THE ANTS GO MARCHING ONE BY ONE

My husband is a ‘mouse trap’ kind of guy.
The bait and lure then snap them in half and be done with it kind of guy.
The toss away the dead and set the next trap kind of guy.

This was not always the case and I wonder what of life’s abrasions filed his edges so sharp.

When we moved into this old house eleven years ago, we discovered that our new home, which had been vacant for months, had beckoned various members of the animal kingdom to take up residence. The first to make their squatters rights known were the mice. This was our very first encounter with territorial issues and within the first few days, I purchased more than the required number of ‘have a heart’ traps for the little vermin.

Peanut butter, we were told, was best to attract and keep them inside as the little hatch closed behind, making a lovely travel container to relocate them.

A car ride, we were told, was required to move them far enough away from our dwelling to prevent their return.

Our first catch was accomplished in the early morning hours and my youngest and I ventured a mile down the road to open the hatch, freeing one peanut butter smeared and confused little mouse to the woods.

Quite pleased with myself for having discovered a humane solution to our problem, I set more traps. I worked evenings at the time and returned home on that first evening to my husband relaxing sheepishly on the couch. I joined him for a glass of wine to catch up on the day’s events and then saw something that made me both love him and question his sanity. On the kitchen island sat my son’s small rectangular bug catcher hosting the day’s catch; mouse number two blinked and I think smiled at me as I moved in for a closer look. Inside the mini cage were strewn slivered almonds and crumbles of Monterey Jack cheese.

“I couldn’t leave the kids alone to drive down and dump it and it seemed so cramped in the trap,” he explained with the look of a boy in trouble. It would only be a matter of time until the word of the ‘mouse spa’ got around town and attracted even the smeared and dumped critters from miles away.

Over the years we have dealt with bats and squirrels, birds and mice, all finding our home as suitable as we have; each one, wearing away the kindness and the patience of the almond and jack cheese guy.

My daughter is a 'save the animals' girl.
The “Mom, my friend and I are holding a protest at the grocery store to stop people from eating animals” girl.
A “Drive slowly so you don’t squish the frogs in the road” on a rainy night girl and a go back home to get a bucket to collect said frogs to release them to safety by the pond girl.

She appears to be her father’s polar opposite.

I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle.

I am an animal person and as a child brought home more than my share of stray, injured creatures in need of saving. Currently we co-hebetate nicely with a variety of living things:

One beta fish given to the children along with several others (all in separate bowls) by Father Hank at Christmas—don’t ask.

One five year old hermit crab, which in spite of a fair amount of neglect, simply lives on and on.

Two anoles, which are the little lizards that turn from green to brown and back again, depending on their surrounding, or if you listen to my daughter, depending on their mood.

One Siberian hamster, who has been banished to the family room for nocturnal antics.

One dumpster rescued cat, who simply cannot remember from day to day that the dog actually does want to eat him.

One thirteen year old mutt, adopted from the pound on a New Year’s Eve by the former animal loving husband.

One four year old Rat Terrier, also a pound rescue, who, according to the dog trainer, considers me his woman and follows me endlessly from room to room, including the bathroom.

And one four year old Cockatiel who whistles at me every morning no matter what I look like; LOVE that bird!

I love animals… in their cages, crates, aquariums and bowls. I can tolerate reptiles, as long as they never come out of their cages and I do not have to touch them.

I draw the line at insects.

For all of the saving and rescuing I have done in my life, I become a cold-blooded, heartless murder without a conscience when it comes to bugs. I react with extreme fear driven violence when faced with a spider and have no problem whacking a yellow jacket with a shoe.

This winter, in the frozen dead of winter, we were invaded with another type of wildlife.

Sugar ants.

It seemed impossible at first to see ants at all with the ground frozen solid, but every day they would appear on the countertop between the refrigerator and stove. Every day I spray them with Windex and wipe them away with a paper towel. We cannot locate the origin.

“I’ll get some ant traps,” my mouse trap expert informs me.

“Mom, what can I use for a cover so they can still breathe?” asks my daughter, showing me the little bottle cap living room, complete with a cookie crumb, a drop of water, a piece of fuzz for relaxing; two happy ants settling in.

Daily, I struggle with their return and I am sure there must be thousands of them.

“Mom, what are you doing? They’ll die if you spray that on them!” My save the animal girl shrieks.

Somewhere in the middle, I am.

As winter rolls over and spring shows its face, the teeny tiny soldiers continue to come. Ants live in complete harmony among the colony; each responsible for his own job. These are the front line, sent out to the face of danger to bring back food. I watch as one struggles to carry a dead comrade back for burial.

Still others march on in search of food, ten or more cluster around a kernel of dog food on the opposite side of the kitchen. In comparison, the journey would be like walking across the state of Texas carrying a pizza for home the family.

Amazing determination.

I am unable to accept these tiny warriors moving across my counter, and yet I cannot pick up the Windex bottle after all they have been through.

We have arrived at an understanding of sorts. I flick on the kitchen lights at 6am and pull the coffee pot toward me, giving them to the count of ten to make themselves disappear.

I slowly fill the coffee pot with water, counting to eleven just in case.

Not a one there when I come back.

WILD GEESE

Father Hank stands before the parish on the steps as always, book in hand, pensive look on his face. He never stands at the lectern. He never stands still. His smooth head and round face offer an unguarded view to his soul; his face, sometimes shining with joy, sometimes pained with passion.

He begins his sermon always with three words; topics really. He always begins this way, naming the three words that sound unrelated to one another, much less to a Godly lesson, and then unfolds three stories one at a time. All three are wrapped tightly at the end into one powerful message. He paces as he speaks, introducing this week’s three: Don’t Hesitate, Spiritual Gifts and Wild Geese.

