abandoned graveyards, past the house where she grew up. Dry. Was Oliver Sachs finally going to show up and write the essay: “The Woman Who What? Walked About Life Normally, Seemingly Unperturbed? “ She was thoroughly without an audience, as no one notices the woman who isn’t crying.

Occasionally she’d recall that admonishment to be careful what you wished for, but eventually she became mostly content with her dried up tear ducts. She found other ways to shed her body’s excess liquid, mostly through dance, sometimes a bike ride, sometimes making love. It became precious to see the tears of her sentimental husband watching a touching movie, to feel the wetness of her daughter’s tears on her shoulder as she comforted her, to hug an elderly cancer survivor and absorb her tears, cheek to cheek.

WHOA! Where are we?

As for me, I've been so busy with car and human body repair that I've dropped the blog ball--but I want to pick it up again.

I'm working on a READERS WRITE entry for THE SUN tonight. Everybody, remember--the deadline is July 1st and the topic? MEDICINE!

Not much action on the blog--

but I love what's there.

Let's stir up some word soup!

The Sleepy Samaritan

“Let me in, they’re gonna kill me!” These are the screams that awakened me at 3 a.m. Sunday morning. I lay there muddled and semi conscious. Sleep and fear immobilized me. The two black labs barked hysterically as they pounced off my bed and ran down the hall with their nails clicking on the tile. My stomach seized in panic, my breath was lost and I had to pee. I could not move. She shouted again and pounded on the door. I sat straight up and flung back the covers. My back was rigid and my legs thrust forward and stubbornly refused to bend. The dogs continued to growl and yip while someone was banging the shit out of the front door. It was a woman’s voice and I did not recognize it. “Please! Let me in! If they find me they’ll kill me!” Shit, I thought, where’s the god damn phone? I looked around and finally saw it across the room on top of the bureau. I commanded myself to unfreeze so I could get to the phone and punch out 911. OK. Do it. Do it! Move! Scoozey, one of the labs came in to see what was taking me so long. She jumped on the bed in a state of utter excitement and alarm. She was slobbering with animal anticipation. Her right paw battered my leg to get my attention and move me into action. She looked at me with bulging eyes and spittle dripping from her jowls. Finally my legs cooperated and I was able to swing them around and place my feet on the floor. Every organ inside my body was quivering and my head shook so badly I felt like a damn toy on the dashboard of a Chevy. I was terrified and knew that I would pee or vomit as I made my way to the telephone. By that time Chas, the second dog had come in to see what was taking so damn long. Had I not heard the screaming and pounding distressed woman at the front door? Did I not feel compelled to do something? What the hell was wrong with me? “Ok, Chas, calm down. Shhhhh...” I tried to quiet him as I grabbed the phone and forced my index finger to find the 9 and then the 1 and again the 1. “Help, please, someone is at my front door screaming that someone is going to kill her….oh, … yes, it’s 532 Penrose Place…please send someone fast…. I’m alone…. Please….yes, I’ll keep the door closed and locked. Ok. I’ll wait right here. Ok. They’re on their way? You sure? Someone will be here soon? OK.” I hung up, faced the bedroom doorway and listened for more yells for help. The noise was incredible. Two 80 pound labs howled and growled as they pawed at the door while on the other side a woman wept and hollered and pounded her fists hard enough to make the front door shake. Her pitch got higher and I could tell her fear was escalating. Was something else happening that I couldn’t see or hear? My bedroom was on the back side of the house so I couldn’t see anything going on in front or in the driveway. Gradually, I crept across the hall to the other bedroom and looked out the window. It was black out. I had forgotten to turn on the god damn driveway light. Shit. I tiptoed down the hall in the dark and stuck my head around the corner to look at the chaotic scene at the front door. The dogs had left deep gouges in the wood. The entry tile was wet with their piss and slobber. And that fucking woman was still screaming and pounding. It sounded like she was throwing her body against the door. As lightly as I could I slowly inched my way to the door and placed my right eye over the peep hole. Thank God I had left on the front porch light. She was positively tiny! And bleeding! She looked like she’d been through a hay baler. Her frizzy hair was all over the place and her blue polka dot blouse was torn and hanging on her lopsided. She was missing a shoe and only had on one white high heel. It was on her left foot and it had a weird bow on it and what appeared to be blood splotches on the toe. She’d worn herself out and was slumped against the door. The temporary silence calmed me and I sighed. Before I had an opportunity to inhale she pitched her head toward the driveway and bawled, “Here they are, let me in!!” Oh, shit, I thought as I hit a new level of panic. Had she seen or heard something? I couldn’t tell if her reality was authentic. I couldn’t just let someone hurt her or kill her on my front porch while I stood safely on the other side of the peep hole and watched. I had to take her word for it and believe that someone was at that minute headed toward her ready to kill. I shouted at her to shut up as I opened the door with my right hand, grabbed her arm and hauled her in with my left arm. My right hand stayed on the door knob as I slammed the door and turned the lock. We stared at each other and she started to sob and choke while she piled herself on to the floor. My hands were on my hips trying to control my shaking body. The dogs had gone berserk and were running up and down the entry steps spreading the news that there was a strange, bleeding, wounded, woman with boozy breath strewn on the floor. There was so much noise and the smell of her made me sick. The odor was booze and something else I couldn’t identify. It was disgusting. Then I heard the siren. Finally. Sherriff Cooper was pulling in the driveway. I looked up and said a quickly grateful prayer and heard his car crunch up the gravel driveway. I heard his door slam and his boots hit the concrete walk as he ran up to the front door. Bam bam bam! “Police! Open up!”

