1. Check your hair in the mirror, so you look good on the evening news.
2. Open the glove compartment and try to find the Owner's Manual.
3. Swear a little, and rummage under the passenger seat for the Owner's Manual.
4. Call your insurance agent and tell him the check is in the mail.
5. Call your insurance agent back and ask him for the number for Toyota Customer Service.
6. Climb under the steering wheel and try to press the brake pedal with your hands.
7. Notice the sunglasses you thought were lost under the seat.
8. Put sunglasses on and check mirror again.
9. Finish lukewarm latte in cup holder.
10. Get the driver of the 18 wheeler you just passed to blow his horn by making one of those woo-woo gestures.
11. Relax because you know your gas tank is empty as usual.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
One Voice
Several of the pieces on our blog, and the accompanying comments, remind me of a song that I used to know and sing every word of, and could probably remember if I put what's left of my mind to it, called Saucy Sailor, a Gaelic tune, performed by Steeleye Span. Maddy Pryor belts it out:
"I am frolicsome, I am easy, good tempered and freeSo, let's wear the short skirt, the low cut blouse, our daughter's jeans, color (or don't) our hair, and, if it comes to that, drink Diet Coke out of a paper bag.
And I don't give a single pin, me boys, what the world thinks of me."
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Javi
(This is a true story, but the names, except for mine, have been changed.)
We all remember a special teacher we had growing up, but teachers are the lucky ones. We have these incredible kids, ones who put indelible marks on our souls- kids from whom we learn much more than we can ever teach them. Javi was one of those boys.
Though he’d be about 35 years old by now, Javi will always be stuck in time for me- a 13 year old dark haired, deeply intense eyed boy, sitting in my portable classroom before school each day of his eighth grade year- or at least for most of it. He was the second of the Vargas children with an older sister, Mari, who was also in my class that year and a sixth grade brother named Oscar.
He came to my room in the morning to have a quiet place where he could get his homework done for the day, and there’d always be some time for us to just talk. Throughout the year, I learned Javi wanted to play basketball, but his father wouldn’t allow it. You see, his mom was in prison for drug abuse; his dad had remarried a much younger woman, who had added three more children in quick succession to their family. Javi was needed at home to help. I learned from other kids that there often wasn’t enough food in the house, that the stepmother would feed her children first, leaving Javi, Mari and Oscar hungry. CPS was involved, but I’m not sure they ever made any impact- of course- until it was too late, but I digress.
Javi was one of those boys, well-loved by all, except for by the people who should have loved him the most. I never saw him angry, and he accepted his life as though it were completely normal. When he could, he’d sneak out and knock on neighbors’ doors, asking if they had any work he could do- yard work, kitchen work- it didn’t matter. With the little money he earned, he’d buy candy at the corner store, bring it to school and sell it for a small profit. Kids weren’t allowed to do this, but most of us looked the other way because we knew he used the money to buy food for his brother and sister. They received free lunch at school, but nights are long when you’re a growing teenager, and Javi did what he could to take care of his family.
At the end of each grading period, our principal held a drawing for all of the kids with perfect attendance. Javi won a stereo system-the top prize, and I’d never seen him so excited. The school secretary called his stepmother to come up to school to take it home--most of the kids, like Javi, walked. The mom didn’t have any transportation, so Javi asked if maybe he could leave the system in my classroom. I offered to take him and the stereo home instead, and he was beside himself with gratitude and joy. When we got to his house, he leaned over, kissing me on the cheek, “I wish you were my mom,” he said. I told him I’d be honored to be his mom. He laughed, grabbed Oscar who was just walking up to the house, and together, the two of them hauled the stereo to the front door- turned, and waved goodbye.
The next day was one of only two times I could tell Javi had been crying. When he got to my room, his eyes were swollen. It seems his father, upon seeing his brand new stereo, packed it up and took it out to sell. Javi told me it was okay- they needed the money more than they needed an “ole music box anyway.” My heart broke in two for this sweet young man.
It must have been the next week or very soon thereafter that Javi, Oscar, nor Mari came to school. The counselor, knowing of my close relationship with Javi came to speak to me.
“I have really bad news about the Vargases,” she said. “Their father was arrested for killing a cop. Yesterday, the kids got home to find their house empty. “ She spoke just like that- in short clipped sentences, and it seemed to take forever for her to get the entire story out.
Their stepmother had packed up the younger kids, whatever they had in the house, and left. CPS showed up later to find Javi, Mari, and Oscar huddled in the backyard- the house was locked. Javi and Oscar would be going to live with an aunt in Houston, and Mari to another aunt in San Antonio.