Following the Gospel lesson of the Prodigal son, Father Hank unfolds the first story about his days in seminary. Unlike some who are called to this path early on, he reveals that he has lived several lifetimes, traveled many directions before God pulled him to his destiny. A married man, suddenly full time student, he painted a picture of difficult financial times and the humbling experience of a not so young man needing to turn to his own father for help. Anxious to offer explanation, he is silenced by his father, who hears the only thing that matters and sets out to meet him with an envelope; “Don’t hesitate.” was all he said. "It is like this with God," Hank explains. We, like the prodigal son, are welcomed without exception when we return; no explanation, no hesitation.

He went on to talk about spiritual gifts and how we all are born with them: Prophets and Healers, Artists and Musicians; something for each of us to be used for the good of all. “Pew Potato,” he reminds us, is not among the gifts. He speaks of the complacency of the “church” and how, closed inside this building, we come to draw from the Spirit, but often return through the doors self-contained; immobile.

He reflects on a walk with his dog earlier in the week and tells of how they were startled by the sudden boisterous swell of sound overhead; a large flock of geese headed north; wild and determined and directed. An animal husbandry lesson followed. Research has shown that tame geese in pens are stirred by the sound of wild geese flying overhead. Even the geese hatched into captivity respond to some kind of spiritual DNA, this inner call that causes them to run and flutter and honk, many attempting to take flight. For some reason, few are able to actually lift off and leave, in spite of the stirring. It is far easier to tame a wild goose, than to return a tame goose to the wild.

How many times have I sat in this place, moved to tears and conviction by the stories that stir my inner spirit, but find myself in the end, penned in and grounded?

The sermon has swirled around my head for days now. I think about the ways large and small that we reach beyond the fence of our tame existence. I think about the people in my church who have just returned from a mission trip to Guatemala: men and women with families, jobs and all of the other road blocks that keep us “penned in.” And yet they go.

For women, I believe this call from the wild gets stronger as we move farther along the path of our lives. Our innate desire to nurture is no longer consumed by our families and a sense of being connected to a larger family is illuminated.

I think of women like Oprah who do so much work in this way, using the gifts she was given and has earned to make an enormous difference in the lives of many. Having both the will and the means, she is able to act on the spirit. So what then for those of us who do not have the means? Can we make a difference?

Are there any tame geese who really do take flight?

Do I know any wild geese at all?

I do.

Debbie.

My husband has an aunt, perhaps 12 years his senior making her close to 60. Painting a picture of Debbie would require many brushes, endless colors and several canvases. Her life has been unusual taking her through three marriages and has landed her in careers ranging from boat cleaning to ski instructor. She has led adults on tours to Europe and guided women on horseback across Ireland. She has lived in cities and in the mountains; been on top of the world and close to the bottom. She has seen bumpy roads, and hard times. Perhaps it is safe to say that she has never been truly tame, truly penned in.

This September, Debbie did more than flutter and stir, she took flight.

At a time in life when most wish to wind down and take their duly earned Golden Years at leisure, Debbie joined the Peace Corp.

She is currently in a small village in Macedonia, assigned to helping the apple growers with marketing. She is writing a story about these kind, but seemingly sad people as she struggles in a village that speaks little English. Her journey thus far has led her through intensive training, three months of language coaching and finally to her destination, where people who cannot understand her look to her to improve their lives

I am in awe of her.

It is one thing to be moved, to have compassion, to be stirred. It is another thing entirely to leave what you know and trust to offer two years of your life to people whom you have never met in a place you have never seen.

She heard the wing of geese above and left her safe, penned existence for the unknown; not merely a vacation to a strange land, but as a kindred spirit to our larger family on this planet we call home.

I hear them too, and am stirring in my pen.

TOMORROW

I mark the page and close the plastic covered book jacket. “Enough for tonight, it’s getting late.” The day was long and draining and I am desperately longing for the couch and my own good book.

I pull the pink, patchwork quilt up to her chin, her brown silky hair splayed like a crown over her pillow. A smile spreads as her eyes flutter closed and she wiggles herself back and forth as if burrowing happily into the sand. Brown eyes popping open, “I can’t wait for tomorrow!”

I check my mental calendar to see if I am forgetting a special event; Thursday the 22nd, nothing special comes to mind. “Why, what’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s a brand new day! Maybe some new flowers will pop up in the garden or maybe some new baby animals will be born.” She shrugs with happy uncertainty, “New things will happen and you never know what! It’s a new day.”

“You’re awesome. I love you,” I tell her as I kiss goodnight.

Tomorrow; full of possibility.

WELCOME TO THE CAT YEARS

Eyes lowered, he steps down one foot at a time, casual and deliberate. Chin tipped at an angle, he holds his shoulders broad and powerful, eyes carefully glancing left and right to take in the peripherals without being noticed. He grabs the bag, showing no signs that its weight is cumbersome and slings it over one shoulder. A scowl of indifference, he grabs the door with force to close it, too nonchalant to make eye contact, too cool for good-byes.

The scene reminds me of an old western where the dismount from the horse, the saunter to the door and the force with which the saloon doors opened spoke volumes to onlookers; a force not to be reckoned with…challengers beware. In a cloud of testosterone, he makes his way into the building, image intact. In spite of the minivan substitute for a horse and the skateboard shoes in place of spurred cowboy boots, he enters the doors of the middle school with cowboy cool.

