First Sighting

I stopped mid-sentence, leaving my daughter on the sidewalk as I walked on the grass inching closer and closer.  Bending my head this way and that I wanted to get the optimal view with the blue behind for the perfect image.  My first forsythia sighting is a big deal.  They don't stick around long enough for my liking, yet it is a sure sign of spring.

By Sea

As I got closer and closer, the notion that I could make it all the way home and then to the gas station in the morning without running out of gas, nearly talked me out of a stop.  I had been on the road for two and a half hours and that was just taxiing my kids from one athletic event to another. Tired; I really didn’t want to stop.

“Hey,” I heard a voice.  All my attention was on how quickly I could spend fifty bucks. I looked up from the gas meter. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.” He shifted the thin grocery bag from one hand to another and smiled.

He looked just about the same as he did in Kindergarten and First Grade when we spent every school day together just taller.  “‘Heard you’re doing well,” I began.

“Ya, ‘going to Italy this summer.  Last summer was Alaska and the summer before that was…”  

I stopped pumping.  “Jealous,” I yelled. “Still lobstering?”

“Nah, I go to school year round.  There’s no time. Can’t wait to finish school though.”

“I remember that feeling.  You get itchy. I know it well.”

We said our goodbyes and both drove away in opposite directions.  I wonder if he too was remembering how much fun we had reading and writing together?  School still had that brand new feeling.  Now he travels the world and continues to learn. How lucky to be young and a world traveler by sea.

it's all about timing

“It’s late,” my husband whispered, “We better get up.”

Forever and always, I have hated getting out of bed, especially in the dark.  This morning.  Dark.  Jerry crawls over me and out of bed.  Meanwhile, I pull up the comforter and settle in for at least fifteen more minutes of sleep, rest-I don’t know, I’ll take it.

Watching my husband pour our coffee, I have an odd sense.  The kids and felines of the house have internal clocks.  No kitty visits this morning and it is strangely quiet in the house.  “What time is it?” I ask as I put toothpaste on the brush.

“I screwed up,” my husband began, “it’s still early.” Knowing my possible reaction he continued, “It’s a good thing. Now we have all this time.”

I drag my now tired body out of the kitchen, feeling  lost in a battle between spring forward and fall back.  Burdened with the fact that I have just lost an hour sleep, I have all I can do not to slip back under the covers fully dressed with my shoes on.

Go Away: I Might Miss Something

Usually, its just white noise, but not tonight.  Moose dying...Every morning I wake, I think of the suffering I have caused you...Ford recalls… I shuffle in my seat, just waiting for more. A flood of bad.

“I don’t know why I am listening.” I tell my husband.  I can’t help it. "Turn it off," I say. "There's nothing but bad news in the world. How can she report all this bad news night after night?"

All’s quiet or nearly so. I hear the click of Rex’s toes on the hardwood floor. He hops on the couch. His bell jingles. Dishes touch. Silverware entangles. The dishwasher is loaded and emptied by my daughter. (Bless her.) My son Jamin shuffles out the door, turns around to say, “I’m going to David’s.  See you later.  I love you.” (Bless him.)

Bombarded by newsfeeds and soundbites, I often wallow in grief. My stomach twists in compassion for those suffering. The news is depressing, there is no other way to describe it.  Conflicted, I want to be informed, but it is hard to remain positive sometimes.  

Presently, it is dark-just before 8 pm, but from inside the house I hear the distinct call of the timberdoodle. “Zheeet. Zheeet. Zheeet.”  Just think, I almost missed this. I've had it with bad news.

Gifts

It was a little over a year ago, when my husband brought home from the post office a tiny box.  “I can’t believe all those chicks fit in that box,” I said,”it’s so little.” My husband’s hand seemed to swallow each one as he moved them from the box to an area we had prepared in the cellar. They all stood together under the warmth of the heat lamp, each pressing against the other, steadying.  

Each Sunday morning, I rise early to make homemade waffles.  It requires eggs and lots of them since I quadruple the recipe and then double the recipe most Sundays.  I never know how many teenage boys will emerge from the bedrooms once the smell wafts through the house.  This past Sunday as I cracked the eggs into a smaller bowl, it occurred to me what a  miraculous year-long production it has been as the tiny chicks have grown to produce food for my family. The yolks, a vibrant yellow orange, plump-a work of art smiled up at me. Truly, a gift.

What's Important

I fingered the bottle of nail polish in my pocket.  “Could you do me a favor-something for my mother?” I asked handing him the bottle of bright red polish.

On our last visit, I promised my mother I would polish her toes the next time I saw her.  “Don’t bother doing it unless you use red,” she told me. She did not believe that anyone should paint their toes unless they used red.  This was one thing she was adamant about. Really.

“Please, would you do my mother’s toe nails? I had promised her…” my voice trailed off. Uncertain he would actually do it, I added.  “It's important.”

