Prologue
A few months after my cousin Mandy’s husband, Mark, had lost his hard fought war with cancer, I dropped by for a visit. She was just finishing her two year old son’s bath, and after drying him off, my ill-informed cousin, not having the pleasure of growing up with brothers, sent him to his room saying, and I quote, “Kevin, go get your panties.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Boys wear underwear, not panties.” Thus saving the poor child from a lifetime of ridicule. Just ask Steve.
Chapter One
Feet
How, in a home with an equal number of boys and girls, my grandmother persisted in calling all underwear, “panties” and all socks, “stockings” is a mystery, but she did. In the 1950s my grandparents were constantly asking one of the older children to put Steve’s shoes and stockings back on. Steve (or Stevie), the youngest of ten children spanning a twenty year period, thought nothing of pulling off his sturdy, lace-up Buster Browns no sooner than they had been wrestled onto his feet. The older children quickly tired of this chore and devised a plan to ensure Steve would keep his shoes and stockings on. They convinced the gullible toddler that to show one’s bare feet was as unacceptable as parading naked through the house; like letting the whole world see you without your panties on. How many younger siblings have been scarred for life by the well-intentioned lies of their brothers and sisters? The ruse worked. Steve kept his shoes and stockings on and countless hours were saved when his siblings no longer had to re-shoe their baby brother.
The dye was cast; Steve now understood his feet to be objects of shame to be hidden from leering eyes. Occasionally he would let down his guard, as happened one afternoon as the family was gathered in the living room. The doorbell rang and Aunt Faye and Uncle Dump were in the room with Steve and his naked feet before he could flee. Quickly tucking the offending appendages under his bottom, he sat on the sofa as, one by one, his siblings deserted him, leaving him to listen to the incessant drone of the adult conversation. Finally, legs grown numb and lifeless hidden underneath his body, and unable to stand the idea of his brothers and sisters having unsupervised fun without him, he made a break for it. He threw his body from his perch on the couch and propelled himself from the room using his arms, feet still hidden from view, looking like a WWII amputee.
I can only guess at Aunt Faye’s thoughts upon seeing the child’s irregular retreat. “Poor addlepated boy; I suppose that’s what happens when one has a baby at age forty-six.”
Chapter Two
The Piano Standoff
Steve attended Kindergarten at the Catholic school where his mother, my grandmother, was the second grade teacher. One rainy day Sister Anna Benita marched the kindergarteners to the gymnasium for an indoor recess. The wooden floor of the gym was brand new so she instructed each five year old to remove his or her shoes before entering. What debauchery is this Steve must have thought? Sister may as well have announced they were spending recess at a nudist colony. Panicking as he neared the door, and his turn at removing his shoes, he vowed to remain chaste and not be forced into sin by this nun who was surely an emissary of the devil. When it was his turn to expose himself he made a break for it, seeking asylum beneath the grand piano at the far corner of the gym.
Sister deployed a khaki-clad envoy of parochial school uniformed boys to fetch Steve from his hideout. But the miniature troops were no match for him and the sturdy Buster Browns he had no intention of removing. He kicked and flailed and valiantly fought off the enemy. Sister brought in the “Big Gun,” Father Drury. Kindly Father tried negotiations to bring the skirmish to an end, but to no avail. Steve just scooted farther into the depths of his cave, out of reach of the priest’s long black-clad arm.
By this point, with recess ruined, Sister did the unthinkable and resorted to the slyest of strategies; using her secret weapon, she sent for Mrs. Owen, the second grade teacher. Mrs. Owen arrived on the scene, furious I’m sure at Sister Benita for pulling her from her classroom. (My grandmother had little patience for teachers who could not control their classroom, black-habited nuns included.) Mrs. Owen quickly surveyed the situation, seeing a posse of bare-foot youngsters circling the grand piano and her youngest child, terror-struck, but valiantly holding his position. To her credit (and Steve’s eternal foot-phobic salvation), she quickly grasped the root of the problem. Calmly extending her hand saying, “Come with me, Steven.”
Unsure if his mother is his savior or his executioner, but relieved to be finished with his standoff, he forfeits his position and crawls out from under the piano. Will she make him take off his shoes and stockings in front of his classmates, Sister Benita, and Father Drury? No, Steve didn’t have to expose his feet that day. She gently led him to her classroom to spend the remainder of his recess with second graders, and you can be sure she lit into her older children at home that evening.
Chapter Three
Ozelia Made Me Do It
In my grandmother’s 1950s, pink brick, ranch-style house there are three bedrooms. The parents’ room, the girls’ room, which at one time held an assortment of beds all covered with pink Sears and Roebuck rib cord bedspreads, and the boys’ room, also full of beds but the Sears and Roebuck rib cord bedspreads were used for covers or kicked to the floor, depending on the season. (Interestingly, neither Steve nor I can recall the color of these bedspreads, further testament to the fact that the beds were rarely made. We think they may have been blue or green or brown.)
After my grandfather’s death my grandmother still had a house full of children, Sam and Steve being the two youngest. When I consider all of the mischief they were into or could have gotten into, it surprises me that my grandmother focused on the state of their bedroom, specifically their dresser drawers. (After all – they were already famous for shooting each other with homemade match guns and burning down the backyard fence.)
My grandmother had better things to do than clean house. She raised ten children, taught school, took a ceramics class, tried to learn Spanish, and loved to read. Cleaning house was not in her repertoire. She always had help. Beginning with the young girls who “lived in” and helped with the babies to the women who came once a week to clean her house and do the ironing. (And the forced labor of her own children.) In the late 1950s through the 1960s the housekeeper’s name was Ozelia. Ozelia also cleaned for my mother and even though I was very young, I remember her well, a tall, thin, black woman who smelled of bitter sweat and Pine-Sol. At some point, Ozelia proclaimed she would no longer clean the boys’ room. The boys lived like most adolescent and teenage boys, they were pigs. Smelly socks, P.F. Flyers, and underwear were strewn ankle-deep across the floor. Beds unmade, drawers left open with clothes spilling out, closets full of athletic equipment, bongo drums, and Mad Magazines.