They are the same doors I entered nervously three years ago when my first born was on the threshold of seventh grade. The building seemed large and unfriendly; a dramatic contrast to the 5th/6th grade middle school. It was the same school that my husband attended for seventh and eighth grade and apparently changed little since his days of roaming the halls.

Entering the gymnasium for parent orientation, I exchanged pleasantries with comrades as I climbed to the fourth row of the bleachers and settled myself. I sat ready to be filled with inspiring speeches and began to thumb through the hand-outs in my lap. “Welcome to the Cat Years,” immediately grabbed my attention.

The paper informed me that until now I had been raising a puppy. Puppies are delightful and full of adoration. They come when you call them, yearn for your attention, aim to please you and love you unconditionally. According to this paper, my sweet puppy was about to morph into a cat.

For the unsuspecting parent, this evolution is shocking and parents franticly search within and without for answers: where did we go wrong? I learned that my puppy would take on a feline attitude and was reassured that this is perfectly normal. I could expect to be ignored when I said his name, as if he had never heard the name before. I should expect my cat would avoid being in my presence, would turn its nose up at the food I offered and would interact on his terms only; a distant aloof composure at all times.

I sent my first born off to seventh grade, in spite of the urge to home-school, a bouncing tail-wagging twelve-year-old in hopes that this was an exaggeration. By the end of the first semester, the cat years had taken hold.

“If you have to come in the school, don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

“So when your friends say hi and wave, I should look away and ignore them?”

“OK… say hi, but don’t make conversation.”

Suddenly, I had become the most embarrassing thing in his world and the very fact that he had a mother was humiliating. In public, he walked at least twenty feet ahead of me, pretended not to hear me when I spoke and was sure that anything I said in the car with the windows closed could be heard by all.

I would frequently remind myself that he was immersed in the Cat Years, and held tightly to the promise that at the conclusion of this phase, a dog would emerge at the other end; no longer needing me in the puppy way, but loyal, loving and close. I learned to disengage in debates, as reason has no value in the cat years and would occasionally hiss back and move on.

Unpleasant as this was, I endured the past three years and just recently, I saw glimmers of the canine returning. My oldest, now golden retriever-like, is enjoyable to converse with on occasion and as he approaches the age of sixteen, I see the sweet and loyal beginning to shine through. He is now able to be with me in public, say good-bye in front of others and even asks for my opinion from time to time.

I thought I was prepared as my second born, the sweetest and cuddliest of my litter, entered the seventh grade. I was well- equipped in feline management. I knew what to expect, how to react and felt unruffled by the hormonal eruption about to take place. As luck would have it, this one is no Tom Cat. I am now the proud parent of a full-fledged Mountain Lion! Hissing and disengaging are futile efforts and my previous strategies require complete revamping.

He awakes each morning, right on time and emerges from the shower with a stone-like exterior; ready to be annoyed at the slightest pleasantries. He looks at me with distaste, casting breakfast aside after a bite or two and moving through the morning as if life itself was inconvenient. Grabbing for my highest healed boots in an effort to look down at him still, I drive him to school with the radio on; music to calm the savage beast. As we approach the driveway of the school, he slips on a layer of attitude to get ready for his dismount. He forcefully thrusts open the door of the minivan, taking no notice of the driver behind the wheel.

“Have a nice day! I love you!” I say.

I know he needs to hear the words, even if they go un-answered and I am not insulted by the non-response

Living in the lion’s cage, I have learned several things:
Take nothing personally; this too shall pass.
Keep your sense of humor.
Never show fear or hesitation.
Stay calm in the face of roaring aggression.
Keep the lion well-fed at all times.

Never stop loving.

I am sure that by the time I have mastered the art of lion taming, it will be time to place my youngest and the only female on the threshold of middle school. It is likely that the estrogen storm will be dangerous and perhaps everything I learned with her brothers will be rendered ineffective. I realize that I will have to re-think the philosophy that de-clawing is a cruel practice.

THE JOURNEY TO THERE

I know the drill. In fact, I damned near owned the concept. Negative attracts negative and gratitude and love attract more in kind. I suppose I was using the Tom Hopkins method of “Fake it till you make it” and really had myself fooled into thinking I was there. I realize now that being ‘there’ might not be possible and the only thing matters day to day is staying on the path that leads in the direction of ‘there.’

It seems I walked into this new year blindly fooled by the notion that this year was to be in some way better than others; that somehow I had reached a place where positive thought and love would smooth the bumps in the road. The year began with a path that was riddled with pot holes.

My family, usually healthy and resilient, seemed plagued by illness; nothing insurmountable or incurable, but an unstoppable wave of viruses and infections that moved from member to member like a game of hot potato. Strep, pneumonia, fevers and colds stirred my family kettle into a spiral of germs. My dad’s illness and need for me to travel added to the unraveling of normal at home and added to the financial burden of my not taking on enough work.

I’m not sure if my lack of words were a result of stress or the fact that everyone and every thing demanded all of me, but writing ceased to happen.

I seemed void of thought.

My youngest spent the last seven days on the couch with a high fever that reached 104.4. Even with medication, she hovered at 103 and I searched desperately for a reason. My middle child was on his rebound round of strep, but that was not the cause of her illness. I felt annoyed with the pediatrician whose tests turned up nothing and helpless when the “V” word was thrown my way; a virus with no symptoms, just a fever. It was a long week.

The week ended with a clog in the plumbing. After heroic efforts on my husband’s part all day Saturday, a plumber finally arrived, only to give up at 9pm. He would send in the heavy hitter, the best of the best, sometime on Sunday but in the meanwhile, no water down the drains. No laundry. No showers. No toilets. While in the basement, my husband noticed that the oil tank in nearly empty and I worried that 'No oil' would happen in the middle of the night. “It’ll be like camping!” I tell my boys in a lame attempt to make light of an ugly weekend.