Dedicated to Jesse Jackson and other cats who rhyme

This mood I’m in is so disgusting
With existentialism I am busting
Each morning begins another day
In which I watch the world blow up in every way
My life has never been a piece of cake
But never have I felt such an urge to drown myself in a lake
Into the ocean the oil is gushing
And the people responsible are not even blushing
The banks and institutions have gleefully robbed us
While addled politicians spew in pretense of fuss
Health care in our country is a joke
And for many citizens a mighty yoke
Stock tickers no longer depend on humans and organic brains
In this new world computers reign
No one appears to understand the bits and bytes
And how and why they’ve intensified our plight
People have lost their jobs and homes
And throughout our country despair and misery roam
The mobs are growing in numbers and anger
On thoughtful solutions they do not bother to linger
Shouting bullies take the stage to foment built up frustration and rage
It’s all about me
And forget about thee
The we has been lost
At tremendous cost
Society’s seams have stretched and are bursting
For ideas and leadership we are all thirsting
The future seems both turbulent and dim
And more and more it looks like the bad guys will win
While our government squabbles and dithers
Our citizens prey on each other and our country withers
There was a time I was full of joy and hope
But my cup has been depleted in this country of nope
Everyone wants to place blame
To me, that is both wrong and lame
What we need is a magic potion
Some sort of salve, balm or lotion
To end our seemingly endless addiction to friction
We need a far greater historical and emotional diction
There used to be a time when we worked hard at working
Now it seems what we do best is work at jerking
In this complicated world contrasts are a given and a must
But our differences work against us if we don’t care what is just
We used to look at the whites of their eyes
It was there we could look for the emptiness of lies
Now what we look at is the color of their skin
Our intellectual prowess has become puny and thin
Our country used to be proud
Now it is merely loud
When the seven deadly sins are promoted as power
How deep can we go, does it get any lower?
I don’t know what to do in a country where ignorance and avarice lead
From various kingdoms and fiefdoms our ancestors fled this creed
When our protectors are the ones who pillage and plunder
Mistrust and outrage rumble like claps of thunder
It is of these things I sit here and ponder
How bad can it get I often wonder
So what can I do with my distress and consternation?
To whom can I turn for wisdom and consolation?
The only thing I know for sure
Is that none of us alone has the cure
The answer is in each of us and all
United we stand
Divided we fall

first date part 2

Left to her own resources, Magdalena dug deep, like trying to remember a second language. “Lift with your legs” – she had learned that working as a hospital aide. Slowly, slowly, she began to lower him, using her legs, somehow managing to scrunch up the shawl to receive his head on the way down. Now she tried to visualize one of those goofy CPR rescue cards. “Open the airway” – wait a minute, someone was actually saying “open the airway”. She complied, loosening his collar and tie, and tilting his head back gently. Looking up, she saw a squadron of men in dark suits approaching platoon-like. They all looked just like Eric. Patrick, the youngest, was dispatched to call 911; the one giving her directions must be Brett, a fourth year medical student. They were flanked by Lee, slightly taller with a thick thatch of chestnut hair, and like them all, a full mustache.