“Of course, of course. We will.” he looked at me with a thin smile.  He put the bottle in the pocket of his suit jacket and walked out of the room.  I was alone.   

Soft music played in the background and a strong floral smell permeated the space. I felt sick.  I didn’t know if I could manage without her.

Vanity?

I spend a lot of time thinking about how I struggle to take care of myself. How did I get here? So here’s the thing: I show up this morning at my all time favorite salon The Alchemist. A friend had recommended it a few years back. She didn’t tell me anything about it, just that, “It’s great!”

I walk into this oasis.  Where I am asked if I want herbal tea or water.  Jamie, my stylist takes the time to find out what I want and is not afraid to make suggestions.  “Do you mind if I give you a head massage?”

“No.” I respond thinking what kind of question is that?  Who in their right mind would refuse!

Minutes go by.  I close my eyes and begin to relax. A half hour later I think, Could these foil squares be used to wrap sandwiches? Those are the thoughts that tend to rumble on the conveyer belt in my mind. I am the mother of multiple teenaged boys, what can I say? My head is covered with foil neatly folded here and there. This is my time.

“Do you mind, if I give you a hand massage after I clean up at bit?”  

I feel the smoothness of her hands press against mine. “Jamie, take me, I’m yours.  I’ll do anything you want.” I am nearly drooling, I am SO relaxed.

My neck always hold painful memories of washing my hair.  The sink that cradles my head must harmonize with the height of the chair.  Jamie adjusts it perfectly.  The water temperature is well not to be redundant, but perfect as well.  Then more massaging.   My head is covered in foamy suds.  I think back to my mother.  Washcloth on my eyes blinking away the sting, my head titled back at an angle, it was never suppose to be. Then the SCRUB.  Oh, Jamie, I think, this is such an improvement!

At Jamie’s station, my back is to the mirror.  I chat. She cuts, blow-dries and cuts some more. She’s almost done. Jamie applies a little cheek color and lip color spinning my chair around for the unveiling. Looking in the mirror I well up.  I don’t feel vain, but I feel beautiful.  I blink back tears.  

-Photo courtesy of Jamie at The Alchemist

Sometimes I don’t see my beauty-inner or outer.  Allowing others to help me discover me-that is part of self-care, isn’t it?

(If you are a neighbor, I cannot say enough about the girls at The Alchemist in Ellsworth, Maine.  They are compassionate woman who truly care. Of course, a special thank you to Jamie.  I always look forward to seeing you!)

Potential Trauma Event

I stepped sideways through the door  and Charlie escaped.  Normally our cats come and go as they wish, but today they are all held in captivity. Seven are scattered through the house anticipating something.Two are missing. Hauling cats to the clinic for rabies shots does not really constitute a good time, so that is why my husband is in charge.  He has it down to a system, but I don’t know what exactly. Putting ordinarily docile cats where they do not want to be turns them into wild beasts with extra sharp claws, pointy teeth and pitiful feline cries. I’d rather not be witness to this angst.  Will they ever forgive us?

Tomorrow will be the true test of faithfulness because each morning we are surrounded.  A few are curled at our feet, while others are sitting on the shelf of our headboard looking down for a possible chance to dive bomb. Max a black and white short hair gives me my first kiss with a sandpapery slide across my lips.  A chisel faced beauty Harry wants attention. Unfortunately for me every slight movement I make signals to Harry my possible passionate interest in patting him at 3:30 AM.  Harry is always poised for love.

I am not certain I could live without animals especially my kitties.  I grew up with cats taking them for rides in my rickety baby doll carriage, but not before dressing them for the trip. Now, they occupy my lap at night while I am reading, writing or sipping tea and they follow me to bed.   Some of our best family stories are about our cats.  

Post Potential Trauma Event:  Seven cats crammed into my Subaru making the short ride to town and listening to their blood curdling cat screams was the worse part of the trip. We left home and was back again in twenty-five minutes.  And now….where is Harry and Gato Negro?

A Lone Mitten

“Who’s mitten is this?” the Kindergarten teacher said as he picked up the lone mitten.

“Not mine!”

“Not mine!”

“Not mine!

The chorus was loud and sure.

The teacher approached a Kindergarten girl, “Is this yours?” She looked up and shook her head.

“Again,” the teacher boomed, “Does this mitten belong to anyone in here?”

Eighteen little ones replied, “Nooo!”

My Babysitter Sister

“Want to go to the beach?”  she asked.

Gripping the phone, I couldn’t believe that she was asking me.  I had a few friends in the neighborhood, mostly boys who I climbed trees with and batted a ball around the neighborhood.  Much of my time was spent bent in the field across the street picking  wild strawberries or huckleberries or trying all day to lift a kite high into the sky. I walked to and from school each day to be alone. The bus ride was too loud and took longer than walking. I watched the world function-meeting the same cars in the same place each day.  There was a predictable routine.  A comfort.   And my time alone was treasured.

