December 1, 2014
On the local news tonight I watched the broken father of a teenage boy—a talented 17-year-old killed alongside 3 friends in a truck crash in a neighboring town—tearfully attempt to confront the remaining shards of life without his son. I saw his bravery facing the cameras from the bottom of the cliff of this most abominable grief. He acknowledged how he longed to wake up from what he hoped was a horrific dream; and then he thanked God for the years they had together as he admitted there was no waking from this loss.
I watched this news report from the hospital room of my almost-75-year-old father. We watched it together, actually. My strong Dad is fighting the demands of his heart’s cantankerous life. It’s giving him some fits, even though every other parcel of his being is looking at that heart like the weak kiddo in PE class whom everyone picks last: all the other players are ready and able to kick some ass, but this one kid might hold them all back. One difference in this scenario, however, is that Dad’s heart had never been the weak link in his many decades of being the “first-picked.” So this is new. And it sucks.
Tonight I watched my father fighting his heart’s confusing misbehavior. Together we watched this younger grieving father face an excruciating reality without his son. One truth became quite clear: Life is defined by loss. It’s obvious, brutal, real. It is also what makes precious what we stupidly take for granted.
You see, I was watching my dad watch a father who lost his baby. Dad teetered on that cliff when I was quite small, and the fear changed him forever. Without going into the particulars, in one night Dad lost a wife and almost lost his only two children. But we made it when Mom didn’t. While this moment tonight was unspoken between us, I would be stunned if Dad didn’t look into the horror of that poor devastated father and not see what could have fully claimed him nearly 40 years ago.
Losing the dad who almost lost me is crushing and eventually (and prayerfully, long from now) inevitable. Then I look into the faces of my own children and I don’t know how mamas and daddies who lose their babies ever open their eyes again and try to find the sun. The pundits would say we must learn to make the most of every moment and cherish the ones we love and support those in the midst of loss. All those things are true. Tonight, though, I just had to process the juxtaposition of these dads in this same world on this same night. I have great hope for both. I thank God for that.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Big Yellow
October 25, 2014
It's the last Saturday in October and I'm not on a school bus bound for Neosho for the first time since I was 22. I just woke up with that stark realization. The irony is that, rather than roll over and return to the slumber of which I was so oft deprived as a school-bus-dwelling debate coach, I am wide-eyed with the memories of those brutal mornings and the great relief that I am now spared such brutality. But I also remember how much fun I had in the midst of the exhaustion; and how my heart thumped a little louder knowing that behind me in green pleather seats sat the bleary-eyed brand new debaters who were beginning careers of ass-kicking. They didn't know what was to come, but I did.
It's the last Saturday in October and I'm not on a school bus bound for Neosho for the first time since I was 22. I just woke up with that stark realization. The irony is that, rather than roll over and return to the slumber of which I was so oft deprived as a school-bus-dwelling debate coach, I am wide-eyed with the memories of those brutal mornings and the great relief that I am now spared such brutality. But I also remember how much fun I had in the midst of the exhaustion; and how my heart thumped a little louder knowing that behind me in green pleather seats sat the bleary-eyed brand new debaters who were beginning careers of ass-kicking. They didn't know what was to come, but I did.
This tournament was the annual all-debate, all-novice extravaganza. It "wetted the feet" of the little darlings who were brand new to the activity. If I remember correctly, it was also the first tournament to which I ever took students by myself. Even when it became old hat, the worry that something would go wrong remained from that first solo trip to my very last, nearly two decades later.
Pulling in to a school parking lot in the dark early morning with the fervent prayer that the parking lights of a bus would await me is a colon-twisting feeling that is wildly ironic: it is sad and hopeful and a sensation that I will probably never shake. Being an adult praying to see a school bus is among the more pathetic of my pleas to Jesus...but it was real. The hell that would break loose had I been standing curbside without transportation for myself and thirty+ adolescents made such desperation and consequent prayers quite fervent.
I also remember the powerful anticipation of "bus driver Russian Roulette" I was about to play as I walked from my car to the bus. Which driver would greet me? Friendly and quiet with a general knowledge of the rules of the road? Angry and desperate for a sense of power but no real sense of direction? Perhaps a nice male chauvinist who despised the fact that a girl in her twenties was allegedly in charge? Or a talker: the driver who liked chit chat, homespun tales, and who didn't recognize my earphones and lack of eye contact as a clear signal that I did NOT like chit chat and homespun charm shared in a rearview mirror over the deafening roar of the cantankerous public school bus engine.
After I navigated the excitement of meeting my new best friend behind the wheel, I then got to spread good morning greetings to my dear debaters. I took some pleasure in adopting the persona of a stewardess on crack, extolling the wonders of the great gift we all shared by way of a trip to Neosho at 6am. Since my normal daily presentation was equally intense but less cartoonish and more cynical, this show tended to startle the youngins just enough for my amusement. I saved the devil in me for those poor stragglers who deigned to board even a minute late. I am proud to report that the fear of encountering the angry "you kept us waiting" me served as a powerful tool and was also a bit of theatre for those who made it on time.
To be continued...
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Sky and Synapses
September 13, 2014
10am
I'm sitting on the back deck drinking coffee and reading The New Yorker. The temperature has dropped into Fall after weeks of humidity and heat. I'm surrounded by trees and cloudless sky of almost "October blue" that my favorite English teacher referenced once, after opening his Norton Anthology, casting a reflective glance out the window of our classroom into the endless blue, shutting said anthology, and then pronouncing, "I can't do this today." He walked out after looking at us all briefly, frozen for a moment to see, perhaps, if we understood that this class was over, and why it was over. I understood. I, too, often found myself governed by the look of the sky: sun and warmth called to me like a siren; rain evoked a stronger work ethic and introspection. Neither have changed. I have always TRIED to stand up to my devotion to the weather when in conflict with the duty at hand. So, when Dr. Closser succumbed to it on that October afternoon in my nineteenth year, my admiration for him--and for this sky--soared.