The next day, the kids came to school to turn in their books and clear out their lockers. About half way through the day, when I happened to be on my conference period, the attendance clerk called my room to tell me Javi and Oscar were getting ready to leave with their aunt who had just shown up, and Javi was asking to see me. I got there, and I told the aunt what great kids they were –that I was so sorry to see them go.
She said, “You want them- you can have them- I’ve got enough problems without adding two more.”
I was shocked, and it’s here that I wish I had done something differently. I said that I would take them in a heartbeat if I could, and I meant that, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. I wish I had said, “You know-let’s figure that out, and I will.” I wish I had known whom to call or what to do.
Javi came up to me then and wrapped his arms around my neck. He squeezed so hard I couldn’t breathe. He whispered in my ear, “I don’t want to go, Mrs. K. I love you so much.”
I told him I’d keep in touch- that I loved him too- and I’d always be here if he needed me.
That was the last time I saw Javi. I sent him letters and stamps, I bought him a yearbook that year and had all of the kids sign it, but I never heard from him.
It’s been over 20 years ago, and I still get teary thinking about this beautiful boy with so much potential and love in his heart despite his circumstances. I wonder, “Did he make it? Is he out there somewhere doing good in the world?”
God, I hope so.
We all remember a special teacher we had growing up, but teachers are the lucky ones. We have these incredible kids, ones who put indelible marks on our souls- kids from whom we learn much more than we can ever teach them. Javi was one of those boys.
Though he’d be about 35 years old by now, Javi will always be stuck in time for me- a 13 year old dark haired, deeply intense eyed boy, sitting in my portable classroom before school each day of his eighth grade year- or at least for most of it. He was the second of the Vargas children with an older sister, Mari, who was also in my class that year and a sixth grade brother named Oscar.
He came to my room in the morning to have a quiet place where he could get his homework done for the day, and there’d always be some time for us to just talk. Throughout the year, I learned Javi wanted to play basketball, but his father wouldn’t allow it. You see, his mom was in prison for drug abuse; his dad had remarried a much younger woman, who had added three more children in quick succession to their family. Javi was needed at home to help. I learned from other kids that there often wasn’t enough food in the house, that the stepmother would feed her children first, leaving Javi, Mari and Oscar hungry. CPS was involved, but I’m not sure they ever made any impact- of course- until it was too late, but I digress.
Javi was one of those boys, well-loved by all, except for by the people who should have loved him the most. I never saw him angry, and he accepted his life as though it were completely normal. When he could, he’d sneak out and knock on neighbors’ doors, asking if they had any work he could do- yard work, kitchen work- it didn’t matter. With the little money he earned, he’d buy candy at the corner store, bring it to school and sell it for a small profit. Kids weren’t allowed to do this, but most of us looked the other way because we knew he used the money to buy food for his brother and sister. They received free lunch at school, but nights are long when you’re a growing teenager, and Javi did what he could to take care of his family.
At the end of each grading period, our principal held a drawing for all of the kids with perfect attendance. Javi won a stereo system-the top prize, and I’d never seen him so excited. The school secretary called his stepmother to come up to school to take it home--most of the kids, like Javi, walked. The mom didn’t have any transportation, so Javi asked if maybe he could leave the system in my classroom. I offered to take him and the stereo home instead, and he was beside himself with gratitude and joy. When we got to his house, he leaned over, kissing me on the cheek, “I wish you were my mom,” he said. I told him I’d be honored to be his mom. He laughed, grabbed Oscar who was just walking up to the house, and together, the two of them hauled the stereo to the front door- turned, and waved goodbye.
The next day was one of only two times I could tell Javi had been crying. When he got to my room, his eyes were swollen. It seems his father, upon seeing his brand new stereo, packed it up and took it out to sell. Javi told me it was okay- they needed the money more than they needed an “ole music box anyway.” My heart broke in two for this sweet young man.
It must have been the next week or very soon thereafter that Javi, Oscar, nor Mari came to school. The counselor, knowing of my close relationship with Javi came to speak to me.
“I have really bad news about the Vargases,” she said. “Their father was arrested for killing a cop. Yesterday, the kids got home to find their house empty. “ She spoke just like that- in short clipped sentences, and it seemed to take forever for her to get the entire story out.
Their stepmother had packed up the younger kids, whatever they had in the house, and left. CPS showed up later to find Javi, Mari, and Oscar huddled in the backyard- the house was locked. Javi and Oscar would be going to live with an aunt in Houston, and Mari to another aunt in San Antonio.