Ozelia refused to enter the boys’ room and my grandmother began making threats. “If you boys can’t keep these drawers closed, I’m giving the dresser to Ozelia.” Why she focused on the open drawers of the mahogany chifferobe when there was so much mess to choose from is still a mystery. There are many truths I know about my grandmother, two are: she does not make idle threats and she would not willingly give away good furniture. The latter leads me to believe she was coerced by Ozelia to follow through on her threat.
Of course, Sam and Steve continued to live like slobs, pulling their clothes from the ever gaping jaws of the bureau. One fateful day, they arrived home to find their room spotless. Beds were made, no clothes on the floor, no stench of sweaty socks, and no dresser. In place of the missing dresser there were four Libby’s green bean boxes neatly covered with yellow floral-print contact paper and written with black Magic Marker in my grandmother’s perfect penmanship, “Steve’s Stockings,” “Sam’s Stockings,” “Steve’s Panties,” and “Sam’s Panties.” Ozelia owned the dresser.
Chapter Four
Football
Over the years my uncles, Sam and Steve, spent time living with older siblings so they would have more supervision and the influence of a man during their formative years. Sam spent a year with his brother, Don and his family in Arizona, and Steve spent some time with his sister, Sandra and her family, in Tulsa, Oklahoma. In eighth grade Steve moved back home and re-entered the Catholic school where his mother was still teaching second grade. As an eighth grader he made the Junior Varsity football team. This was quite an honor and Steve was well on his way to re-inventing himself after his time away in Tulsa; hanging out with the high school football players, weight-training, and showing his prowess on the field. Finding out he could be a big fish in the high school pond was heady.
In the locker room one afternoon following practice, Steve couldn’t find his socks. Suspecting a prank perpetrated by the upper classmen, and not wanting to fall for it, he calls them out. “Okay, guys, very funny. Now give me my stockings back. Who took my stockings? This isn’t funny!”
But it was funny, it was hilarious – to the other guys. “Stockings?” they asked in disbelief. What high school boy wore stockings? I wonder how long it took him to live that one down?
Epilog
Kevin, you owe me – big time!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Last Walk
It’s not hard to imagine my Uncle Steve at age five. He is three years my senior and has been like a brother to me my whole life. Apparently I am the one who nicknamed him Bubba as soon as I could say the word. I don’t remember him at age five, I haven’t found my two year old’s memory, but I have no trouble knowing what a five year old Steve surely looked like, as all four of his children bore a striking resemblance to him when they were young.
At age five my Uncle Steve lost his father. His father, my grandfather, suffered from congestive heart failure and experienced several major heart attacks before the one which took his life on May 15, 1959. After the first attack my granddaddy, Lewis, was prescribed diet and rest, which he allegedly followed religiously. At noon each day he picked Steve up from morning kindergarten at the Catholic school where my grandmother taught second grade. Lewis and Steve spent the afternoon together; lunch, followed by a nap and then a walk to the end of the block and back before the other family members began returning from work and school. What a treat this must have been for Steve. The youngest of ten children, he had never before experienced the undivided attention of a parent.
Also, he had never experienced the freedom of those long afternoons. As Steve tells the story now, half a century later, he waited patiently for his father to fall asleep at naptime and would stealthily creep from the room, and out of the house, to roam the neighborhood, sneaking back into the house in time for the afternoon walk. What an angelic picture the little imp must have made walking down the front sidewalk, holding the hand of his six-foot tall father, shortly after he had riled every dog on the block while running and whooping through the alley.
There were two things Steve was forbidden to do (I am sure there were more, but these are the two he related.), one was walk on the roof and the other was climb the redwood fence. My grandfather was proud of his slate roof and didn’t want his children breaking the tiles, or it can be assumed, falling off and breaking their necks. I can also guess he didn’t want the fence slats broken by his young sons and daughters scrambling over the top when such a nice hinged gate was provided. During naptime Steve did exactly the things he was told not to do. One day after his afternoon romp through the neighborhood Steve climbed over the fence planning to sneak back into the house and into bed before he was missed. St Christopher, hanging from Steve’s neck by a long silver chain stopped him on his descent from the top fence rail. Little Stevie was hanging from the redwood fence certain he was being punished by death for his disobedience. A Savior appeared in the form of his father who carried him into the house, examined his neck making certain he was truly not injured, and then gave him a good spanking, admonishing him to never climb the fence again.
On the day of my grandfather’s last heart attack my grandmother received a call at school summoning her home. She retrieved Steve from his classroom, raced home, and deposited him on the living-room sofa where she ordered him to sit. Steve might have sneaked out of the house while his father was napping, walked on the roof, and climbed the fence, but no one disobeyed my grandmother. From his seat on the sofa he observed the “ambulance men” arrive with a gurney and leave with his father. He and my grandmother followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was once again ordered to sit, this time in the car, while she went into the hospital.
Steve doesn’t know how long he waited in the car. Long enough to push every button, turn every knob, go through the glove box, and play with the cigarette lighter. At some point a lady showed up at his open car window, told him her name was Mrs. Robinson, and he was to go with her – and he did. He recalls having a vague idea that her children went to his school. He spent the rest of the afternoon at her house before someone, one of his siblings perhaps (he doesn’t recall), picked him up.
As vivid as his memories of this day are, he doesn’t remember much about the next few. His father died, a funeral takes place, and relatives and friends gather at the family home after the service. Late that afternoon, amid the condolences and the company, my Uncle Ronnie, Steve’s twenty-three year old brother, thinking it a good idea to give Steve a sense of normalcy by keeping to his routine, takes him for his afternoon walk to the end of the block and back.
As they stroll along holding hands, Ron, preoccupied I’m sure by the events of the day, glances down at Steve noticing his other hand, the hand not held in his, is raised toward the sky.
“What are you doing, Bubba?” Ron asks looking at Stevie’s outreached hand.
“I’m holding my Daddy’s hand and he’s walking with us,” was Steve’s reply.