Dr. Closser remains one of my favorite professors. His love for poetry, which he usually recited from memory, was infectious. And he taught always with a bottle of water nearby, as a cancer of which he never spoke had compromised his salivary glands. His surveys of literature reinforced my love of the language and my awe when woven artistically into story or verse. As a college student, I was in that rare place and time when I could rejoice in intellectual pursuits unapologetically and with little distraction: the demands of adult life had not yet set upon me; the pragmatic implications of what I was learning were absent. I got to learn to learn. I didn't yet have to find a way to "use" what I was absorbing in this analysis of the words of minds so much greater than mine. I look back at the copious notes I took in the margins of texts and the synapses fire again, but they have certainly been dulled by choices I have made, by time, by the logistics of life. I know I can sharpen them again. This morning is proof. I believe I shall.
I am not much of a coffee drinker, and I tend to get up and go, rather than easing in to my day. But a late night and this pristine, chilly weather demanded an audience. That smart girl two decades ago and I applaud.
10am
I'm sitting on the back deck drinking coffee and reading The New Yorker. The temperature has dropped into Fall after weeks of humidity and heat. I'm surrounded by trees and cloudless sky of almost "October blue" that my favorite English teacher referenced once, after opening his Norton Anthology, casting a reflective glance out the window of our classroom into the endless blue, shutting said anthology, and then pronouncing, "I can't do this today." He walked out after looking at us all briefly, frozen for a moment to see, perhaps, if we understood that this class was over, and why it was over. I understood. I, too, often found myself governed by the look of the sky: sun and warmth called to me like a siren; rain evoked a stronger work ethic and introspection. Neither have changed. I have always TRIED to stand up to my devotion to the weather when in conflict with the duty at hand. So, when Dr. Closser succumbed to it on that October afternoon in my nineteenth year, my admiration for him--and for this sky--soared.
Dr. Closser remains one of my favorite professors. His love for poetry, which he usually recited from memory, was infectious. And he taught always with a bottle of water nearby, as a cancer of which he never spoke had compromised his salivary glands. His surveys of literature reinforced my love of the language and my awe when woven artistically into story or verse. As a college student, I was in that rare place and time when I could rejoice in intellectual pursuits unapologetically and with little distraction: the demands of adult life had not yet set upon me; the pragmatic implications of what I was learning were absent. I got to learn to learn. I didn't yet have to find a way to "use" what I was absorbing in this analysis of the words of minds so much greater than mine. I look back at the copious notes I took in the margins of texts and the synapses fire again, but they have certainly been dulled by choices I have made, by time, by the logistics of life. I know I can sharpen them again. This morning is proof. I believe I shall.
I am not much of a coffee drinker, and I tend to get up and go, rather than easing in to my day. But a late night and this pristine, chilly weather demanded an audience. That smart girl two decades ago and I applaud.
Monday, September 8, 2014
On my way back
September 9, 2014
Yesterday I had lunch with a dear friend who I've known all my life. I hadn't seen her in a long while and had not sat down with her in nearly a decade. She is a beautiful, accomplished doctor who has traveled the world working with the impoverished. She has always downplayed her role in this world, but I know what I know.
Another thing I like about this pal is that she thinks I am hilarious. Making anyone laugh is one of my favorite things to do (and something I haven't done much of lately) and as I regaled her with crazy tales of my former teaching life, she cracked up again and again. I felt like my old self. I felt like the person reflected in her laughter.
She has no inkling of the low lows and struggles of the past months, and I didn't want to tell her. I got nearly two hours of time travel to ME. And I wanted to stay. How fitting, then, that this picture was hanging next to our booth: "she was on a journey back to her wings" read the soul of the pic.
As we parted ways and I walked through downtown, I was lighter. Maybe it was the wings...
Sunday, August 17, 2014
The Grandmothers
June 21, 2014
My grandmothers have been on my mind lately. They were both very tough broads, and perhaps my feeling less-than-tough lately has turned my thoughts to them. They certainly make me look like the weak link...or like I took a dip in the shallow end of the gene pool.
My mom's mom was Henrietta, whom we affectionately called Nanny. In my view, she was the cat's pajamas. We lived with Nanny and Papa for over two years after my mom died. There we lived from the end of my 4th year to my mid-7th. Nanny and I were roommates during that time. Each night she slathered a healthy dose of Mentholatum under her nose, turned off the light, then gave me a well-intentioned good night smooch. In the dark, however, 9 times out of ten what I got was a mouthful of Mentholatum before Nanny drifted into a chorus of snores that could have raised the roof.
When Nanny was a young mother in the late 1930s/early 1940s, clothes dryers had yet to emerge on the scene. Instead, one would send the wet laundry through a "wringer" which would pull each item through and "wring" the water out. One fateful day, Nanny was leaning down to pick up some clothes when her thick brown hair got caught in the wringer. Much of her hair was pulled out by the root. It grew back only sparsely, which left Nanny with the best that the Eva Gabor wig line could offer. She had an assortment of styrofoam wig heads on which she would rest her synthetic hair, and on which I would draw some very Picasso-esque faces, complete with makeup.
Nanny loved us dearly. Next in line were three other loves: Viceroy cigs, complete with cig holder; a gold lamé cup holder holding a glass of Gin and Tonic, and "Days of our Lives." I attended morning Kindergarten, as a matter of fact, so I wouldn't miss watching Nanny's "story" every afternoon before she would take her daily afternoon snooze in her rust-colored, cigarette-burns-on-the-arms recliner. One day, before she drifted off, I was sidled up next to her as we watched the drama unfold in that classic soap opera. I reached over and took a swig of her drink. As I quickly spat out what clearly was NOT water, Nanny didn't skip a beat: "That'll teach you to drink my water," she said with a wry grin.