“Give two slow breaths.” She dove into the resuscitation breathing as Brett positioned himself for the compressions.

On the second breath, Eric’s grandfather’s long fingers twined through her curly hair, and, she was positive, received her open mouth with gusto. Struggling for air, she disentangled herself from his embrace and sat back on her knees. Finally, she brought Eric’s face into focus. It was impossible to decipher his expression, but if she had to sum it up, it would be horror. Her lipstick was rubbed garishly around the bottom of her face, her eyes raccoon circles. As she sat up, a sparkly comb tinkled off the end of her hair onto the floor. With what semblance of composure she could muster,she said: “I think he’ll be alright, why don’t you take over here”, standing shakily and smoothing out her rumpled dress.

This would be a good time to freshen up. It was a long way to the ladies room. To get there she had to run the gauntlet of the women in the family, already composing a lifetime of stories to express what had just happened. She set her sights on the bathroom, gave a weak smeary smile, and squared her shoulders.

When you’re gone
even
for a moment,
I lose part
of me.
A catch in
my chest
whispers your
absence to
my heart,
slowing it--
until
your return
amplifies its beat,
your touch swells
the sound,
filling me full,
deafening me
to all else
but you.

THE GARDEN OF THE LAST DAYS

In the final days
The blooms were bursting and bright
As each day ended
The fragrance wafted into her room
through the open window
Each breeze brought another scent
and a reminder of regret
She wondered why the curtain
was too heavy to flutter
and yet
The more magnificent weight in her heart
caused her to tremble
As she got up to take one last look out the window
she remembered why she came
When she gazed at the garden
she remembered why it was time to leave
It wouldn’t be long until each flower
genuflected to the power
of the frost that was on the way
The cold nights ahead would be the end
of this patch of garden
Then she would go
and plant again

Technically, it could be called a first date. What did that mean? Magdalena was tense and confused. What was the distinction between “friends” and “dating”? “Friends” meant you got each other’s jokes and were available for sharing breakfast tacos or beer. “Dating” meant something more formal. Especially a date that involved dressing up and meeting family members. Whoa! How had this all happened so fast? She had stepped up initially as a friend. They were both at that age where it is painful to go to a wedding solo – she would help Eric out; be his “date” for the wedding of his brother. It rapidly became more involved; travel, hotel sleeping arrangements, clothes. Clothes! How was she going to pull it off? Magdalena had been in tennis shoes and sandals so long, the very idea of anything resembling heels was excruciating. Formal wear meant drearily going through the racks of discount stores to find something acceptable and affordable. Her mom had been sweet. She knew Magdalena was in a pinch, and fronted her the money to buy something un-embarrassing.

They had passed a lot of hurdles to get there, and now Magdalena and Eric were dressed in their finest, waiting to be seated in the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner. Looking at Eric in his dark suit and tie, Magdalena surprised herself by blushing and averting her eyes. She had never seen him in anything other than torn jeans and T-shirts, and truthfully had not realized how good-looking he was. Haircuts were not something he could afford to splurge on, and although he had a cleaner cut than usual, a persistent cowlick jutted up unpredictably from the top of his head.

They played their part; walking arm in arm to their assigned table. Next to them was Eric’s beloved grandfather, a nonagenarian. They settled in and ordered a glass of wine. After the appetizer, Magdalena got up to go to the ladies room. Eric’s grandfather also stood, holding a high-ball. Something wasn’t right; he was unsteady on his feet. Magdalena took a step closer to him, to lend support. Before she knew what was happening, Magdalena was holding Eric’s grandfather horizontally in her arms. Tenderly, she embraced him, like a big unexpected doll. She was not large; barely making five feet tall, and he was tall and spindly. Yet, she stood her ground, holding him like a willowy scarecrow. His drink had spilled messily over her dress. Now what? Desperately, she sought out Eric’s face for advice. The gossamer shawl she was wearing fell away, revealing substantial biceps acquired through pottery-making.

Things were unraveling. Instead of presenting herself as a mysterious ingénue, here she was holding the family icon in her capable arms; waiting for instruction as to how to proceed.

Nameless

On each of us it looks different; I thought it would be the same.
But in her it is silence, on him bravado.
For the sixth grader it’s in being the class mascot, while for the doctor it’s an overt and constant display of sexuality.