At age five my Uncle Steve lost his father. His father, my grandfather, suffered from congestive heart failure and experienced several major heart attacks before the one which took his life on May 15, 1959. After the first attack my granddaddy, Lewis, was prescribed diet and rest, which he allegedly followed religiously. At noon each day he picked Steve up from morning kindergarten at the Catholic school where my grandmother taught second grade. Lewis and Steve spent the afternoon together; lunch, followed by a nap and then a walk to the end of the block and back before the other family members began returning from work and school. What a treat this must have been for Steve. The youngest of ten children, he had never before experienced the undivided attention of a parent.
Also, he had never experienced the freedom of those long afternoons. As Steve tells the story now, half a century later, he waited patiently for his father to fall asleep at naptime and would stealthily creep from the room, and out of the house, to roam the neighborhood, sneaking back into the house in time for the afternoon walk. What an angelic picture the little imp must have made walking down the front sidewalk, holding the hand of his six-foot tall father, shortly after he had riled every dog on the block while running and whooping through the alley.
There were two things Steve was forbidden to do (I am sure there were more, but these are the two he related.), one was walk on the roof and the other was climb the redwood fence. My grandfather was proud of his slate roof and didn’t want his children breaking the tiles, or it can be assumed, falling off and breaking their necks. I can also guess he didn’t want the fence slats broken by his young sons and daughters scrambling over the top when such a nice hinged gate was provided. During naptime Steve did exactly the things he was told not to do. One day after his afternoon romp through the neighborhood Steve climbed over the fence planning to sneak back into the house and into bed before he was missed. St Christopher, hanging from Steve’s neck by a long silver chain stopped him on his descent from the top fence rail. Little Stevie was hanging from the redwood fence certain he was being punished by death for his disobedience. A Savior appeared in the form of his father who carried him into the house, examined his neck making certain he was truly not injured, and then gave him a good spanking, admonishing him to never climb the fence again.
On the day of my grandfather’s last heart attack my grandmother received a call at school summoning her home. She retrieved Steve from his classroom, raced home, and deposited him on the living-room sofa where she ordered him to sit. Steve might have sneaked out of the house while his father was napping, walked on the roof, and climbed the fence, but no one disobeyed my grandmother. From his seat on the sofa he observed the “ambulance men” arrive with a gurney and leave with his father. He and my grandmother followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was once again ordered to sit, this time in the car, while she went into the hospital.
Steve doesn’t know how long he waited in the car. Long enough to push every button, turn every knob, go through the glove box, and play with the cigarette lighter. At some point a lady showed up at his open car window, told him her name was Mrs. Robinson, and he was to go with her – and he did. He recalls having a vague idea that her children went to his school. He spent the rest of the afternoon at her house before someone, one of his siblings perhaps (he doesn’t recall), picked him up.
As vivid as his memories of this day are, he doesn’t remember much about the next few. His father died, a funeral takes place, and relatives and friends gather at the family home after the service. Late that afternoon, amid the condolences and the company, my Uncle Ronnie, Steve’s twenty-three year old brother, thinking it a good idea to give Steve a sense of normalcy by keeping to his routine, takes him for his afternoon walk to the end of the block and back.
As they stroll along holding hands, Ron, preoccupied I’m sure by the events of the day, glances down at Steve noticing his other hand, the hand not held in his, is raised toward the sky.
“What are you doing, Bubba?” Ron asks looking at Stevie’s outreached hand.
“I’m holding my Daddy’s hand and he’s walking with us,” was Steve’s reply.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Run
I ran yesterday. I put on my running shoes, walked out the front door and took off at a jogging clip after a year and a half of a sedentary lifestyle. It felt good. My body recalled the rhythm and fell right into it. My breathing was steady and my lungs cooperated – for 2 blocks before they revolted. I forced myself to hit the half mile mark before I turned around and walked home. I knew it would be tough, but only a half mile! How did I let this happen? It’s not as if I was a jock or a marathon runner before, but I was proud of being in fairly good physical condition.
In my late (very late) forties I signed on with a personal trainer, vowing to get into shape before I turned fifty. I worked hard and soon I was running. The first time out I ran a whole mile. I was shocked – I’d never run more than a city block in my life. My trainer was smug; he knew I could do it because he had conditioned me well in the gym for months before he sent me out for my first run. From there I increased my distance to 2 miles, 3 miles, 4 miles, 7 miles. I considered a half marathon. I ran a 5K Turkey Trot one Thanksgiving.
I never considered myself a “runner.” I never hit the point of losing myself in the run or felt the exhilaration “real runners” feel. I always had to fight at it, force myself to run. My trainer said I ran like a warrior – not a compliment. Then my fifty year old knees began to rebel. I had to ice them after every run and rather than increasing my mileage, I began cutting back. Then I spent a week in the hospital with pancreatitis and had emergency gall bladder surgery with a slow recovery giving me an excuse to stop running and to quit my trainer. That was seventeen months ago.
I’m surprised to admit I’ve missed running. I’ve missed the discipline, the rhythm, the exhilaration of accomplishment, and the tautness of my calf muscles. Can I get it back? I’m not sure. Will I get back out there this morning? You bet.
In my late (very late) forties I signed on with a personal trainer, vowing to get into shape before I turned fifty. I worked hard and soon I was running. The first time out I ran a whole mile. I was shocked – I’d never run more than a city block in my life. My trainer was smug; he knew I could do it because he had conditioned me well in the gym for months before he sent me out for my first run. From there I increased my distance to 2 miles, 3 miles, 4 miles, 7 miles. I considered a half marathon. I ran a 5K Turkey Trot one Thanksgiving.
I never considered myself a “runner.” I never hit the point of losing myself in the run or felt the exhilaration “real runners” feel. I always had to fight at it, force myself to run. My trainer said I ran like a warrior – not a compliment. Then my fifty year old knees began to rebel. I had to ice them after every run and rather than increasing my mileage, I began cutting back. Then I spent a week in the hospital with pancreatitis and had emergency gall bladder surgery with a slow recovery giving me an excuse to stop running and to quit my trainer. That was seventeen months ago.
I’m surprised to admit I’ve missed running. I’ve missed the discipline, the rhythm, the exhilaration of accomplishment, and the tautness of my calf muscles. Can I get it back? I’m not sure. Will I get back out there this morning? You bet.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Seed Catalog
Today is dreary. Not just the weather, but my mood as well. I spent the day at work worrying about the lack of funding for my pet project and looking out the window at a dust covered landscape. And then, along came a seed catalog.