The next day, the kids came to school to turn in their books and clear out their lockers. About half way through the day, when I happened to be on my conference period, the attendance clerk called my room to tell me Javi and Oscar were getting ready to leave with their aunt who had just shown up, and Javi was asking to see me. I got there, and I told the aunt what great kids they were –that I was so sorry to see them go.
She said, “You want them- you can have them- I’ve got enough problems without adding two more.”
I was shocked, and it’s here that I wish I had done something differently. I said that I would take them in a heartbeat if I could, and I meant that, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. I wish I had said, “You know-let’s figure that out, and I will.” I wish I had known whom to call or what to do.
Javi came up to me then and wrapped his arms around my neck. He squeezed so hard I couldn’t breathe. He whispered in my ear, “I don’t want to go, Mrs. K. I love you so much.”
I told him I’d keep in touch- that I loved him too- and I’d always be here if he needed me.
That was the last time I saw Javi. I sent him letters and stamps, I bought him a yearbook that year and had all of the kids sign it, but I never heard from him.
It’s been over 20 years ago, and I still get teary thinking about this beautiful boy with so much potential and love in his heart despite his circumstances. I wonder, “Did he make it? Is he out there somewhere doing good in the world?”
God, I hope so.
If I Lived
If I lived in the house across the street the sun would come up over my breakfast room. There would be a gentle light inviting morning into the bedroom, just enough to overcome any trace of seasonal affective disorder, but the breakfast room would be bright and welcoming, and I would love getting out of bed to make coffee, just so that I could sit at the table and sip it while I read the morning news, surrounded by the rainbows created by crystal prisms that I’d hang in the windows. The light would be perfect for growing herbs just outside the window, and I would contemplate which of them would scent the room later in the day, perhaps the thyme infusing flavor into a roasting chicken, perhaps the Thai basil brightening a sizzling wok of glass noodles. With the right start in the day, I could move mountains; we would never run out of pesto and our April 15 would come and go without anxiety, our taxes having long since been filed.
If I lived in the house around the corner, the one with the rock garden and fountain in the shaded back yard, I would sit in that yard in a comfy chair with my laptop and a book by my side, inspired by the xeriscape I’d create, calmed by the sound of water, enchanted by the koi in the pond I’d build. I would write, and read, and occasionally re-fill my iced tea, freshen it with mint that I’d pinch from my plants in the rock garden, keeping them full and bushy, never letting them go to seed. There would always be fresh flowers indoors, artfully arranged in just the right vase, be it exquisite or funky depending on the flower inside, the season, the mood. Music would fill the house, and I’d easily access just the right tunes from my iPod, or perhaps Pandora.
If I lived in the house down the street, the small one-story, I’d clean out all my closets and finally get organized. I’d have nothing that I didn’t really use, use nothing that I didn’t really need. I’d finally give up the Kitchen Aid mixer, because I prefer mixing by hand anyway, and all those spare towels? They’d be given to Goodwill and put to use by people who really need them. I’d appreciate the things I have, and take better care of them. I would finally hem the skirt that’s too long, polish my shoes and repair the soles, fix the earring that broke, re-holster the chair that the cats ruined. I would always know where I’d put the cheese grater, which would double as a lemon zester, because I’d have eliminated anything redundant.
If I lived in that downtown condo I’d never be lonely, because I’d be up in the morning using the shared gym facilities while getting to know my interesting neighbors, with whom I’d hang out in the evenings on the rooftop terrace while we shared drinks and tapas and watched the sunset. I’d take walks down the river and people watch, chat with the locals walking their dogs. I’d get to know the old woman down the street, the tiny one with the white hair whose city trash cans in her front yard are as large as she is. She’d tell me the stories of the neighborhood before it became condos, and I’d feel a part of the revitalized community.
If I lived in that house downtown, it would always be clean. Dust wouldn’t settle in that beautiful stairwell, drips would not stain those gorgeous floors. The screened in porch would always be fresh and cool in the summer, and I wouldn’t leave it cluttered and strewn with shoes and the Sunday paper or piles of paperwork and receipts. Instead, I would learn to keep plants alive and be surrounded by lush, healthy flowers and exotic plants – maybe a bonsai. Toothpaste spatters would never mar the bathroom mirrors, and I’d teach the cats not to shed indoors. I would never leave laundry draped over the dining room chairs, and would always have freshly ironed linen napkins. I would write my book in the study overlooking the street corner, and illustrate it with the photographs I’d collected and preserved over the years. I would never step on crumbs in the kitchen, even though there would always be freshly baked bread. Kitchen knives would always be sharp; light bulbs immediately replaced. The small pantry would be ever stocked with delicious foods, easily prepared into a creative snack or light meal.