It is our best kept secret.

She has a nick name for everyone. Tabitha quickly became Tabby and Karen is Probie, signifying a special relationship with Tabby and Probie. They are verbally tagged so that all others must silently and indirectly credit her each time the shorthand versions are used. It’s fun, but the women are claimed without even knowing it and she has dodged another bullet. No one can see her inside the cleverness.

Nearby there’s a cave called “Cave Without a Name.” I’ve always thought it odd, the name.

On her it’s a blue suit, just a little too tight for the workplace and for her mother, it’s an extra layer of fat, nestled around her middle.

Why did I think we would all wear it as a size 12 baggy jean, the way I do?


On him it settles in as paralysis, just one more game of solitaire. On her it’s overachievement, a litany of degrees and belongings cluttering her. His feet turn inward with hesitation, hers are duck-like, quacking with ego.

We don’t name it so it keeps us from ourselves.

It looks so different on each of us, shame does.

Another Bloody Sunday Chapter 2

"Damn, damn, damn," Steve pounded the steering wheel of his rusted out 1967 Ford truck with his fist. He sped down the dirt road hell bent for Mexico. It was only a matter of time before the police got to the house and found a way to blame him for Katie's death. He'd pried open Janet's hand as she slept early this morning after he'd found his nag of a wife dead on the floor. Janet could sleep through anything, especially after a few drinks, and she'd had plenty the night before. The evening was fuzzy in his head- he remembered they'd all fought, but he wasn't a murderer. Yet, knowing he'd get the blame, he'd replaced Janet's key with the bloody knife- that knife Katie would wag in his face and tell him what a no good for nothing bastard he was every chance she got. God, he despised her. Truth be told, he'd wished for her demise. He fantasized about it as he jerked off in the shower. In one of his many scenarios, the police came to the door.

"Steve, old man, we've got some bad news for you," they'd say. (Everyone in town knew everyone, so there was no need for formalities).

"What is it?" he'd reply, looking genuinely concerned. "Did something happen?"

"I'm afraid so, guy. It's Katie. She must have been out shearing the sheep over by the cliff. A passerby found her at the bottom - It seems when she fell, she landed right on the shears and cut off her own head!"

"Oh my God," Steve imagined himself falling to his knees - he knew otherwise he might shout for glee, and that just wouldn't look right.

Now, Katie really was dead, the police would be at the house any minute, and though they'd initially blame Janet, they'd eventually realize she was being framed, and he was the obvious suspect. Who else could it be? A dark bushy haired stranger, perhaps? Katie was equally despised by everyone, it was true, and mean Scrabble players are known for living very long lives. Who was fed up enough to use her own cuticle knife on her? He couldn't help but smile when he saw the X carved neatly into her forehead. There's your fuckin' X, Katie, darling.

His cell phone rang, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. When he saw Janet's number on the display, he didn't answer. A text message came through: "Steve, where the hell r u? You'd better get ur fat ass back to the house- I no u did this- and bring back my key, u slimy piece of shit."

Steve pulled over to the side of the road, threw the phone onto the ground and stomped on it for good measure. He picked up the pieces and flung them as far as he could, got back in the truck and continued heading south.

homework prompt for tonight - AGE

“I just want a diet coke,” she said, as they walked through the theater door. “Go ahead and I’ll meet you on the right side. I need to use the ladies’ room”. As she scurried off, her eyes perused the walls for the typical logo indicating restrooms or, specifically, the women’s bathroom. Aha. There it is. As she walked by the mirror on the way to the stall her peripheral vision caught a body and head that looked familiar. She turned to look and say hello and then realized it was her. It was her, but it wasn’t her. Oh dear. She stopped, turned to the mirror for a full frontal and gasped. “That’s me?” she thought. OK. Get a grip. Now is not the time to evaluate where the hell you went wrong. Your husband is waiting and the movie is starting in a minute. She forced herself to move toward the stall and not think about what she had just seen. When she returned to the sink and bent over to turn on the faucet she again concentrated on the mirror. This time all she saw was her face. Good God. “Once I get home, I’m never leaving the house again,” she said to herself.