On Sunday, I trudged off to church alone, un-showered, leaving the sick ones and the well ones behind, awaiting the plumber. I felt like I had just had enough and was finding it difficult to focus on the discussions of Lent and self-reflection. The Pastor announced that our church had deemed the first Sunday of Lent as “One Sunday.” The collective church body dedicated “One Sunday” to lofty goals that seem unattainable, and yet one by one, gathered as one, we must, as Christians confront desperation in far away places. The goal is to eradicate extreme poverty and hunger, to educate women, to eliminate child mortality as a result of simple lack of life necessities, to end HIV/Aids and to wipe out death in prenatal women.

Statistics about families who have no income, no food, no facilities and no medication painted a vivid picture of no hope. I got stuck on the statistic that hit close to home.

30,000 children died yesterday.

30,000 children will die today.

30,000 children will die tomorrow.

My mind took me to a village where mothers held their dying children, powerless to save them. I thought about the battery of test that had been run on my daughter this week and the medication that was wiping out my son’s strep infection; blessings.

They sleep on the floor, hard and cold with the insects crawling and feeding on their skin. I thought of my daughter on the couch where I repeatedly adjusted her pillows and blankets, attempting to maximize her comfort; blessings.

They die of malnutrition and lack of clean water to drink and I thought about the bottles of spring water she had emptied as I diligently forced her to drink fluids; blessings.

They live without adequate shelter, electricity and pluming and I thought about my warm home where the plumbing would be restored by days end; blessings.

I thought about these mothers who pray and work and love as I have wallowed in self pity over inconvenient bumps in the road.

With the crossing of every one of those bumps, there is blessing on the other side. Not only did my dad pull through his surgery, but I was able to fly across the country on little notice to be at his side. My taking off of work may have caused financial stress, but how fortunate to have the sort of job that allows me to not work when my family needs me.

Our minds are powerful tools and life’s perspective is everything.

Monday brought snow and renewed health to my daughter. Shuffling to the slider door with her hair in her face and her pink flannel jimmies still warm with sleep, her eyes widen and take in the back yard, transformed to a wonderland.

“Dad says it’s snowball snow,” I tell her.

“This is amazing and I am better. Oh it’s a snow ball day and a baking cookie day and a hot chocolate day! It’s like Christmas!” Dimple gleaming, a glow warms her cheeks as her eyes ride slowly toward the sky, “God, I’m so proud of you.”

She is filled with joy.

Joy for her health and joy for the snow and joy just to be.

I feel the path under my feet and realize I am once again heading in the direction of ‘there.’ I suppose it is OK to get lost from time to time and if we ask, God will put someone in our path to guide us back.

Last night I watched the amazing story of Oprah’s Academy for girls in Africa. “Educate the women and you can transform a continent” Nelson Mandela told Oprah. One at a time, she is working toward that goal. The girls in the academy, most of whom have endured more hardship than we will ever know, do not have to fake it; they know joy and gratitude and are icons of hope.

Perhaps ‘there’ is closer than I thought.


If you were unable to see the special last night on ABC, it will air again Saturday night.

http://www.oprah.com/ophilanthropy/owlaf/owlaf_landing.jhtml

FRIENDSHIP RE-DEFINED

Friend: One who entertains for another such sentiments of esteem, respect, and affection that he seeks his society and welfare; a well-wisher; an intimate associate; sometimes, an attendant.

The meaning of friendship varies and fluctuates from childhood to adulthood. A toddler views a friend as anyone who shows up to play on the playground; perfect strangers welcome. In elementary school, friends tend to be classmates and neighbors; daily playmates for better or worse. Older kids give the title of friend to those they “hang out with.” Even moving on into young adulthood, friends are the people that one shares time with, laughs with, cries with and grows with.

Most of us hold onto some of these earlier friendships like a pair of well worn jeans; they fit well and feel good, in spite of the changing shape of our lives. I suppose I have always thought of friends as those who know me intimately, those I have created a history with, the ones I’d be comfortable calling in a crisis.

Living in a small town and raising several children creates a large circle of faces that are as familiar as the street signs that lead to home. This circle of parents, connected through their children, range from casual to friendly, all I would have formerly defined as “acquaintances.”

My daughter belongs to a “girls group” that meets once a month to explore a deeper level of relating; soul sisters that go beyond the somewhat frivolous and clicky relationships found in the classroom. The theme this month is Friendship. A local musician, mom and recording artist will be visiting to sing a song that she wrote for the group, based on a collection of their individual definitions of a friend. When I asked Cadence what made a person a friend, her definition was clear and concise. “A friend is someone who stands by you and helps pick you up when you are down.” The truth in her words was very real for me recently.

The definition of friendship has broadened for me in the last couple of weeks. As I moved through the emotional ups and downs regarding my dad’s health and surgery, I decided I needed to go to be with him and time was surely of the essence. I booked by flight and 35 hours later was headed to the airport. Anyone with three children and a full time job can tell you that it takes more than a village to pull this off. I was so incredibly moved and overwhelmed by the kindness of people that I formerly titled “acquaintance” who stepped forward with offers of rides, of taking my children for the week, of caring for my pets and with prayers.