I hung up.  

“When’s she coming to get you?” my babysitter sister asked.

“Don’t know.” I answered.

“What do you mean?” she bantered.

Looking down at the floor I whispered, “I don’t know.”

“Well, you just have to be ready.  Here let me help you. Find your bathing suit.”

Pulling opened my top drawer I searched among my socks and underwear.  School had barely locked the doors behind us.  It took tossing clothes around two drawers and making a mess to find my bathing suit.

“Got a towel,” I heard my sister yell.  

After hunting for my one pair of flip flops, I came to see my sister hand sewing something as she sat at the kitchen table.

“Maybe we should call Brenda’s mother,”  she suggested while pulling the needle through the cloth.

The phone rang and rang.  No one answered. “‘Must be on their way.” I stood and looked out the window anticipating their arrival. For the longest time.  I waited.  I was so excited.

After an hour or more my sister dragged the yellow wooden stool out to the garage where I could see Brenda and her mom as they drove in the driveway.

“You have to be ready,” she reminded.

On the stool wearing my bathing suit, cover-up and flip flops I sat swinging my legs thinking that this new vantage point would magically make my friend appear. I hung on tight to the beach bag in my lap that my sister had just made me for the special occasion. I sat some more.  Every ten minutes or so I heard the door creak open. "You OK?" It broke the silence and the growing pain.

As time passed, my sister suggested that maybe they aren’t coming. “Maybe they don’t know where we live, huh? Come in the house.”

Shifting in my seat, I swallowed hard and said, “No they’ll be here.”

That day I learned that not everyone says what they mean. As painful as the day was for me, my sister pulled me through. This is a story about love and devotion and my sister.

The Unthinkable

A tribute to all mothers who face the unthinkable.

Mother dropped

To her knees,

Sobbing,

Ragged waves

Of

Grief.

Six year olds

Aren’t suppose to

Die.

Among the Lucky

After working  over nine hours, my husband walked through the door covered in sheet rocking mud. His hands white in spots.

“Let’s go!” I said. “Eddaejia has an appointment.”

He had other ideas.  “I’m not going.”

“I haven’t seen you all day,” I replied, “I missed you.”

I moved closer to him so I could look in his eyes, smile and give him a hug.

“Sometimes, the car is the only place to be quiet and alone,” I reminded. “I love being with you.”

It is true.  I love being with my husband, at least most of the time.  After decades and decades of marriage, we still like each other.

My daughter recently got engaged.  She has been asking about our wedding that took place more than thirty years ago.  While fielding questions and searching my memory for answers, I was reflecting about how very fortunate we are since our marriage came ten months after we met.  Sometimes relationships never make it to long term.  We can be counted among the lucky.

Maine Maple Sunday

In Maine each year the last Sunday in March is marked as Maine Maple Sunday.  Sugar shacks around the state open their doors and celebrate everything maple.  Today I purchased not only Pure Maine Maple Syrup, but Maple Syrup Jelly.

Our hands stiff with cold,

We pour the amber sweetness onto the stack

Piled high and toppling,

The sugar shack steams and smokes,

Eating fast

We have our fill

Braving the wind gusts

Atop a hill,

You never know what weather

Will be

On Maine Maple Sunday.

Uncle Ken, Gabrielle and Elizabeth at Brookridge Boilers-Lyman, Maine

Brookridge Boilers First Maine Maple Sunday:  A Success!

some days are like this

Tonight I felt that all the words had been squeezed out of me like toothpaste in a tube. The result of sitting and numerous false starts is above. Some days are like this...

Opportunities

No one can take away your education.  The evidence of my degrees are on display in my classroom.  When I go to a new doctor, I look at their degree on the wall noting how recent they were educated and where they received their training.  Is it my undying curiosity or does it really matter whether a doctor is trained at Harvard or The University of New England?  I sound like a snob.  

This afternoon I offered to help a teacher.  She is new to our school and has infused enthusiasm and passion into our daily interactions.  I wanted to let her know that my presence in her class would prove not be burdensome and that I am particularly passionate about writing.

“I taught First Grade for years.  I love writing. I don’t get much of a chance to write with kids anymore. I’m a writer….mentor….I’m taking courses.”

“Let me think about it,” she replied.

I was floored.

“I don’t want to force myself on you,” I tried to repair “If I can help, I’d love to.”

In reflection,  I blew it.  Did I overwhelmed her?  Unintentionally this turned into a conversation about me and the fringes of how I have the capacity and desire to help.

  

My degrees are on display in my classroom.  I only wanted to help.   Monday is another school day, an opportunity for me to learn again.

