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

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.

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.

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 :))

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.

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