Writers from east to west, some of whom I met once and others not at all rallied with words of encouragement, support and “winged prayers.” It became so crystal clear to me that “friendship” is more than a history, more than intimate knowledge. Friendship is about stepping up to the front lines when life is hard. It is offering in kindness the tangible and intangible that makes another feel cared for. “It is someone who stands by you and helps pick you up when you are down.” I am incredibly blessed for all of my friends and thank you for standing by.

MIND OVER MATTER

So very cold, as I slip out into the night to maneuver my way to the airport; 4:35 am and I am behind schedule. Traveling alone usually makes me uneasy, but I am focused on this journey. Arriving in Florida and finally to the hospital, I am not sure what I will make conversation about for the afternoon. Bursting in full of a lifetime of things left unsaid is surely not the way to go. He looks tired, pale and gray from hair to lips. We chit chat about weather and mindless things and finally move into a comfortable pattern.

My children made a poster that I unveil with pride. Slogans like “BE STRONG, HANG TOUGH and KICK BUTT GRANDPA” roll between the art work. He asks to have it hung where he can see it. We talk about people we haven’t seen in a while, about the kids and what is keeping them busy; each conversation opens the cover of a memory. A discussion of teenagers driving has us laughing about my brother’s driving escapades and has me retelling the oil changing story. In between he asks his wife to call the golf course where he works to let them know how long his recovery will be so they can find temporary replacement. He speaks about “after the surgery,” not with false bravado but with certainty that there will be more to come.

Doctors slip in and out to discuss the procedure that will take place in the morning. They will carve away all of the ‘dead’ portions of the heart, reshape it, create a new door and install four new bypasses. It will be at least four hours. The last four hours have passed quickly and I know that the four to come will move at an intolerable slow crawl. I tease him about the reshaping of his heart and tell him he might come out this super romantic! The time comes to leave and we collect his belongings to take home. My dad stands up to give me a hug good-by. I look into his surprisingly brave eyes, “I love you Dad.”

“I love you, too,” he answers with an ease that makes it seem like this is our usual thing. Funny, with his cracked shell, he looks exactly the same, even with soft emotion trickling out. I head back to his home with my step mother, both of us feeling positive.

The waiting room is a contrast of comfy chairs and cold air. It has the look of a lounge in a fancy hotel lobby as families set up camp, moving discussions between light-hearted and serious. An older man sits behind a brown wooden desk, marking charts, answering phones and pointing to groups of people in chairs. Volunteers scurry between the operating rooms, the brown wooden desk, and the families anxiously awaiting progress reports. I sit with my brother, his wife and my step mother, huddled into a circle of support.

Occasionally a doctor in green scrubs with a blue hat and surgical mask will move through the doors, sometimes softly, sometimes with exuberance reminiscent of a cowboy through saloon doors in an old western. Each time, the scrubs stop at the brown wooden desk and then follow a hand gesture in the direction of an awaiting family. Each time my heart quickens, too soon for a doctor to come to us; each time I am washed with relief; not our turn.

A man in black jeans walks slowly by. He wears a navy blue warm up jacket and baseball cap, but I cannot see his face as his head is bent low. He sits just beyond our cluster of chairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between head hanging down over his hands. I cannot break the lock of my gaze as he appears to shrug his shoulders once, twice and then in the unmistakable repetition that accompanies sobbing. One hand goes over his eyes and wipes at the pain, the sobs now audible. My heart breaks for him. My heart fears for me. Not all of the reports are good. After a long time of attempting self composure, the man walks through the doors where the doctor had emerged.

I watch cautiously now, guarded for surgeons as our four hours is coming to a close. Each doctor has the potential to be the Angel of Mercy or the Grim Reaper and I stare at the one newly emerging. After checking in at the brown wooden desk, he pans the room for the appropriate family and I know right away that we are it. I cannot read any expression and stop breathing as he moves in our direction; Angel or Reaper? His walk is brisk; a good sign I believe and something like a smile creeps to the edge of his mouth as he comes close. “He did well and will be up in recovery in about an hour; shortly thereafter you can see him.”

I felt tension slipping off from the top of me like the skin peeling down a banana and we shared smiles, giggles and sighs of relief. I tell the others that God isn’t finished with him yet; still has rough edges to polish. We are surprised, and then not so surprised at the sheer will of this man.

Our jubilation begins to wane as one, two and then three hours creep past in the ICU waiting room. We find out then that he had been brought up, but quickly returned to the OR as his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. He had to be reopened to install a pump to assist his heart. His situation still critical and he is not yet out of the woods. The pump will be in three or four days as he heals and then they will gradually return him to his own. His wife was finally allowed back to see him briefly; a reassurance that he pulled through, but a picture that left her cold and sobbing.

Finally we retreat home, unsure of what to feel and grasping for the half full side of the cup. My hopes now sit with the thought that as he comes out of anesthesia, his mind will begin to work and everything to him is ‘mind over matter.’ Later that evening, the nurse says he is breathing beyond the ventilator and that they will be able to remove it by morning. Inside, I know what this means. He’s fighting and my dad is not a quitter.

By mid day the next day, his wife is allowed in to see him. We wait cautiously in the waiting room until the door reopens and she enters beaming. One at a time we are allowed to go back; five minutes each. It has been 20 hours since his surgery and he smiles as I enter the room. We laugh that he is worried about what his hair looks like. I tell him that his hair looks 'hot' and he says he feels good but they haven’t let him get up yet. He bubbles on talking more that I have ever seen, asking about the score of the UCONN game and wondering if we had lunch yet.

“Which one of the kids wrote ‘kick butt Grandpa’?” He asks. It was Cadence, I tell him. “Would you tell her I did?” He wants to know what time my flight home is and tells us to go have lunch. His wife struggles to kiss him, giving in to blowing a kiss, as she’s not tall enough to lean over. He calls her back to the room as she leaves, letting her know next time to come around the other sideof the bed where it is lower and she’ll be able to reach him for a real kiss. I giggle inside at the romantic new shape of his heart.