Later that evening, after they’d returned home from the movie she snuck into her bathroom, took off her clothes stood in front of the mirror and just stared. “Where did I go?” “How did this happen?” “How did I not notice?” “Who is this woman?” were the thoughts that tumbled around in her head. This must be akin to waking up from a coma twenty years later. You conk out looking young, pretty and perky and you wake up looking old, tired and dumpy. Had she been in an emotional coma these past few years? After all, she did stand in front of this very mirror at least twice a day to wash up and brush her teeth. She looked at herself every day. How did she not see?

She stepped closer to the mirror, leaned forward so she was nearly nose to nose with herself and took a good hard look. Who are you? Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn’t you take better care of yourself? You should have spent more money on face creams and dermatologists. A nose job wouldn’t have hurt. I wonder how much an eye job is. And, the frown? When did that show up? Do I now have a permanent frown? She stood up straight again, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she opened her eyes as she smiled and looked in the mirror. OK. Now I look like a happy hag. Well, I guess that’s improvement.

Where had she read that Coco Channel had said that God gives us our young face and we are responsible for our older face, the one we deserve? Did she deserve this? Did she deserve to have someone reflect back to her an image that was totally foreign? This isn’t the person I know or knew. This woman looks like she’s lived through a few things. Well, I guess I have, but does every little bad thing that has ever happened to me have to be recorded on my face? My eyes look like they’ve seen a lot. Maybe too much? If I wear more eye make up can I make them look more innocent? She was sure there was probably mascara called “innocent lashes”. The demographic target of this product was women like herself who would rather buy expensive mascara than pay for a facelift. The ad copy would tout something like “brush it on and wipe off years”. Ah, if only mascara were the magic wand of life. Looking at herself and deeply into her own eyes she knew mascara wasn’t going to make a difference. If the eyes are the passage to the soul, she mused, I am terrified to think what my poor blessed soul looks like.

OK. Let’s look at this face and see what it tells me. If I am a total stranger to this woman looking back at me then maybe I can get to know her. She remembered the old passport photo she had found the other day when looking for something else. That day, it hadn’t struck her how different the photographed face was from the one she now had. She remembered glancing at the photo and thinking how dark and shiny her hair was and how vibrant she looked and then tossed it aside in pursuit of the photos she was looking for. Now, she remembered that passport photo. She remembered the long, straight dark hair and the suntanned face that smiled out at her. She even remembered that young woman. She was so full of life and curiosity. She was so naïve. That’s it! That’s why I look so different. I am no longer naïve. That’s what shows on my face. I know. I know what life is and I know what life can do and be. Each wrinkle and furrow and flake on my face represents a page in my story book. Chapter one started the little curls at the corners of each eye. Chapter two gently brushed on the shallow crack in my forehead. Chapter three was a doozy and it slapped on the tiny crevices around my mouth. Chapter four must have added the jaw that so pathetically sagged.

But this is all vanity, she thought. Why am I looking at this creature in terms of youthful beauty? Why even compare her to the way she looked thirty years ago? What’s the purpose in that? It doesn’t make sense to contrast the two images. Images, exactly. Not people. Not lives. She had been comparing the superficial appearances of her old passport photo with the current reflection in the mirror. This woman clearly had qualities and advantages her younger self couldn’t have even conceived of. She has lived. Isn’t that what she was supposed to do? Life had been occasionally rough so her face was no longer smooth. Disappointments had dimmed her youthful radiance. Loss of innocence had created a spiritual depth that was illustrated in her eyes. She has been around the block. Sometimes she went around blocks that were detours fraught with flashing lights and pot holes. Sometimes she went around the block so fast she made herself dizzy. She’d seen and done a thing or two and it did and should show on her face. My God, she thought, military officers proudly wear badges and stripes to indicate what they’ve accomplished. They have medals of distinction they wear to silently communicate that they’ve been through hell and back. Damn it, my face is my badge of honor, she thought to herself. What I now see are not flaws. They are signs of courage and strength, even hope. Each imperfection on my face reflects an accomplishment of my spirit and the evolution of my life and soul.

She looked again in the mirror and this time recognized the woman who looked back. There you are! Here I am! It is you! Wow, some life, huh? And there’s even more to come.

Just Another Bloody Sunday

I owe this to Deb who, when hearing that I was having a bit of writer's block (i.e., laziness), gave me this prompt with the directive to get it into her mailbox by three o'clock the same day:  "you wake up next to a dead body with a bloody knife in your hand, and little recollection of what happened -- piece together the clues".  FYI, the names have not been changed to indict the guilty.