Working Through Discontent

Standing in front of the opened refrigerator door, I can’t make up my mind.  Nothing looks right.  Nothing tastes right.  I am discontent.  Onto the cupboards.  Nothing.   I open drawers.  Still nothing.

I lift the electric tea kettle testing the weight of water, then push the lever to the on position.  I walk off in search of comfort.  I slip out of my chinos and into a loose fitting cotton knit skirt.  That’s better, I think.   With tea in hand and my loose fitting skirt swishing against my legs, I fall into bed.  I have been here for one week (minus yesterday).  It is getting old.

Books are piled high.  I read a few pages of Carver for comfort.  I roll to one side, then another. Fluff the pillow, adjust the comforter.  I read and reread the page because I am lost.  I don’t get it.  I get to the end of the short story and I still don’t get it.  I spy an open bag of junky fruit slices (I don’t even like the tasteless chewy mass).  I shove one in my mouth.  Hmmm, not bad. Another goes in without forethought. Then another. Stop! I take a sip of tea, now sweet tea with the sugary leftovers mixing in my mouth.

There is nothing left to do when you don’t feel quite right, but to sleep. Back under the covers, I close my eyes.  No coughing.  My eyes flash opened.  He’s loud.  Must be close. I put on my husband’s shoes and shuffle to the deck one step out the door.  I spot him as I close the door without a sound. Darn he flies to the next tree a little further away.  I snap.  I am content now...I can sleep.

Being Bold

Despite our best efforts, each Sunday we were habitually late.  The few Sundays my family managed to go out the door with time to spare, we would become caught on the wrong side of a railroad crossing counting the hundred or so cargo cars itching for the caboose to pass. Despite the fact that mass had already begun, my mother would prance down the middle aisle insisting that we all slide into the front pew to the left of the altar.  My mother was bold.  Being bold was just practice for defending what is right and just in this world.  We were all to meet our share of injustice, but it was my brother who was particularly susceptible to attract the cruelty of others.  

The very first time I was aware of this injustice toward my brother was a Sunday morning that we were late to church.  My mother waved her arms to hurry us along and we all moved as fast as we could in our Sunday finary.  (My brother having Cerebral Palsy has a functional gait that looks quite a bit different than average.  In order to walk, he engages his whole body to thrust each leg forward.) I noticed a group of two or three kids snickering and pointing at my brother while one of them mimicked his movements.  My mother held my hand a bit tighter and grew  taller as she raised her chin, keeping her gaze forward. We all moved in closer to each other.  I swallowed hard and blinked through the tears.  There are different ways to be bold.

My brother never complains.  He has never considers himself a victim, but since that Sunday morning so long ago, I have appointed myself his protector.  The other night while dining at one of his favorite restaurants, he told of how the former host of the restaurant would mimic his gait and laugh at the way he walked.  As my sister shared this with me tonight, I suddenly became ill-sickened by how cruel people can be. I cried wondering how often this happens to my brother.  There are different ways to be bold.    

One Regret

I’m sure that my father was plenty afraid, but he never showed it, but once.

I sat in the standard hospital leatherette chair and knitted while he slept. Hour after hour. The monotony broken by thumbing through the stacks of books or hospital magazines like People and Newsweek.  Mindless yards of knitting eased my nervous energy.   His requests were simple.  Black coffee and a piece of chocolate cake.  The only problem was he couldn’t swallow well.  The thicken coffee and soupy ice cream instead of cake made it easier to go down.  My father’s recovery seemed to balance on the hope of getting him out of bed and moving.  Since the fall and the subsequent severe shoulder injury, it was difficult and painful to move.  With human assistance, two physical therapists would sit him up in the bed and swing his legs around to touch the floor.  That is as far as it went.  After days of existing in bed, he was too weak, refusing to move.   The only hope was a hoist.

His condition had stabilized. He had some hard work ahead. With my abled body and mind this was not only necessary from my perspective, but possible for him. I was not ready to lose him.  I thought he had the fight in him. My father was stubborn.  If he was mad at you, his silence would last intolerably for weeks.  “Come on Daddy, you can do this.  It is going to be hard, but you are strong.  You’ve got to do this.  I love you.  You’ve got to...so you can come home.”  The pep talk drifted to a pleading and a begging. His gaze drifted from me.  I did not want to believe that he had given up and I had convinced myself that I was a distraction.  After being out of work and away from the family for more than a week, I decided to return.  

The hoist was secured around my father’s body.  I started walking out of the hospital room, turning back to say goodbye and that I would come back in a matter of days, “I love you Daddy.”

His eyes met mine.  His sad brown eyes, eye brows knit together in fear and terror. Literally, my heart ached. I froze in place. I wanted to stay, but I left.

A few days later I returned, his eyes remained closed as he drew his last breath.  

I have one regret, maybe I should have stayed.