My dismal day was quickly replaced by visions of my beautiful kitchen garden in the spring. I visualized my raised beds and containers brimming with onions, lettuce, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, peppers and red kale; tall stems of okra and trellised cucumbers lording over it all. On the ground I see my vining crops – spaghetti squash, pumpkins, watermelon and cantaloupe. On the fence I’ll grow gourds and purple hyacinth beans. There are no bugs, no weeds and no triple digit temperatures in my seed catalog-daydream. I don’t forget to water, I don’t get attacked by mosquitoes, and I’m not sick to death of zucchini (yet).
I can almost smell the rich earthy compost, the heady scent of garlic, and the fragrance each herb releases as I brush by.
Will I grow bush beans or pole beans or maybe even golden wax beans? Will this be the year I finally grow the moon and star watermelon, the yard-long beans, crimson okra, arugula? I see myself walking through the garden with a basket over one arm collecting my dinner ingredients. Beautiful, vine-ripened, luscious tomatoes, a little basil, an eggplant, a red and green bell pepper and I have a divine pasta sauce. Some lettuce, a cucumber, some mint and I have a cool summer salad. Green beans, an onion and a little rosemary and I have a side dish. Is that the scent of homemade bread I smell wafting from the kitchen window? (It’s a daydream, remember?) I can’t wait to get in the kitchen with my fresh produce, open a bottle of wine, and start cooking.
With all of this bounty my thoughts turn to canning, or “putting food by” as my Maw Maw used to say. Jars of tomatoes, salsa, and spaghetti sauce sharing space with pickles, chow-chow, pickled okra, and specialty chutneys float before my eyes. The hot summer kitchen and all the work this entails are not in the picture today.
Seed catalogs are made for optimists. In spite of my bad day at work I am an optimist after all. If I can believe in the Eden-like garden I have created in my mind, then surely I can believe my pet work project will find funding.
My dismal day was quickly replaced by visions of my beautiful kitchen garden in the spring. I visualized my raised beds and containers brimming with onions, lettuce, tomatoes, squash, eggplant, peppers and red kale; tall stems of okra and trellised cucumbers lording over it all. On the ground I see my vining crops – spaghetti squash, pumpkins, watermelon and cantaloupe. On the fence I’ll grow gourds and purple hyacinth beans. There are no bugs, no weeds and no triple digit temperatures in my seed catalog-daydream. I don’t forget to water, I don’t get attacked by mosquitoes, and I’m not sick to death of zucchini (yet).
I can almost smell the rich earthy compost, the heady scent of garlic, and the fragrance each herb releases as I brush by.
Will I grow bush beans or pole beans or maybe even golden wax beans? Will this be the year I finally grow the moon and star watermelon, the yard-long beans, crimson okra, arugula? I see myself walking through the garden with a basket over one arm collecting my dinner ingredients. Beautiful, vine-ripened, luscious tomatoes, a little basil, an eggplant, a red and green bell pepper and I have a divine pasta sauce. Some lettuce, a cucumber, some mint and I have a cool summer salad. Green beans, an onion and a little rosemary and I have a side dish. Is that the scent of homemade bread I smell wafting from the kitchen window? (It’s a daydream, remember?) I can’t wait to get in the kitchen with my fresh produce, open a bottle of wine, and start cooking.
With all of this bounty my thoughts turn to canning, or “putting food by” as my Maw Maw used to say. Jars of tomatoes, salsa, and spaghetti sauce sharing space with pickles, chow-chow, pickled okra, and specialty chutneys float before my eyes. The hot summer kitchen and all the work this entails are not in the picture today.
Seed catalogs are made for optimists. In spite of my bad day at work I am an optimist after all. If I can believe in the Eden-like garden I have created in my mind, then surely I can believe my pet work project will find funding.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Anthropomorphism
I began a vocabulary blog this year: Doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com
I got a little carried away with today's word.
Anthropomorphism – n. the attributing of human shape or characteristic to a god, animal, or inanimate thing.
Good morning hair. Why have you betrayed me?
What do you mean, why have I betrayed you? You’re the one who has denied me!
I haven’t denied you. How could I deny you? You’re right there on top of my head. I spend more time and money on you than on any other part of myself.
You only think about me because you don’t like me and you only spend money on me trying to change me.
Well, you changed first. You betrayed me by turning gray, by thinning and losing the luster you once had.
Hello, that’s called aging, you twit. All hair does that. It is normal, the natural progression.
Did you just call me a twit? Oh – no – you – didn’t! And what do you mean, “It’s normal, natural?” Says who? I don’t want to be gray. I tried it once, remember?
Yes, it felt wonderful; wonderful to be free to be myself.
You may have felt wonderful, but I looked like shit! Everyone advised against it. Everyone begged me to change it. “Go back to your normal color,” they pleaded.
Guess what? Gray is your normal color!
I don’t have to listen to this. My normal color is brown; a beautiful, chestnut brown with gold and red highlights that become more pronounced in the sun.
You’ve been reading too many Miss Clairol boxes. Your hair is now gray, admit it. Do you think by denying me you are stopping the aging process? Have you talked to your face lately, or any part of your body? You are getting old, sweetheart, no matter what color you try to pretend I am.
Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I know I’m aging and no, I’m not trying to stop the aging process. You can’t really do that can you? And leave my face and body out of this, they’re doing just fine.
I’m just saying…
Oh, shut up! Who asked your opinion anyway?
If I recall, you brought up this whole conversation.
Well, drop it before I cut you off and buy a wig or resort to wearing scarves. I think I could really pull off the gypsy look, what do you think?
No comment.
I got a little carried away with today's word.
Anthropomorphism – n. the attributing of human shape or characteristic to a god, animal, or inanimate thing.
Good morning hair. Why have you betrayed me?
What do you mean, why have I betrayed you? You’re the one who has denied me!
I haven’t denied you. How could I deny you? You’re right there on top of my head. I spend more time and money on you than on any other part of myself.
You only think about me because you don’t like me and you only spend money on me trying to change me.