Nanny's older sister never had children and was among the first female deans in any American college or university. "Auntie" was a bit too proper for my tastes and always encouraged me to "act like a lady," which wore me out. She lived just a mile away from Nanny, and would pop in regularly. But her timing was sometimes off, and she would arrive during the magic hour of "Days." Auntie would attempt conversation with Nanny while I looked on from the couch. Nanny wouldn't respond, save commercial breaks. After being ignored long enough, Auntie would grab her "pocketbook," get up, and leave in a huff. Nanny would just shake her head, take a drag from her cig (via holder, of course), and say, "I've told her not to interrupt my story," without ever taking her eyes off the television. She would inevitably continue, "she'll get glad in the same pants she got mad in." And indeed, Auntie always came back for more.
Nanny had the best laugh and a quick temper. She was also incapable of whispering and had a penchant for observing and voicing the faults in others (I get that from her): not mean spirited, just filter-free. But I could not have loved her more. And she made me feel like I was something else. Several years later, I was holding her hand when she took her last breath.
Not a day goes by when I don't miss her. It took me years to lose the impulse to pick up the phone and call her when something big happened. I had to remind myself that she was gone.
I would imagine she's up in heaven, smokin' 'em if she's got 'em. My guess is--if it's possible--she has her eye on me.
My dad's mom was a bit less colorful, but was absolutely a quiet, wise, unparalleled force. Born in 1905, she lived the bulk of her life working her fingers to the bone. Mimi was not a big lady, but she birthed three babies over 10 pounds each--the first two in the farmhouse in which she lived.
My Dad and his sisters grew up on a farm in the little town of Marionville. They were poor, hard-working Christian folks. Salt of the earth. Everything Mimi did, she did well. Everything Mimi did, she did without complaint.
When my Dad was almost twelve, there was a thick layer of snow on the ground. Mimi was cooking--as usual--when the back of her dress caught in the stove. Very quickly the flames crawled up her back. Dad grabbed her and threw her out onto the snow, beating out the flames. The entirety of her back side was badly burned, and she spent weeks in bed while Dad's older sister (just a teenager herself) took over the responsibilities of the house and changed poor Mimi's bandages daily.
If catching on fire wasn't enough, Mimi's eyesight began to deteriorate from complications of glaucoma when she was in her late 60s. By her late 70s, when I was around 8, she lost her eyesight completely. As a woman of almost 80, she had to learn how to live in the dark. Even without her sight, Mimi continued the play the piano at her home church, Buck Prairie. Her memory of the notes and the keys was strong enough to see her musical talent through. She played there for 52 years.
In spite of a life of hard labor and hardship, Mimi lived to be 91. I picture her at a heavenly piano...and she can see.
My grandmothers have been on my mind lately. They were both very tough broads, and perhaps my feeling less-than-tough lately has turned my thoughts to them. They certainly make me look like the weak link...or like I took a dip in the shallow end of the gene pool.
My mom's mom was Henrietta, whom we affectionately called Nanny. In my view, she was the cat's pajamas. We lived with Nanny and Papa for over two years after my mom died. There we lived from the end of my 4th year to my mid-7th. Nanny and I were roommates during that time. Each night she slathered a healthy dose of Mentholatum under her nose, turned off the light, then gave me a well-intentioned good night smooch. In the dark, however, 9 times out of ten what I got was a mouthful of Mentholatum before Nanny drifted into a chorus of snores that could have raised the roof.
When Nanny was a young mother in the late 1930s/early 1940s, clothes dryers had yet to emerge on the scene. Instead, one would send the wet laundry through a "wringer" which would pull each item through and "wring" the water out. One fateful day, Nanny was leaning down to pick up some clothes when her thick brown hair got caught in the wringer. Much of her hair was pulled out by the root. It grew back only sparsely, which left Nanny with the best that the Eva Gabor wig line could offer. She had an assortment of styrofoam wig heads on which she would rest her synthetic hair, and on which I would draw some very Picasso-esque faces, complete with makeup.
Nanny loved us dearly. Next in line were three other loves: Viceroy cigs, complete with cig holder; a gold lamé cup holder holding a glass of Gin and Tonic, and "Days of our Lives." I attended morning Kindergarten, as a matter of fact, so I wouldn't miss watching Nanny's "story" every afternoon before she would take her daily afternoon snooze in her rust-colored, cigarette-burns-on-the-arms recliner. One day, before she drifted off, I was sidled up next to her as we watched the drama unfold in that classic soap opera. I reached over and took a swig of her drink. As I quickly spat out what clearly was NOT water, Nanny didn't skip a beat: "That'll teach you to drink my water," she said with a wry grin.
Nanny's older sister never had children and was among the first female deans in any American college or university. "Auntie" was a bit too proper for my tastes and always encouraged me to "act like a lady," which wore me out. She lived just a mile away from Nanny, and would pop in regularly. But her timing was sometimes off, and she would arrive during the magic hour of "Days." Auntie would attempt conversation with Nanny while I looked on from the couch. Nanny wouldn't respond, save commercial breaks. After being ignored long enough, Auntie would grab her "pocketbook," get up, and leave in a huff. Nanny would just shake her head, take a drag from her cig (via holder, of course), and say, "I've told her not to interrupt my story," without ever taking her eyes off the television. She would inevitably continue, "she'll get glad in the same pants she got mad in." And indeed, Auntie always came back for more.