I flew home at the end of the day, reassured in so many ways. By the time my flight had landed, they had removed the heart pump and this morning, he is sitting in a chair. I ponder all of these things, making sure not to take anything for granted.

I have much to be grateful for.

The power of prayer.

The power of the human spirit.

The power of love.

CRACKING THE SHELL

Time is the one and only thing we have for certain while on this planet.

Free time, not enough time, wasting time and making time. Time can be a healer; its slow passage the only thing that lifts the chest crushing pain of loss to let the memories fill the void. Time can be a predator; ticking swiftly closer to a dreaded moment that snatches away a loved one.

This week I prayed for more time.

On Friday, my dad went in for a procedure to determine the reason for his declining health. His heart, a stark contrast to this rock of a man, is fragile. The procedure was to be followed by at attempt to correct the flaws; surgery that he would likely not sustain. Friday crept along slowly like a snake eyeing its prey. Recovering from pneumonia left me unable to eradicate the physical distance between us. My younger brother, closest of the flock to my dad, chomped at the bit to fly to Florida, but was himself grounded by a virus. I worked through my day, hearing silent clocks, now loudly ticking, waiting for the phone call.

My dad and I shared the usual hard shell banter the day before. These exchanges always full of humor and wit, facts and truth, but emotion kept always just beneath the shell. I don’t know the cause for this emotional armor. I believe the Irish are prone to it. There seem to be two varieties to these people: one stoic, steadfast and honorable, the other robust, carefree and fool hearty. My dad is surely of the former design.

Mine was not a family of ‘I love you’s” although love was ever-present. I do not remember princess-like Daddy’s little girl encounters. That was Ok with me. I knew that he loved me in his guarded way. My mom and dad were opposite; the type that repel instead of attract. They were obviously unsuited, yet partnered for more than thirty years to raise the group of offspring they brought to the world. Their relationship reached the point of apathy that goes beyond repair. There were times I blamed my mom and times I faulted my dad. In some ways, it was a relief that their time had ended.

During this period of separation, their connection didn’t fizzle out or fade away, but rotted and molded as they moved to opposite ends of the home they shared since I was two. My mom and I were good friends and talked constantly. It was at this time in my life that I began to know my dad. We would go to dinner together to talk. For the first time I felt “special” in his presence and we learned about one another as if meeting for the first time. On one of these encounters, I had to question him about why he had stopped wearing his bullet-proof vest to work; information leaked by my mother.

His answer, as always, was matter-of-fact and seemingly unemotional, but it spoke volumes to me about the man beneath the shell. He couldn’t imagine a life without my mother and couldn’t figure out how to support us and himself simultaneously. “There are organizations and funds for situations like these and you would all be taken care of.” The statement was not that of a martyr, but that of a silent and practical man who loved his family without words.

Friday moved painfully forward.
This could not happen like this.
I needed time.

Perhaps I did not need years or months or weeks, but I needed to be face to face with my father; to look into his tired green eyes and slowly but surely crack the shell. I needed to speak the words that he couldn’t say and that I needed to; even if I spoke for both of us.

The call came; no surgery took place. After the exploratory procedure, it was determined that he had an aneurism. In addition, two of the three former by-passes were completely shut down and the third blocked in several places. His kidneys were failing due to lack of oxygen. The team consulted and waited until Saturday to present their findings. “We can send you home and you can wait it out; an unknown amount of time, or we can go in and attempt to remove the aneurism and repair the by-pass; the chances of your surviving the surgery are very limited. Think about it,” they told him.

“There is nothing to think about,” my dad told them, “schedule the surgery.” His feelings were sure, his desires clear; I will either return to some kind of normal life, or I will go.

My flight is booked for 8am on Monday.

I am grateful.

Grateful that I am well enough to travel.

Grateful that we need not make decisions on his behalf.

Grateful that I have the opportunity of a lifetime.

Thank you for your prayers.

PRAYER REQUEST

My dad's surgery is at 11:oo am today.

Prayers for strength

Prayers for healing

Prayers for time

thanks

MOTHERSPEAK

Zip your coat or you’ll catch pneumonia!
Eat your crust; it will make your hair curly.
Finish your dinner; there are kids starving in Europe.

As my mother’s children, we were well versed in ‘Motherspeak.’ She herself grew up understanding Motherspeak; my grandmother’s wisdom was even more colorful. In the pre-Google era of innocence, we tolerated this information with scrutiny, yet the hint of possible truth kept us erring on the side of caution. Mothering in the post Google ‘information age’ has let to the abandonment of some of these hand-me-down gems, and surely the modification of others.

Some of my mother’s expressions were clear at face value. The cause and effect was obvious: open coat equals pneumonia. Others required a decoding of sorts. “If I have to stop this car….” was always open-ended and left for interpretation. None of us really wanted to find out the end of that sentence. We did not, however, question that an end was impending. In fact, we didn’t question most of these statements and when my mother said she had eyes on the back of her head, we never dreamed of rummaging around her curly scalp to see.

As we grew older, some of this Motherspeak required sophisticated decoding. My mom had incredible non-verbal skills with ‘looks’ that carried the same weight as words. “Don’t you think you’ll be cold?” she’d ask with raised eyebrows and bulging eyes, chin lifted slightly in my direction. This translated to “That blouse is too revealing and don’t you dare walk out of the house like that.”