Well, you changed first. You betrayed me by turning gray, by thinning and losing the luster you once had.
Hello, that’s called aging, you twit. All hair does that. It is normal, the natural progression.
Did you just call me a twit? Oh – no – you – didn’t! And what do you mean, “It’s normal, natural?” Says who? I don’t want to be gray. I tried it once, remember?
Yes, it felt wonderful; wonderful to be free to be myself.
You may have felt wonderful, but I looked like shit! Everyone advised against it. Everyone begged me to change it. “Go back to your normal color,” they pleaded.
Guess what? Gray is your normal color!
I don’t have to listen to this. My normal color is brown; a beautiful, chestnut brown with gold and red highlights that become more pronounced in the sun.
You’ve been reading too many Miss Clairol boxes. Your hair is now gray, admit it. Do you think by denying me you are stopping the aging process? Have you talked to your face lately, or any part of your body? You are getting old, sweetheart, no matter what color you try to pretend I am.
Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I know I’m aging and no, I’m not trying to stop the aging process. You can’t really do that can you? And leave my face and body out of this, they’re doing just fine.
I’m just saying…
Oh, shut up! Who asked your opinion anyway?
If I recall, you brought up this whole conversation.
Well, drop it before I cut you off and buy a wig or resort to wearing scarves. I think I could really pull off the gypsy look, what do you think?
No comment.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Queen of Pep
Arriving at my grandmother’s 1950s pink brick, ranch-style house, I find her in her usual spot. She is sitting in her lift chair, one that would assist her in getting up, if she had the patience to wait for the slow mechanism to raise her. This chair has become her island in the sea of the 2500 square foot home where she raised ten children. I yell loudly to be heard over the blaring big screen television, purchased one Christmas by her children, in hopes that she might be able to make out the larger-than-life images. Macular degeneration has not been kind.
“It’s me,” I yell louder. “How are you?”
She finds the enormous-numbered remote control, feels for the volume button and turns down the TV. “What do you know?” she asks, mostly out of habit, but desperate for information from the outside world.
I make a quick, mental tally of my day, attempting to glean something of interest to offer up the diversion she so desires. “I had lunch with a professor from the university,” I say.
This works, and she peppers me with questions. “What does he teach? Where did you eat? Why did you go?”
After exhausting all of the details about my lunch meeting, I ask her about her day. “Did you have any company?”
“I don’t think so.”
I know my Aunt Gail and Uncle Bob have been by several times, to make breakfast, to read aloud the newspaper and the crossword puzzle. Gail leaves the scrambled letters of the Jumble word puzzle written in five-inch tall Magic Marker letters on a clipboard for grandmother to decipher by lunch. They return at noon to finalize the Jumble answer and to fix lunch. Uncle Steve takes his lunch with them, as well. “What did you have for lunch?” I ask.
“I don’t remember,” she says, looking a little confused.
I know she has eaten well. When I lived with her in my early twenties she was fond of quoting, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.” She usually said this as we sat down to a large evening meal, but now she is unintentionally living the advice. Her appetite is best in the morning, but wanes by late afternoon. If I can get her to eat a little something and drink a glass of milk, I have succeeded. “What would you like tonight?” I ask. “Sweet or salty?” If the answer is sweet I know there is a peach cobbler in the refrigerator. But tonight she chooses salty.
“I’ll just have a few Fritos.” She loves chips, it must be the salt her worn-out taste buds crave. I hate it when she requests them as she has a hiatal hernia and they cause her to cough and choke. Some nights she coughs up more than she ingests. I spread Fritos on a plate, grate some sharp cheddar cheese on top, melt it for a few seconds in the microwave and pour a glass of milk. “I have a glass of milk in the ice-box,” she shouts from the living room.
She thinks she does. Any morsel of food or drink she doesn’t finish at a meal, she requests we save. She lived through the depression and raised ten children, she doesn’t believe in waste. But her caretakers don’t believe in serving her “old” food, so we pretend we put her leftovers in the refrigerator. I serve her salty snack on a tray, carefully positioning her fresh glass of milk and guiding her hand to it. If I can distract her, she may forget she isn’t hungry and eat all of her food. She is no longer the slightly overweight woman who futilely attended Weight Watcher’s meetings every week. Now, when I see her slowly maneuver to her bedroom behind her walker, her hips are so narrow, I wonder how her pants manage to stay on.
I opt for the distraction ploy, knowing she needs the calories, but running the risk of a choking spell, usually set in motion when she talks while eating. “Tell me about the Queen of Pep,” I ask.
She closes her blind eyes and travels the roads of her memory, the roads more familiar to her than what she had for lunch today. In a voice stronger than a few minutes earlier, she begins. “I used to play cards with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy at the teacherage in Pep. Mildred was her name. They invited Oliver Fredenberger, what a name, from the gin to be my partner. I hate to play cards, I told him, makes me want to kick the table in the air.”
I can imagine this. As my grandmother tells the story, I can see her in her early twenties, used to the freedom of growing up on a west Texas ranch, her long red braids cut into a bob, trying desperately to be a proper small town school teacher.
“Oliver asked me what I liked to do. I told him I liked to dance. He said, “I don’t dance, but there’s a dance at Lehman, and I’ll take you if you would like to go.” So that Saturday night we went to the dance at Lehman. They had a real fine band from Lubbock, the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers. They played real good music.”
“What kind of music did they play?” I asked, interrupting her memories from 1929.
“I don’t know what kind of music, just good dancing music.” She opens her eyes and I’m afraid I’ve broken the spell. “That’s the night I met Lewis and Prof and the Widder,” she says.
I know Lewis ends up being my grandfather, and I’ve heard about Prof and the Widder my whole life. “How’d they come to be called Prof and the Widder?” I wonder aloud.
“Prof taught school earlier in his life, just for one year. That’s what they sometimes called school teachers back then, Prof, short for professor I guess.”
“And the Widder?” I ask. “Had she been married before?”
“No,” my grandmother replies, her eyes closing again with a smile reaching all the way to them. “Prof named her that, said she’d just as well be a widder as married to him.”
I watch as her smile fades and her brow wrinkles in thought.