Nanny had the best laugh and a quick temper. She was also incapable of whispering and had a penchant for observing and voicing the faults in others (I get that from her): not mean spirited, just filter-free. But I could not have loved her more. And she made me feel like I was something else. Several years later, I was holding her hand when she took her last breath.
Not a day goes by when I don't miss her. It took me years to lose the impulse to pick up the phone and call her when something big happened. I had to remind myself that she was gone.
I would imagine she's up in heaven, smokin' 'em if she's got 'em. My guess is--if it's possible--she has her eye on me.
My dad's mom was a bit less colorful, but was absolutely a quiet, wise, unparalleled force. Born in 1905, she lived the bulk of her life working her fingers to the bone. Mimi was not a big lady, but she birthed three babies over 10 pounds each--the first two in the farmhouse in which she lived.
My Dad and his sisters grew up on a farm in the little town of Marionville. They were poor, hard-working Christian folks. Salt of the earth. Everything Mimi did, she did well. Everything Mimi did, she did without complaint.
When my Dad was almost twelve, there was a thick layer of snow on the ground. Mimi was cooking--as usual--when the back of her dress caught in the stove. Very quickly the flames crawled up her back. Dad grabbed her and threw her out onto the snow, beating out the flames. The entirety of her back side was badly burned, and she spent weeks in bed while Dad's older sister (just a teenager herself) took over the responsibilities of the house and changed poor Mimi's bandages daily.
If catching on fire wasn't enough, Mimi's eyesight began to deteriorate from complications of glaucoma when she was in her late 60s. By her late 70s, when I was around 8, she lost her eyesight completely. As a woman of almost 80, she had to learn how to live in the dark. Even without her sight, Mimi continued the play the piano at her home church, Buck Prairie. Her memory of the notes and the keys was strong enough to see her musical talent through. She played there for 52 years.
In spite of a life of hard labor and hardship, Mimi lived to be 91. I picture her at a heavenly piano...and she can see.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
The Rash and the Pinkie
June 17, 2014
I’ve been coaching high school debate for 18 years. With around 15 tournaments each year and countless hours after school, I did the math and realized that—if those days were stacked one onto the next-- I have spent around 3-and-a-half solid years with my debaters. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve loved nearly every moment. But one cannot take an average of 80+ teenagers each weekend to 270 tournaments without something happening sometime that is less than ideal.
I’ve been coaching high school debate for 18 years. With around 15 tournaments each year and countless hours after school, I did the math and realized that—if those days were stacked one onto the next-- I have spent around 3-and-a-half solid years with my debaters. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve loved nearly every moment. But one cannot take an average of 80+ teenagers each weekend to 270 tournaments without something happening sometime that is less than ideal.
One such instance was at the state debate tournament a few years ago. My top debate team was comprised of two charming and brilliant young men—one a junior, one a senior. The night before competition began, the senior knocked at my door around 11:30pm. I opened the door to find this fair-haired, fair-skinned, eloquent and usually calm scholar scratching his chest maniacally and twitching in pain. I ushered him in, alongside my male assistant coach.
“What is it, Matt?” I asked.
“I just…I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand it anymore,” he managed, unable to stand still.
“What?” I implored.
He struggled to put a sentence together. “Well, see, I’m going to California next week and I’ve been going to a tanning bed to get some color before I hit the beach. I think I’m having a reaction to the tanning lotion.” The twitching and scratching persisted. The poor boy was clearly in agony, but I was still a tad amused at his predicament. “I know, I know,” he said, seeing my slight smirk. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Okay,“ I said. I took a breath. “Show me.”
With that, he lifted his shirt to reveal one of the most heinous displays of irritated, rash-laden, completely disgusting skin I’ve ever seen. And it was all over his ample torso. I’m certain I gasped. The look of horror on my face was not lost on him.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” I said, grabbing my keys.
We ventured to the nearest emergency room where Matt sat writhing in his seat while he waited for relief. When finally he was whisked away to be examined, I took a moment to take in the sights and sounds of the middle-of-the-night ER waiting room. Faith in humanity can be vigorously compromised by such surroundings. This ER did not disappoint. As I waited for news of treatment for the big rash, for example, an elderly lady was wheeled in. She sat about 10 feet from me and was twitching much like Mike, but without clawing at her abdomen. Every so often she would scream, “I’s gonna kill myself!” And some other weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth would accompany her proclamations. Don’t get me wrong: threats of suicide and obvious distress are not at all funny. But at 2am with a debater being treated for a tanning lotion rash, I was searching for a bit of levity. I found it.
Finally Matt got a prescription which we filled en route to the hotel.
What makes this story even more memorable is the fact that Matt (debating with little sleep and even less comfort) and his partner proceeded to win the state championship that weekend. All that suffering for a good cause.
But the story persists.
The following year, Matt's partner Ben had joined forces with an impressive redheaded senior named Thomas. Again, at the state tournament, all had gone well for the boys in the first day of competition, and they were set to debate in the championship round the following afternoon for the state title. They remained at the hotel that morning while I took the other students to competition. Around 11am I got the phone call. It was Thomas.
“Um, I don’t know how to tell you this…” he began.
“What is it?” I felt a bit of panic surge up to my throat. This was never a good way to begin a conversation.
“Well, Ben slipped in the shower and he thinks he broke his pinkie. He apparently tried to grab the shower curtain but it was no use.” Ben was not a small fellow.
“I’ll be right there,” I responded.
Indeed, I arrived to find said pinkie no longer straight, but rather the top half was nearly perpendicular to the bottom. I assuaged the feeling of nausea that hit at the sight of the misshapen fingerby turning my attention instead to the task at hand. No pun intended. Back to the ER we trekked.