Holy Bloody Sunday, Janet thought. It is Sunday, isn’t it? Where’s Mom? Oh, Christ, she must have gone to church. She still couldn’t get used to that, Sunday mornings having been lazy for most of her life.


She’d yet to lift her head from the pillow and her voice was groggy and dull even as she called “Hey Steve? Where is everyone? Katie? Are you guys here? Hello?” She was having an especially hard time waking up. It wasn’t a hangover, and she hadn’t been up especially late, only until about midnight playing Scrabble with her mom, brother and sister-in-law. They’d finished the game when Katie played her last tile, an X, on a triple word score when she turned Janet’s word “on” into “exonerate”. That much she remembered clearly, even though she still felt dead to the world.

Lying in bed, very still even yet, she began to piece together the previous evening. Sitting around her dining room table, Mom, Steve and Katie eating popcorn and playing Scrabble, quiet and typical enough, except that there was weightiness to her memory. Had they argued? It was coming back; there had been an argument. It was over dad’s old gun box, the one he’d made to house his first pistol that they used to shoot at the old barn out at Lake Wauenpaupak when they were kids. Steve thought it should be his, but Janet taunted him, just like the old days, saying that he could have the box, but she still had the key.

Man that had pissed him off. As she recalled the scrabble squabble she realized that her hand was clutched tightly under the covers, still holding that key. She tried to relax her hand and release it, but it felt stuck, almost as though the key had adhered to her skin. She managed to bring her arm out from beneath the covers and look down at her hand. Bloody Sunday, indeed. That was no key. It was a small, sharp knife, dried blackish blood fusing it to her fingers. Janet shook her hand in recoil, fully awake now, the knife flying across the room and landing, holy shit, right next to Katie’s dead body. “Exonerate this”, Janet thought.

Janet knew that knife. It was the one Katie always carried to trim her cuticles at odd moments. She also kept a wad of steel wool for buffing her nails, which she kept oiled with lanolin from her very own sheep. Her nails were at a high shine, perhaps even shiny enough to reflect other people’s scrabble letters.

The dead body wasn’t all that was amiss – there was no smell of coffee, an arena that had always been Steve’s. He insisted on having a Melitta coffee maker wherever he went, ever trying to keep Katie happy, right from the first caffeine drip of the morning when she rang her bell signaling her readiness. Janet could have used that coffee at that moment as she tried to wrap her head around a missing brother, a dead sister-in-law, a bloody knife in her hand and a mother off at Mass.

Little by little images of the evening began to form. In fact, there had been more than a scrabble squabble, more of a scrabble scuffle. Janet recalled how badly Katie had wanted an “X”, and how she’d begun to pester Steve that he probably had one and was too stupid to know what to do with it. At just about the same moment that Janet had been taunting Steve with the key to the gun box, Katie had been brandishing her knife and muttering something about an “X”.   Mom just kept saying that if god wanted her to have an “X” he’d give her one, and that we should all just feel the glow of peace around us. Details were flooding back by now:  Mom playing with her string of beads, the nice ones that her friend Helen had given her, the bitch slapping, the politically incorrect Indian burns, the hair pulling, the kicking, the kidney punches. It was enough to put Mom to sleep with her rosary in her hand, her children playing together just like old times.

Janet recalled Steve trying to pry the key out of her fingers, and her clutching it so hard her fingernails dug into her palms making them bleed. Meanwhile, Katie had gone after Steve with the knife, convinced he had not only the “X” but that he was going to fill up the triple word space before she had her turn. Unfortunately, Janet recalled nothing after the skirmish; she’d probably passed out the way she usually did from the pain of Steve twisting her arm.

As Janet sat alone drinking Melitta coffee and thinking things through, she knew that the most likely scenario had been the simplest. Steve, with the ringing of his wife’s bell in his ears for the last thirty years, had finally lost it over a Scrabble tile and stabbed Katie with her own cuticle knife. In the skirmish he’d seen his chance to twist his sister’s arm behind her back and at the same time exchange the gun box key for the knife, and then tuck her, unconscious, into bed thus affirming his innocence, leaving him to run off to parts unknown – maybe Lake Wauenpawpak.

God knows we all had motive to kill Katie every time she defined the word she’d just made; indeed, any jury in the world would reach the same conclusion: exonerated.