“When he was in the war, the Widder was pregnant. He wrote home and told her to name the baby Buckley Lane; I guess after his best friend who died in the war. You couldn’t just pick up the phone and call back then, people wrote letters. The baby was a girl and the Widder named her Buckley Lane. Lots of little girls got bad names back then because of that. Buckley Lane married and had two children, but I don’t know what became of her.”
I can see she’s gone down a side street in her mind, trying to remember Prof’s progeny. I want to hear about my grandfather. “What about Lewis?” I ask. “Did you dance with Lewis that night?”
The smile is back. “Yes, we danced. Lewis didn’t know my name. All he knew was I taught school in Pep. He and Prof drove to Pep a short while later. Said they were ‘buying corn.’ They weren’t really, maybe corn liquor. They called me the Queen of Pep. They talked mother into letting me go to Lehman to stay with the Prof and the Widder so I could go to the next dance. Can you imagine?”
She stops here, her eyes still closed. I can only hope she is in 1929, dancing with my grandfather to the ‘real good music’ of the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers.
“He called me the Queen of Pep,” she says one more time.
“It’s me,” I yell louder. “How are you?”
She finds the enormous-numbered remote control, feels for the volume button and turns down the TV. “What do you know?” she asks, mostly out of habit, but desperate for information from the outside world.
I make a quick, mental tally of my day, attempting to glean something of interest to offer up the diversion she so desires. “I had lunch with a professor from the university,” I say.
This works, and she peppers me with questions. “What does he teach? Where did you eat? Why did you go?”
After exhausting all of the details about my lunch meeting, I ask her about her day. “Did you have any company?”
“I don’t think so.”
I know my Aunt Gail and Uncle Bob have been by several times, to make breakfast, to read aloud the newspaper and the crossword puzzle. Gail leaves the scrambled letters of the Jumble word puzzle written in five-inch tall Magic Marker letters on a clipboard for grandmother to decipher by lunch. They return at noon to finalize the Jumble answer and to fix lunch. Uncle Steve takes his lunch with them, as well. “What did you have for lunch?” I ask.
“I don’t remember,” she says, looking a little confused.
I know she has eaten well. When I lived with her in my early twenties she was fond of quoting, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.” She usually said this as we sat down to a large evening meal, but now she is unintentionally living the advice. Her appetite is best in the morning, but wanes by late afternoon. If I can get her to eat a little something and drink a glass of milk, I have succeeded. “What would you like tonight?” I ask. “Sweet or salty?” If the answer is sweet I know there is a peach cobbler in the refrigerator. But tonight she chooses salty.
“I’ll just have a few Fritos.” She loves chips, it must be the salt her worn-out taste buds crave. I hate it when she requests them as she has a hiatal hernia and they cause her to cough and choke. Some nights she coughs up more than she ingests. I spread Fritos on a plate, grate some sharp cheddar cheese on top, melt it for a few seconds in the microwave and pour a glass of milk. “I have a glass of milk in the ice-box,” she shouts from the living room.
She thinks she does. Any morsel of food or drink she doesn’t finish at a meal, she requests we save. She lived through the depression and raised ten children, she doesn’t believe in waste. But her caretakers don’t believe in serving her “old” food, so we pretend we put her leftovers in the refrigerator. I serve her salty snack on a tray, carefully positioning her fresh glass of milk and guiding her hand to it. If I can distract her, she may forget she isn’t hungry and eat all of her food. She is no longer the slightly overweight woman who futilely attended Weight Watcher’s meetings every week. Now, when I see her slowly maneuver to her bedroom behind her walker, her hips are so narrow, I wonder how her pants manage to stay on.
I opt for the distraction ploy, knowing she needs the calories, but running the risk of a choking spell, usually set in motion when she talks while eating. “Tell me about the Queen of Pep,” I ask.
She closes her blind eyes and travels the roads of her memory, the roads more familiar to her than what she had for lunch today. In a voice stronger than a few minutes earlier, she begins. “I used to play cards with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy at the teacherage in Pep. Mildred was her name. They invited Oliver Fredenberger, what a name, from the gin to be my partner. I hate to play cards, I told him, makes me want to kick the table in the air.”
I can imagine this. As my grandmother tells the story, I can see her in her early twenties, used to the freedom of growing up on a west Texas ranch, her long red braids cut into a bob, trying desperately to be a proper small town school teacher.
“Oliver asked me what I liked to do. I told him I liked to dance. He said, “I don’t dance, but there’s a dance at Lehman, and I’ll take you if you would like to go.” So that Saturday night we went to the dance at Lehman. They had a real fine band from Lubbock, the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers. They played real good music.”
“What kind of music did they play?” I asked, interrupting her memories from 1929.
“I don’t know what kind of music, just good dancing music.” She opens her eyes and I’m afraid I’ve broken the spell. “That’s the night I met Lewis and Prof and the Widder,” she says.
I know Lewis ends up being my grandfather, and I’ve heard about Prof and the Widder my whole life. “How’d they come to be called Prof and the Widder?” I wonder aloud.
“Prof taught school earlier in his life, just for one year. That’s what they sometimes called school teachers back then, Prof, short for professor I guess.”
“And the Widder?” I ask. “Had she been married before?”
“No,” my grandmother replies, her eyes closing again with a smile reaching all the way to them. “Prof named her that, said she’d just as well be a widder as married to him.”
I watch as her smile fades and her brow wrinkles in thought.
“When he was in the war, the Widder was pregnant. He wrote home and told her to name the baby Buckley Lane; I guess after his best friend who died in the war. You couldn’t just pick up the phone and call back then, people wrote letters. The baby was a girl and the Widder named her Buckley Lane. Lots of little girls got bad names back then because of that. Buckley Lane married and had two children, but I don’t know what became of her.”
I can see she’s gone down a side street in her mind, trying to remember Prof’s progeny. I want to hear about my grandfather. “What about Lewis?” I ask. “Did you dance with Lewis that night?”
The smile is back. “Yes, we danced. Lewis didn’t know my name. All he knew was I taught school in Pep. He and Prof drove to Pep a short while later. Said they were ‘buying corn.’ They weren’t really, maybe corn liquor. They called me the Queen of Pep. They talked mother into letting me go to Lehman to stay with the Prof and the Widder so I could go to the next dance. Can you imagine?”