I stood next to Ben as the doctor popped his pinkie back into place. He was a trooper. I had to avert my eyes. With meds and a bandaged hand, we had just a couple hours before the debate was slated to begin. Unfortunately, the pinkie was on Ben’s dominant hand. Any good debater will tell you that the ability to write and take notes rapidly is a key to success. While the pinkie is hardly pivotal in the writing process, a splint and a sore finger can prove a hindrance. Such was the case for the two. While they both believed they had won, the decision was 2-1 against them. But 2nd place at the state tournament , we all agreed, was nothing at which to sneeze.
Ben and Matt, just after learning they had won the State Championship. Matt was able to stop itching...for awhile.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Dance on, sistah!
August 1, 2014
Yesterday we ventured to Seattle's Pike Market and Park. The market showcases an array of vendors selling everything from shirts to paintings to jewelry. The culinary area of the market hosts all foods imaginable, including the best cherries I've ever eaten. I'm certain I've devoured at least three pounds thus far. Another favorite is a little donut stand featuring hot donuts smaller than a fist that bear a striking resemblance to the taste of beignets, and even more remarkably taste like the sugar-and-spice donuts that Nanny, my maternal grandmother, used to make for my brother and me. Tasting these donuts on the cobblestone street in the hub of the market took me back to her kitchen. I can see her now, standing next to the brown sink and the speckled counter top, squeezing my cheeks with one hand for a smooch before she handed me a plateful. I had to text my brother and let him know what I had found. He, too, could transport himself back to 1980 to the smell and the taste of one of the simplest highlights of our shared childhood.
After scoring some wares from select vendors, my nieces and daughter and I rounded the flowered street corner to the busy park adjacent to the market and overlooking the water. The grassy hill was littered with people grabbing lunch or just some sun while a shirtless man juggled two machetes and roaring chain saw. The girls desperately wanted henna tattoos, and we luckily found the little lady to do the trick. As she decorated their hands, one-by-one, I took in the cross-section of humanity around us.
Then came the best sight thus far: where the juggler had been, there appeared a very short lady--either Polynesian or Asian or some mix thereof--in a pointy, 1950s-esque white bra. No top. Sizable gut that spilled over a very short skirt. Black combat boots. She gyrated like a stripper in need of a pole, ran her fingers through her greasy hair, and then threw her arms in the air with glee. The bonus round came when she would bend over and shake her ass, revealing what seemed to be an adult diaper beneath her scant skirt. Occasionally she would taunt the crowd, or help herself to a drink or food in the possession of an onlooker. No one dared to fight to retrieve the stolen Starbucks cup or pastry: this was not a woman with whom to trifle. If nothing else, I'm sure the fear of being treated to an involuntary lap dance was enough to make us all keep our distance in bewildered awe.
While the very nature of Seattle as tolerant and eclectic is conducive to displays like this, the abandon of this "artist" (mentally fit, sober, high, or otherwise) was surprising nonetheless. And, for me, the trip was made.
Yesterday we ventured to Seattle's Pike Market and Park. The market showcases an array of vendors selling everything from shirts to paintings to jewelry. The culinary area of the market hosts all foods imaginable, including the best cherries I've ever eaten. I'm certain I've devoured at least three pounds thus far. Another favorite is a little donut stand featuring hot donuts smaller than a fist that bear a striking resemblance to the taste of beignets, and even more remarkably taste like the sugar-and-spice donuts that Nanny, my maternal grandmother, used to make for my brother and me. Tasting these donuts on the cobblestone street in the hub of the market took me back to her kitchen. I can see her now, standing next to the brown sink and the speckled counter top, squeezing my cheeks with one hand for a smooch before she handed me a plateful. I had to text my brother and let him know what I had found. He, too, could transport himself back to 1980 to the smell and the taste of one of the simplest highlights of our shared childhood.
After scoring some wares from select vendors, my nieces and daughter and I rounded the flowered street corner to the busy park adjacent to the market and overlooking the water. The grassy hill was littered with people grabbing lunch or just some sun while a shirtless man juggled two machetes and roaring chain saw. The girls desperately wanted henna tattoos, and we luckily found the little lady to do the trick. As she decorated their hands, one-by-one, I took in the cross-section of humanity around us.
Then came the best sight thus far: where the juggler had been, there appeared a very short lady--either Polynesian or Asian or some mix thereof--in a pointy, 1950s-esque white bra. No top. Sizable gut that spilled over a very short skirt. Black combat boots. She gyrated like a stripper in need of a pole, ran her fingers through her greasy hair, and then threw her arms in the air with glee. The bonus round came when she would bend over and shake her ass, revealing what seemed to be an adult diaper beneath her scant skirt. Occasionally she would taunt the crowd, or help herself to a drink or food in the possession of an onlooker. No one dared to fight to retrieve the stolen Starbucks cup or pastry: this was not a woman with whom to trifle. If nothing else, I'm sure the fear of being treated to an involuntary lap dance was enough to make us all keep our distance in bewildered awe.
While the very nature of Seattle as tolerant and eclectic is conducive to displays like this, the abandon of this "artist" (mentally fit, sober, high, or otherwise) was surprising nonetheless. And, for me, the trip was made.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Waters
July 28, 2014
I'm standing in Seattle for the first time. To my back are skyscrapers galore, a hub of shopping, a congregation of man-made marvels. But before me are sailboats coasting and the late afternoon sun reflecting off glistening waters.
I never cease to be amazed at the effect vast miles of water has on me, and how I have always longed to live near it. Just like people, you don't realize the depth or worth of your devotion until you are absent from it, from them. I always feel that way after I'm back inland, in the landlocked state where I reside. So I'm savoring this now: a cloudless sky, mountains in the distance, the perfect breeze.