My mom was amazing. She was always there to take us where we needed to go, see to it that we had all of the tools for life, and made us tow the line. Oh yes, my mom was tough! Looking back now, I see that she took her job seriously and did what she was supposed to do. Still, as I rebelled through my teenage years, like every other kid my age, I thought she was ridiculous, knew nothing and didn’t understand me.

Her skills in the area of ‘mother's intuition’ meant she was all knowing, all the time. She knew when we needed help and when to let us struggle. When something was wrong, she could see through our bravado. This seemingly psychic intuition made it harder to rebel in adolescence. Although I swore as teenager I would never be a mother like her, I have become a mother exactly like her. I laugh when I hear myself saying the same things she did and realize that my kids will not ‘get it’ until they wear parent shoes of their own.

Along with being fluent in this very important language and psychically intuitive, she became a skilled medical Para professional. Raising three reckless sons determined to challenge all odds, she developed the ability to call the doctor and let him know exactly how many stitches he would need to put in their chin, elbow or other ripped body part. It was a skill that came through experience and like my mother; I know when to call the doctor and when to wait things out. I can tell a child’s temperature with my cheek to their temple within a half of a degree and can spot a fake stomachache from a real one immediately. I am proud of my ability to diagnose with 90% accuracy, but this medical wisdom, I have discovered, is a gift reserved only for my children.

Last Monday, I began to feel ill late in the day. Being an Irish female, I opted to ignore this impending illness and pushed forward. Chills by bedtime and 100 degree temperature flourishing to 102 by morning meant I was not succeeding. Having ingested a more than sufficient supply of ibuprophin, I trudged out on Tuesday to keep an appointment for an inspection. I made it home by mid day and crawled defeated to the couch.

“You better call the doctor,” my mother’s voice said on the phone. “And what do you mean you went to work? You need to rest! "

“Probably Just a cold Mom, maybe the flu; no big deal,” I tell her between coughs, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll call the doctor if I’m not better.”

“Well…” her voice trails off, the non verbal translation, "Fine…don’t listen to your mother…you’re going to make it worse."

Wednesday morning I was 102.5 with an unrelenting cough, my head splitting open at the top. A fistful of ibuprophin for breakfast, I attempted to sit to type the report I was now obligated to and battled with my self about calling the doctor. I hated wasting their time and my money just to hear that I had a virus.

“Just checking in,” my mother says, “You sound worse! You’d better call the doctor, it sounds like pneumonia!”

Yes and kids are starving somewhere in the world because I didn’t finish my dinner. No need to over react. Still, a twenty dollar co-pay was a small price to pay to hear the words virus, giving me the ‘See Mom, I know a few things myself’ opportunity.

“Don’t make me come up there!” She says in her most serious tone from North Carolina. There was no arguing this one. I know that tone. It was the same as “If I have to stop this car…” and I did not want to find out the ramifications.

“Hi Mom, you may not say I told you so. I went to the doctor. It is pneumonia.”

“Hmmm.” Was all she said; Motherspeak for "See, you should listen to your mother.” Silent lecture behind us, I could almost hear the gears shift from ‘mother lecture’ to ‘mother nurture.’ “Do you want me to come up?”

“No Mom, I’m fine,” words I later wish I could take back. Family members began to fall like dominos: intestinal bug, head cold, strep, leaving only my fifteen-year-old unscathed. It is eight degrees as he dashes for the door in hopes of catching the bus in his usual ‘I’m too cool for a coat’ attire.

“Put on a coat, you’ll catch pneumonia!” I rasp behind him, feebly attempting to exercise my authority. He pauses, eyebrows raised and looks at me out of the tops of his eyes; a look translated to "You with pneumonia are going to give me health advice?” and barrels out the door.

Perhaps I haven’t quite mastered Motherspeak.

THREE WISHES

The lesser of two evils is never an easy choice. Evil is never a good option. There are no good options for my dad as the dreaded day approaches. I worry and I pray and I remember.

My dad is a stoic man; strong, reliable… a rock, really. As a child, I saw him most often in his blue police uniform, stripes and pins, badged and official. He wore his weapon and his duty proudly. He never seemed tired or deterred to me. These flashes of my crime fighting dad were of his coming home or leaving, often sleeping when the world was busy and alert when the world slept. For thirty-five years he worked the streets of a crime ridden city.

When he was at home, he usually busied himself with some job or another. He was an efficient man and made good use of his time. He had a workshop in the basement of our house where he cut and hammered out leather holsters and belts; a very successful sideline business that he so wanted me to learn and to take over. When it came time to sew the leather together to make a holster, he would summons the nearest available family member to sit across from him to hold his project steady while he methodically pushed the wooden-handled needle through and back, over and over creating machine-like perfection; every piece a custom work of art. These would have been good times for chatting, but he was a man of few words. I often wondered if he was thinking inside and why his thoughts were not like mine; always bursting to be let out.

My dad was a problem solver and a do-it-your-self-er. He insisted that we too, grew up capable of doing things ourselves. We needed to pay for our own cars and had to know what everything was under the hood. As the only daughter of his four children, he didn’t cut me any slack in this area. In fact, I remember how he insisted that I learn to change my own oil. I’m not talking about ‘checking and filling’ the oil, but actually draining and changing it. As I lay beneath my 1970 silver Vega with black oil drip, drip, dripping on my cheek and gravel grinding into my elbows, I managed to convince him there were actually honest mechanics in the world and I would risk being taken advantage of in trade for never being dripped on again.