She stops here, her eyes still closed. I can only hope she is in 1929, dancing with my grandfather to the ‘real good music’ of the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers.
“He called me the Queen of Pep,” she says one more time.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Sanctity of Stuff
Yesterday I read this: "When you enter your writing space it is like entering a place of worship."
Really? I wonder what is being worshiped in my writing space - junk? stuff? detritus from thirty years of living in the same house? All of the above. Are these the gods I want to adore in my writing space? As I sit at my desk I see nothing but "stuff" - a pile of papers containing several writing projects, a box full of supplies for an art idea that may or may not happen, a box of "Vegetarian Times" magazines I saved for future reference, and an entire bookshelf filled not with books but with scrapbook memories I intend to one day put in actual scrapbooks for both of my daughters.
Am I kneeling at the altar of false idols? How do I excommunicate myself from the church of "Stuff" and if I knew, would I really want to? After all, George Carlin is the high priest of this church. Remember his sermon on stuff?
And Delbert McClinton is the choirmaster leading the congregation in a rousing rendition of "Too Much Stuff."
Maybe if I write the Bible of Stuff - my writing space would somehow take on a sacredness.
But perhaps there is a sanctity in stuff. Some might see me at my writing desk surrounded by clutter, but I feel I am in a holy place. I am in a space where I am surrounded by icons of my past, present and future and I am instilled with hope and inspiration when I enter. Isn't that what a church feels like? So maybe I'll be okay in this writing space of mine. Can I get an Amen?
Really? I wonder what is being worshiped in my writing space - junk? stuff? detritus from thirty years of living in the same house? All of the above. Are these the gods I want to adore in my writing space? As I sit at my desk I see nothing but "stuff" - a pile of papers containing several writing projects, a box full of supplies for an art idea that may or may not happen, a box of "Vegetarian Times" magazines I saved for future reference, and an entire bookshelf filled not with books but with scrapbook memories I intend to one day put in actual scrapbooks for both of my daughters.
Am I kneeling at the altar of false idols? How do I excommunicate myself from the church of "Stuff" and if I knew, would I really want to? After all, George Carlin is the high priest of this church. Remember his sermon on stuff?
And Delbert McClinton is the choirmaster leading the congregation in a rousing rendition of "Too Much Stuff."
Maybe if I write the Bible of Stuff - my writing space would somehow take on a sacredness.
But perhaps there is a sanctity in stuff. Some might see me at my writing desk surrounded by clutter, but I feel I am in a holy place. I am in a space where I am surrounded by icons of my past, present and future and I am instilled with hope and inspiration when I enter. Isn't that what a church feels like? So maybe I'll be okay in this writing space of mine. Can I get an Amen?
Monday, January 4, 2010
Routine
I suppose routine is a good thing. I'm ready to go back to work, being one of those crazy, lucky people who likes their job. As much as I've enjoyed the idleness of days off, I am ready for my schedule.
I awoke to an alarm clock this morning rather than to the dogs begging to be let out. I had yogurt and coffee for breakfast instead of homemade jalapeno cheese biscuits and Bloody Marys. I took a quick shower in place of a long bath and I dressed for work and was out of the door before 8 a.m., forfeiting my p.j.s and morning nap. My day had a plan and a purpose. I accomplished things.
I have discovered I am much like a three year old, I'm better behaved when I stick to a routine. Not one single time-out today!
I awoke to an alarm clock this morning rather than to the dogs begging to be let out. I had yogurt and coffee for breakfast instead of homemade jalapeno cheese biscuits and Bloody Marys. I took a quick shower in place of a long bath and I dressed for work and was out of the door before 8 a.m., forfeiting my p.j.s and morning nap. My day had a plan and a purpose. I accomplished things.
I have discovered I am much like a three year old, I'm better behaved when I stick to a routine. Not one single time-out today!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Nothing
"Some of us need to discover that we will not begin to live more fully until we have the courage to do and see and taste and experience much less than usual.... there are times, then, when in order to keep ourselves in existence at all we simply have to sit back for a while and do nothing. And for a man who has let himself be drawn completely out of himself by his activity, nothing is more difficult than to sit still and rest, doing nothing at all. The very act of resting is the hardest and most courageous act he can perform." - Thomas Merton
How fortunate I am to have a special retreat where I can get away from the demands of life. I did just that this long New Year's weekend. Four days of no responsibility, four days of doing nothing, four days of recharging my soul. Most people I know would have enjoyed day one, but gone stir crazy by noon of day two. What is it about our culture that refuses to let us relax? I've learned to overcome whatever it is. I've learned to appreciate and enjoy the pure pleasure of doing nothing; the rejuvenating pleasure of simply being.
I can pull out books and thumb through them, reading a bit here and there, stopping when I have had my fill, not feeling compelled to finish a book, not feeling the necessity to accomplish something by seeing a story through to its end. I can jot down interesting phrases and words without feeling like I must write something. I can wander from room to room appreciating knick-knacks and totems I have placed on the dresser or table without feeling a compulsion to dust or neaten. I can open the refrigerator and take a bite of yesterday's chicken without the urge to turn it into chicken salad for lunch. I can put on the same clothes I tossed on the floor last night and not give a thought to doing the laundry or ironing. I can stay up too late watching a movie I've already seen too many times and cry into an entire box of tissue over the sad scenes I know by heart. I can sleep late, take a nap, and stay in my pajamas without the slightest feeling of guilt. I can sit quietly and wait for the deer, raccoons, rabbits and wild turkeys to make an appearance when and if they choose. I can watch a spider spin its opus web.
After four days, or three days, or two days I will be ready, ready to go back to my life. Until next time, when I can once again do nothing.
How fortunate I am to have a special retreat where I can get away from the demands of life. I did just that this long New Year's weekend. Four days of no responsibility, four days of doing nothing, four days of recharging my soul. Most people I know would have enjoyed day one, but gone stir crazy by noon of day two. What is it about our culture that refuses to let us relax? I've learned to overcome whatever it is. I've learned to appreciate and enjoy the pure pleasure of doing nothing; the rejuvenating pleasure of simply being.