I have a precious moment alone here, with the family fanned out in various spots downtown. I love being alone. But my thoughts also turn to the people in my life with whom I would love to be standing. People I love both far and near would laugh with me at water's edge and--like me--freeze the image as only the mind's eye can. No photograph really captures the memory: rather, it's etched somewhere inside equidistant between head and heart.
I hesitated to come on this trip for a variety of reasons--and there is plenty of time left for me to tiptoe through the intricacies of family dynamics AND to enjoy one another without the trappings of the obligations and routine in daily life. Moments and sights like this can make worthwhile the journey.
I have a feeling they will have to drag me from the pier each day. That's fine.
"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." --John Lubbock
I'm standing in Seattle for the first time. To my back are skyscrapers galore, a hub of shopping, a congregation of man-made marvels. But before me are sailboats coasting and the late afternoon sun reflecting off glistening waters.
I never cease to be amazed at the effect vast miles of water has on me, and how I have always longed to live near it. Just like people, you don't realize the depth or worth of your devotion until you are absent from it, from them. I always feel that way after I'm back inland, in the landlocked state where I reside. So I'm savoring this now: a cloudless sky, mountains in the distance, the perfect breeze.
I have a precious moment alone here, with the family fanned out in various spots downtown. I love being alone. But my thoughts also turn to the people in my life with whom I would love to be standing. People I love both far and near would laugh with me at water's edge and--like me--freeze the image as only the mind's eye can. No photograph really captures the memory: rather, it's etched somewhere inside equidistant between head and heart.
I hesitated to come on this trip for a variety of reasons--and there is plenty of time left for me to tiptoe through the intricacies of family dynamics AND to enjoy one another without the trappings of the obligations and routine in daily life. Moments and sights like this can make worthwhile the journey.
I have a feeling they will have to drag me from the pier each day. That's fine.
"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." --John Lubbock
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
The Colonel
July 3, 2014
Many characters have walked into my classroom. This past year was certainly no exception. One particular freshman boy came to class every day either in a suit and tie and holding a fedora; or--more frequently--he was sporting a head-to-toe uniform suitable for a soldier fighting for our independence from England centuries ago. As I studied this young man, I realized he was likely a genius, but he was either bored or lazy. He never seemed to crave attention with his attire: he quietly went about his business and seemed to be at ease in his wardrobe's shout-out to another time. All he lacked was a musket.
About halfway through the school year, I could no longer ignore this throwback to days of yore. One day, I was at my desk and I needed this fellow to run an errand for me. "Hey, Colonel--" I began.
He turned to me immediately. Keep in mind, I had never before called him by anything but his given name. He answered to the title of his alter ego without hesitation.
From that point on, he was "the Colonel."
A month or two later, Colonel popped into the classroom in the middle of another class. Of course, he was outfitted in keeping with his name. He walked through the door, stopped a few feet in, and looked curiously around the classroom.
"Colonel," I called to him, "you okay?"
Colonel rarely spoke, but he cast a confused glance in my direction, then continued to scan his surroundings. "I am looking for my backpack."
"Hmmm..." I said. "Maybe you left it in colonial Williamsburg."
He was unfazed.
Many characters have walked into my classroom. This past year was certainly no exception. One particular freshman boy came to class every day either in a suit and tie and holding a fedora; or--more frequently--he was sporting a head-to-toe uniform suitable for a soldier fighting for our independence from England centuries ago. As I studied this young man, I realized he was likely a genius, but he was either bored or lazy. He never seemed to crave attention with his attire: he quietly went about his business and seemed to be at ease in his wardrobe's shout-out to another time. All he lacked was a musket.
About halfway through the school year, I could no longer ignore this throwback to days of yore. One day, I was at my desk and I needed this fellow to run an errand for me. "Hey, Colonel--" I began.
He turned to me immediately. Keep in mind, I had never before called him by anything but his given name. He answered to the title of his alter ego without hesitation.
From that point on, he was "the Colonel."
A month or two later, Colonel popped into the classroom in the middle of another class. Of course, he was outfitted in keeping with his name. He walked through the door, stopped a few feet in, and looked curiously around the classroom.
"Colonel," I called to him, "you okay?"
Colonel rarely spoke, but he cast a confused glance in my direction, then continued to scan his surroundings. "I am looking for my backpack."
"Hmmm..." I said. "Maybe you left it in colonial Williamsburg."
He was unfazed.
13
July 1, 2014
My daughter's 13th birthday is today. I remember that day as miraculous and other-worldly. After 9-months of growing a human being whose little foot was apparently caught in my ribs all that time and who must have also housed a space heater in utero; hours of that indescribable pain in parts I hardly knew existed; prayer after prayer about an earlier test that might have indicated a birth defect; and a hope for a child whose life would be laced with faith, hope, fun, freedom, love...here she came!
As cliched as it may sound, birthing a baby and then navigating all that follows is core-shaking and absolutely the loveliest tip of God's power in this mess of humanity.
When I was around 13 and I started the wonder of a woman's path toward the ability to reproduce, my dear Nanny (my grandmother) referred to said monthly occurrence as "the curse of Eve!" Until I had my children, I agreed. Of all of the advantages men may have here or there (I'm no Gloria Steinem, but let's not kid ourselves), this is a unique gift to women.
On the other hand, some of the most remarkable women I've ever known have not been on the delivery table. My step-mother is a better mother than I could have devised with all superhuman resources. I have aunts and friends who have exhibited caring and inexplicable selflessness that have nothing to do with a uterus or a birth canal.
As for my daughter, I have found these last 13 years miraculous and filled with awe.
I read once that having a child is like having your heart then walk around outside your body. I know that's true. I also remember a great sentiment from Erma Bombeck who extolled the virtues of letting your children overhear you complimenting them. Also quite true.