(Here's my problem, fellow friends and writers, I don't know where this is going or how to end it -- HELP!)
If I lived in the house around the corner, the one with the rock garden and fountain in the shaded back yard, I would sit in that yard in a comfy chair with my laptop and a book by my side, inspired by the xeriscape I’d create, calmed by the sound of water, enchanted by the koi in the pond I’d build. I would write, and read, and occasionally re-fill my iced tea, freshen it with mint that I’d pinch from my plants in the rock garden, keeping them full and bushy, never letting them go to seed. There would always be fresh flowers indoors, artfully arranged in just the right vase, be it exquisite or funky depending on the flower inside, the season, the mood. Music would fill the house, and I’d easily access just the right tunes from my iPod, or perhaps Pandora.
If I lived in the house down the street, the small one-story, I’d clean out all my closets and finally get organized. I’d have nothing that I didn’t really use, use nothing that I didn’t really need. I’d finally give up the Kitchen Aid mixer, because I prefer mixing by hand anyway, and all those spare towels? They’d be given to Goodwill and put to use by people who really need them. I’d appreciate the things I have, and take better care of them. I would finally hem the skirt that’s too long, polish my shoes and repair the soles, fix the earring that broke, re-holster the chair that the cats ruined. I would always know where I’d put the cheese grater, which would double as a lemon zester, because I’d have eliminated anything redundant.
If I lived in that downtown condo I’d never be lonely, because I’d be up in the morning using the shared gym facilities while getting to know my interesting neighbors, with whom I’d hang out in the evenings on the rooftop terrace while we shared drinks and tapas and watched the sunset. I’d take walks down the river and people watch, chat with the locals walking their dogs. I’d get to know the old woman down the street, the tiny one with the white hair whose city trash cans in her front yard are as large as she is. She’d tell me the stories of the neighborhood before it became condos, and I’d feel a part of the revitalized community.
If I lived in that house downtown, it would always be clean. Dust wouldn’t settle in that beautiful stairwell, drips would not stain those gorgeous floors. The screened in porch would always be fresh and cool in the summer, and I wouldn’t leave it cluttered and strewn with shoes and the Sunday paper or piles of paperwork and receipts. Instead, I would learn to keep plants alive and be surrounded by lush, healthy flowers and exotic plants – maybe a bonsai. Toothpaste spatters would never mar the bathroom mirrors, and I’d teach the cats not to shed indoors. I would never leave laundry draped over the dining room chairs, and would always have freshly ironed linen napkins. I would write my book in the study overlooking the street corner, and illustrate it with the photographs I’d collected and preserved over the years. I would never step on crumbs in the kitchen, even though there would always be freshly baked bread. Kitchen knives would always be sharp; light bulbs immediately replaced. The small pantry would be ever stocked with delicious foods, easily prepared into a creative snack or light meal.
(Here's my problem, fellow friends and writers, I don't know where this is going or how to end it -- HELP!)
Elegy
I miss the days
sitting with my toes in the grass
the two of you
running after the dogs
with bare feet and time to spare.
Even the breeze blew slower,
the cars passed fewer
and I saw more of your smiles.
The butterfly on the Plumbago
sent you both dashing
for the bug book
and we'd take our time
in finding it, writing it.
The color, the name, the caterpillar.
I miss the days of misdirection
and time lost making lists.
That Place I Go
I was once the muse
on the wall
life-sized and daunting,
the tiny dancing girl
on the tiny square canvas,
the spinning image
through the lens
I was the muse
by the window
silent, still, listening to
the scratching pencil,
the toss of paper
left to fall over the easel
The muse
with the green skirt
spread across the grass,
squatting nude on the stretched black cloth,
running dirty and barefoot
in the torn wedding dress
I was an idea of me
captured,
held,
created
in pixels
and heavy oil paint
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday Night
In the last decade I've gone from being, I think it's okay to say this, something of a firecracker, to a bit of soft ember. I used to be kind of mouthy and now I just appreciate someone else opening theirs. I used to be outwardly brave, now I'm asking what the bravest thing is thing I can do each day? Sometimes it's brushing my teeth.
I used to deliver babies and now I help them, once their life is crispy with time, to die. I used to eat, as I guy I once dated said, rocks and bark. Now I dine on moss and truffles, gourds and pinot. I used to laugh as a peacock, and now as a lark. I used to be brittle and now I am tender.
I used to deliver babies and now I help them, once their life is crispy with time, to die. I used to eat, as I guy I once dated said, rocks and bark. Now I dine on moss and truffles, gourds and pinot. I used to laugh as a peacock, and now as a lark. I used to be brittle and now I am tender.
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