I can pull out books and thumb through them, reading a bit here and there, stopping when I have had my fill, not feeling compelled to finish a book, not feeling the necessity to accomplish something by seeing a story through to its end. I can jot down interesting phrases and words without feeling like I must write something. I can wander from room to room appreciating knick-knacks and totems I have placed on the dresser or table without feeling a compulsion to dust or neaten. I can open the refrigerator and take a bite of yesterday's chicken without the urge to turn it into chicken salad for lunch. I can put on the same clothes I tossed on the floor last night and not give a thought to doing the laundry or ironing. I can stay up too late watching a movie I've already seen too many times and cry into an entire box of tissue over the sad scenes I know by heart. I can sleep late, take a nap, and stay in my pajamas without the slightest feeling of guilt. I can sit quietly and wait for the deer, raccoons, rabbits and wild turkeys to make an appearance when and if they choose. I can watch a spider spin its opus web.
After four days, or three days, or two days I will be ready, ready to go back to my life. Until next time, when I can once again do nothing.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Looking Back, Looking Ahead
Making resolutions for the New Year is a great thing, but sometimes it's as important to look back as it is to look ahead. A New Year's tradition I've employed for almost ten years is to list twenty-five accomplishments from the past year; twenty-five things I've done that I am proud of. It is really hard to do, but it is a great exercise. Try it. After you've listed your twenty-five accomplishments for 2009 make another list - this one of the twenty-five things you would like to accomplish in 2010. Try it.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Happy New Year
I love the new year because it is just that - new. It is like a do-over for everything, a mulligan for your life. Today I am powerful, it is up to me to determine the course of 2010. How will I steer my life from 1/1/10 to 12/31/10? I have 365 days to navigate. Will I be a good helmsman? The possibilities have no boundaries. Where will I go in 2010?
I could eat healthier, exercise more, lose a few pounds. I could take up a sport, tennis anyone? Or horseback riding or running? I could train for a marathon, or a half-marathon, or maybe a 5K, or maybe I could just get out and walk a little everyday?
I might learn a foreign language, Italian, then I could travel to Italy where I could buy a ramshackle villa in Tuscany and cook for the motley crew of workmen while they restore my beautiful home. (Oh, wait - that's already been done by Frances Mayes!)
I may learn to play a musical instrument. In my housecleaning/purging process I have come across a violin, a flute, a saxophone and a guitar. 2010 might just be the year I form a rock band and tour the country (and Italy since I'll be fluent in Italian).
Maybe 2010 will be the year I get published. I'll finish my novel, or my memoir, or my short story, or my poem, or my blog will get picked up and made into a best-selling novel and a major motion picture. I'll sign with a major New York publishing house and go on the Oprah Winfrey show. She and I will become best friends and she will invite me and my dogs to spend the summer at her home in Hawaii. While there I could put in an organic garden for her and take cooking lessons from her chef. Then I could write a book about it and title it, Travel, Plant, Cook.
Hobbies are nice. I could learn to sew and go into a purse making business and sell them to over-indulged pre-pubescent daughters of the rich and famous at bohemian boutiques in California, New York and London. I could learn to paint and do plein air watercolor landscapes of my beloved lake and canyon. I could have a show at a gallery and be on the First Friday Art Walk where I would become an instant celebrity and Oprah would collect my work and I'd be a guest on her show and we'd become best friends.
I might practice daily meditation and yoga and become all balanced and zen-like. I could find a spiritual guru and travel to an ashram in India. I would come home wearing saris and go barefoot and speak in gentle, dulcet tones and everyone would love me and want to be my best friend (even Oprah, or at least her current best friend, Gail).
I could learn to tap dance or to cut hair or to weld. On 1-1-10 there is very little I mightn't do.
Or I might just try to keep the same boring resolutions I make every year:
I could eat healthier, exercise more, lose a few pounds. I could take up a sport, tennis anyone? Or horseback riding or running? I could train for a marathon, or a half-marathon, or maybe a 5K, or maybe I could just get out and walk a little everyday?
I might learn a foreign language, Italian, then I could travel to Italy where I could buy a ramshackle villa in Tuscany and cook for the motley crew of workmen while they restore my beautiful home. (Oh, wait - that's already been done by Frances Mayes!)
I may learn to play a musical instrument. In my housecleaning/purging process I have come across a violin, a flute, a saxophone and a guitar. 2010 might just be the year I form a rock band and tour the country (and Italy since I'll be fluent in Italian).
Maybe 2010 will be the year I get published. I'll finish my novel, or my memoir, or my short story, or my poem, or my blog will get picked up and made into a best-selling novel and a major motion picture. I'll sign with a major New York publishing house and go on the Oprah Winfrey show. She and I will become best friends and she will invite me and my dogs to spend the summer at her home in Hawaii. While there I could put in an organic garden for her and take cooking lessons from her chef. Then I could write a book about it and title it, Travel, Plant, Cook.
Hobbies are nice. I could learn to sew and go into a purse making business and sell them to over-indulged pre-pubescent daughters of the rich and famous at bohemian boutiques in California, New York and London. I could learn to paint and do plein air watercolor landscapes of my beloved lake and canyon. I could have a show at a gallery and be on the First Friday Art Walk where I would become an instant celebrity and Oprah would collect my work and I'd be a guest on her show and we'd become best friends.
I might practice daily meditation and yoga and become all balanced and zen-like. I could find a spiritual guru and travel to an ashram in India. I would come home wearing saris and go barefoot and speak in gentle, dulcet tones and everyone would love me and want to be my best friend (even Oprah, or at least her current best friend, Gail).
I could learn to tap dance or to cut hair or to weld. On 1-1-10 there is very little I mightn't do.
Or I might just try to keep the same boring resolutions I make every year:
- be healthier - diet and exercise and lose weight
- spend more time with friends and family
- get finances in shape
- write and publish something
- clean house
- travel
- learn something new
- find a balance between work and home
- be a better person
- be happy
If I can keep getting #10 right, then everything else somehow falls into place. This year, as every year, I just hope to stay the course without a major life crash. Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