My girl is everything I wanted to be: confident, smart, athletic, charismatic, funny, mature, beautiful, grounded. And all THAT she gets from a gene pool, the grace of God, the grandparents, relatives, friends, her brother, and even her parents who shake their heads every day with wonder and thank God that she popped out on that magical day 13 years ago.
Birthdays are as much for the birthed as those who surround the birth and the life created with love and support. I'm grateful beyond measure.
My daughter's 13th birthday is today. I remember that day as miraculous and other-worldly. After 9-months of growing a human being whose little foot was apparently caught in my ribs all that time and who must have also housed a space heater in utero; hours of that indescribable pain in parts I hardly knew existed; prayer after prayer about an earlier test that might have indicated a birth defect; and a hope for a child whose life would be laced with faith, hope, fun, freedom, love...here she came!
As cliched as it may sound, birthing a baby and then navigating all that follows is core-shaking and absolutely the loveliest tip of God's power in this mess of humanity.
When I was around 13 and I started the wonder of a woman's path toward the ability to reproduce, my dear Nanny (my grandmother) referred to said monthly occurrence as "the curse of Eve!" Until I had my children, I agreed. Of all of the advantages men may have here or there (I'm no Gloria Steinem, but let's not kid ourselves), this is a unique gift to women.
On the other hand, some of the most remarkable women I've ever known have not been on the delivery table. My step-mother is a better mother than I could have devised with all superhuman resources. I have aunts and friends who have exhibited caring and inexplicable selflessness that have nothing to do with a uterus or a birth canal.
As for my daughter, I have found these last 13 years miraculous and filled with awe.
I read once that having a child is like having your heart then walk around outside your body. I know that's true. I also remember a great sentiment from Erma Bombeck who extolled the virtues of letting your children overhear you complimenting them. Also quite true.
My girl is everything I wanted to be: confident, smart, athletic, charismatic, funny, mature, beautiful, grounded. And all THAT she gets from a gene pool, the grace of God, the grandparents, relatives, friends, her brother, and even her parents who shake their heads every day with wonder and thank God that she popped out on that magical day 13 years ago.
Birthdays are as much for the birthed as those who surround the birth and the life created with love and support. I'm grateful beyond measure.
Dad's Heart--Part One
July 16, 2014
My dad was recently hospitalized with scary arrhythmia in his heart. Dad is edging up on 75 but looks a decade younger and commands life as a man three decades younger. Don't get me wrong: he's not chasing young stewardesses around the plane or attempting to use language "like what the kids are saying these days." Instead, he has had life by the balls all his life and he isn't about to stop now.
Dad is the guy you want to sit next to at a ballgame because he knows everything but doesn't act like it. He is also the guy you want to know when anything around you is broken--from your arm to your car to your finances--because he knows everybody (at least in our corner of the universe), he doesn't act like he does, but he manages to squeeze out favors with ease. The fact that he usually returns favors ten-fold probably has something to do with it.
Of course, like us all, he is human. He has a temper (which has tempered as the years have passed)...and, well, that's the biggest flaw that comes to mind. Other than that I have long considered him a little less human and a bit more awesome than the rest of us. Thus, the shock and terror it sends through me when he has to fight for some type of compromised body part or function.
Anytime I see him in a hospital bed (a sight which has been miraculously rare), it is like seeing a sturdy truck with a flat or a 4-cylinder engine: it doesn't make sense. The only times I've ever seen him sit still are at church and during Sports Center. So seeing him reclined and poked with tubes in and out and a heart monitor tracking the irregularity of that heart tilts the planet a little too far off its axis for my tastes. On this day, it made me want to lean down and yell into his chest for the heart to hear, "hey, dumbass, get back on track and DO YOUR JOB! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE DEALING WITH?" (Something he, of course, would never say.) I held back, though, since the heart doesn't have ears and if that little tactic worked, there would be hospital halls filled with shouting and millions more hearts still beating.
(Continue to part 2 please :))
My dad was recently hospitalized with scary arrhythmia in his heart. Dad is edging up on 75 but looks a decade younger and commands life as a man three decades younger. Don't get me wrong: he's not chasing young stewardesses around the plane or attempting to use language "like what the kids are saying these days." Instead, he has had life by the balls all his life and he isn't about to stop now.
Dad is the guy you want to sit next to at a ballgame because he knows everything but doesn't act like it. He is also the guy you want to know when anything around you is broken--from your arm to your car to your finances--because he knows everybody (at least in our corner of the universe), he doesn't act like he does, but he manages to squeeze out favors with ease. The fact that he usually returns favors ten-fold probably has something to do with it.
Of course, like us all, he is human. He has a temper (which has tempered as the years have passed)...and, well, that's the biggest flaw that comes to mind. Other than that I have long considered him a little less human and a bit more awesome than the rest of us. Thus, the shock and terror it sends through me when he has to fight for some type of compromised body part or function.
Anytime I see him in a hospital bed (a sight which has been miraculously rare), it is like seeing a sturdy truck with a flat or a 4-cylinder engine: it doesn't make sense. The only times I've ever seen him sit still are at church and during Sports Center. So seeing him reclined and poked with tubes in and out and a heart monitor tracking the irregularity of that heart tilts the planet a little too far off its axis for my tastes. On this day, it made me want to lean down and yell into his chest for the heart to hear, "hey, dumbass, get back on track and DO YOUR JOB! DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE DEALING WITH?" (Something he, of course, would never say.) I held back, though, since the heart doesn't have ears and if that little tactic worked, there would be hospital halls filled with shouting and millions more hearts still beating.
(Continue to part 2 please :))
Dad's Heart--Part Two
July 16, 2014 (cont.)
Instead, I opted for calm and to find the humor where I could (I was trying to follow Dad's lead, as I have--with very limited success--my whole life). God saw the need for a little levity as well and sent us Dad's nurse, Gloria. Gloria's face and demeanor seemed more suited to the morgue...on a slab. She exhibited all the enthusiasm of bug on a windshield and the speed of a three-legged dog with one of those cones around its neck.
It is my custom, of course, to wait until someone is out of earshot before I whip out my observations of their shortcomings (it's a real gift). Fittingly, as Gloria stepped out after the second or third unimpressive stint of "caregiving," I looked at my family and said, "Gloria certainly appears to love her job."
Dad had an IV in the crook of his left arm. The connected machine would at times beep with ferocity that might indicate code blue. It took us a while to figure out what was happening, then Gloria enlightened us. She strolled in as if going to visit perhaps a sour mother-in-law or a convict and pressed a button on the machine. In bored monotone, she said, "that happens when you bend your arm." And she left. As the door closed, I wondered aloud if she might get more excited were something really critical to happen, and did my best imitation of Gloria: "don't bend your arm" in a near mid-snooze. My 9-year-old found this delightful and began to then repeat the phrase "don't bend your arm" for the duration of the hospital stay...including the time we passed her at the nurse's station (while Gloria's head was nearly resting on the computer keyboard in either exhaustion or true disdain for the contents of the screen or the contents of her life...probably both). I shushed him but couldn't blame him. He also began referring to her as Miss Sunshine (although this he reserved for times when she was not present--like mother like son.) I'm an excellent role model.
On the day of Dad's dismissal, we had been promised he would be out in the afternoon (lies!). So it was with amusement that I watched him guarantee the little gal who came to take his dinner order that he would not still be around for dinner. The poor, meek hospital worker stood in the doorway, pen-in-hand. As if I could read the thought bubble above her head, I knew she was thinking "there's no way he will make it out before dark. Doesn't he know the belabored, unnecessary waiting involved in any impending escape to the outside world?" But she was such a tiny little thing, and Dad was sure it was true (or he was willing it to be so). Finally she suggested with great hesitation that perhaps he order some culinary delights just in case the hospital's timetable didn't jive with his. Dad looked as if he was asked to eat knives, but he acquiesced. The relieved cafeteria gal took his order and left quietly. I would imagine she sprinted once she rounded the corner.
To Dad's credit, he narrowly escaped the dinner hour with his freedom. If she was the one to deliver the meal to the empty room, I'd like to think that she muttered "Damn!" with admiration and incredulity.
All's well that ends well (from my mouth to God's ears). As usual, Dad struck up a conversation with the cardiologist that resulted in the doc calling the cell of the specialist we needed. And Dad's heart returned to a steady rhythm with the help of medicine that will hopefully keep it steady until the next necessary procedure.
As we headed toward home with palpable relief, I thought of Gloria. Somewhere in that hospital some poor schmuck is bending his arm.
Instead, I opted for calm and to find the humor where I could (I was trying to follow Dad's lead, as I have--with very limited success--my whole life). God saw the need for a little levity as well and sent us Dad's nurse, Gloria. Gloria's face and demeanor seemed more suited to the morgue...on a slab. She exhibited all the enthusiasm of bug on a windshield and the speed of a three-legged dog with one of those cones around its neck.
It is my custom, of course, to wait until someone is out of earshot before I whip out my observations of their shortcomings (it's a real gift). Fittingly, as Gloria stepped out after the second or third unimpressive stint of "caregiving," I looked at my family and said, "Gloria certainly appears to love her job."
Dad had an IV in the crook of his left arm. The connected machine would at times beep with ferocity that might indicate code blue. It took us a while to figure out what was happening, then Gloria enlightened us. She strolled in as if going to visit perhaps a sour mother-in-law or a convict and pressed a button on the machine. In bored monotone, she said, "that happens when you bend your arm." And she left. As the door closed, I wondered aloud if she might get more excited were something really critical to happen, and did my best imitation of Gloria: "don't bend your arm" in a near mid-snooze. My 9-year-old found this delightful and began to then repeat the phrase "don't bend your arm" for the duration of the hospital stay...including the time we passed her at the nurse's station (while Gloria's head was nearly resting on the computer keyboard in either exhaustion or true disdain for the contents of the screen or the contents of her life...probably both). I shushed him but couldn't blame him. He also began referring to her as Miss Sunshine (although this he reserved for times when she was not present--like mother like son.) I'm an excellent role model.
On the day of Dad's dismissal, we had been promised he would be out in the afternoon (lies!). So it was with amusement that I watched him guarantee the little gal who came to take his dinner order that he would not still be around for dinner. The poor, meek hospital worker stood in the doorway, pen-in-hand. As if I could read the thought bubble above her head, I knew she was thinking "there's no way he will make it out before dark. Doesn't he know the belabored, unnecessary waiting involved in any impending escape to the outside world?" But she was such a tiny little thing, and Dad was sure it was true (or he was willing it to be so). Finally she suggested with great hesitation that perhaps he order some culinary delights just in case the hospital's timetable didn't jive with his. Dad looked as if he was asked to eat knives, but he acquiesced. The relieved cafeteria gal took his order and left quietly. I would imagine she sprinted once she rounded the corner.
To Dad's credit, he narrowly escaped the dinner hour with his freedom. If she was the one to deliver the meal to the empty room, I'd like to think that she muttered "Damn!" with admiration and incredulity.
All's well that ends well (from my mouth to God's ears). As usual, Dad struck up a conversation with the cardiologist that resulted in the doc calling the cell of the specialist we needed. And Dad's heart returned to a steady rhythm with the help of medicine that will hopefully keep it steady until the next necessary procedure.
As we headed toward home with palpable relief, I thought of Gloria. Somewhere in that hospital some poor schmuck is bending his arm.
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