My dad patrolled the streets of the city that I called home while living in college, always nearby with help and a lecture when I ran out of gas, got a flat tire or in some other way needed rescuing. I thought my dad was invincible until 1983. Just before my final exams, I received the call that my dad was in the hospital. Chest pains. He was 50 years old.

I remember so clearly the feeling of panic when they said my brother should come home from his military service. I also remember the strong crooked smile on my dad’s face, attempting to upstage his fear when the doctors came in the room. My dad lay in a blue and white checked hospital gown; funny how the young and old, powerful and powerless all look vulnerable in them. Machines monitered and spoke messages to the doctor in a language we did not understand.

“Got any plans tonight?” the doctor asked, compassion on his young face.

“No, I don’t think so,” my dad answered, trying to appear casual.

“Good, in that case, were going to do a little surgery.” I watched my sure-footed father, smile never wavering, nod and answer questions with a shaky, frightened voice. I think I saw his eyes look misty, but perhaps it was the water in my own.

“By pass... open heart...” the words were a blurry noise, but I was fixated on the crystal clear look of fear in my dad’s eyes and I was terrified. My mom, the other pillar of strength in my world seemed shaken, disoriented. My brothers and I took over making phone calls and doing the busy things that keep the seams glued tightly together. As if nothing bad could happen if we tied all the ends tight.

The waiting was awful. Sitting and pacing, reading and praying. Scratchy striped couch fabric and blue pleather chairs became our new living room and the hours ticked by. Triple bypass surgery and then post-op intensive care. It was in the intensive care unit that I saw my hero with tubes and wires coming from everywhere, arms strapped to the bed to keep him from pulling out the tube that was down his throat. Machines blinked and beeped and dripped. He seemed to be choking. I squeezed hard at the tears stinging in my eyes and pushed back at the lump squeezing up in my own throat. I imagined what it would be like to be choking on that tube and not be able to tell anyone or move to pull it out. I tried hard not to picture what that would feel like and yet I ran the thought through over and over in my head, building my own panic. I wondered desperately if they knew he was choking as they read the machines and poked around with charts.

The waiting was endless.

My dad recovered.

He was too strong to let a heart attack stop him. Chest wired back together, he attempted to appear good as new. But he was not good as new. Life would be lived differently now: desk job and medication, no more smoking. Life took on a new normal, but returned to a regular rhythm.

My parents divorced some ten years later and my dad retired to Florida. He had always wanted to live in Florida with its year round good weather and Tiki bars. He adjusted to this new life fairly quickly. He remarried and found happiness.

While golfing and enjoying his new life, his heart continued to decline in small, unnoticeable attacks. He had a stroke several years ago. He started to slow down.

Three years ago the doctors said surgery was necessary.
Three years ago the doctors said he would likely not survive surgery.
Three years ago they decided he could go another three years on medication.
Three years is up.

He can no longer golf. He can no longer walk to the mail box. His heart operates at only twenty percent. Last week his only brother died. He made the three hour trip to his brother’s house the day he died. He made the three hour trip back for his doctor’s appointment. He told us he was having a procedure this Friday to look for blockages. He did not tell us about the surgery that would follow; doesn’t want to worry us. He needed two blood transfusions to ready himself for his procedure.


Three hour trip for the funeral.
Three hour trip back.


Three more days until his procedure.
Three more days and we can’t tell him that we know.

I wish I could rewind.
I wish I could stop time.
I wish for three more years.

WINTER'S WAIT

Year in and year out, my father would complain about the doldrums of winter. The cold wasn’t really the issue. He is a man of insurmountable will power. I seldom remember him wearing gloves or a coat. The exterior temperature was merely mind over matter; you can only feel cold if you let yourself. The snow in the driveway, however, was something he could not will away; just another chore in the too long to do list. Having made a permanent migration to the sunny haven of Florida, he now speaks of leaving behind not just the chore of shoveling, but the dirt. He hated the sand encrusted embankments that followed every snow.

For fifteen years now, we have shared a light-hearted joust over the weather. Dad calls to gloat after every big snow storm or when we reach sub zero in the north. He used to send newspaper clippings of his never-changing forecast, boasting of running his air-conditioner on his 85 degree winter days. My repose is always the same; “You don’t know what you’re missing, Dad!” When a freshly fallen snow dresses earth in a delicate white robe and silence downs out life’s usual noise, it is one of God’s greatest magic tricks. I remember one winter where the storm cycle was every three or four days, each time a new blanket nearly a foot deep, eliciting many phone calls from the Deep South. I clung tightly to my child-like thrill of being snowed in, not allowing a point to be scored by the heat.

This year, however, winter feels different. I have a real and tangible lust for spring to arrive. Snow has thus far been left out of the forecast and as winters go, it has been most mild. Perhaps the trouble is it is simply not cold enough. When the weather man speaks of snow, it is in showers, resulting in less than a dusting, quickly sipped off by the sun like cinnamon on the top of cappuccino. My allergy to sameness finds me congested in the dead brown earth.

I look to my gardens like a child to the Christmas tree, anticipation building to open what lies beneath. The mild weather reveals little green points of hope, teasing me as I know I must endure more than 70 dreary days until they burst to life. Endless days of gray and rain and even the sun seems to have vacated to somewhere less dormant. Dispositions reflect the dismal weather and depression seems as contagious as the flu. So what is the point of living in the North?

I suppose, like every difficult trying chapter our lives write, we are strengthened by the trials. Never being deprived of anything, we are left incapable of appreciating, really being grateful for the abundance. It is being hungry that makes us delight in eating, being tired that makes sleep so refreshing; being lonely that makes friendship so precious. No one can appreciate a flower or the smell of fresh cut grass quite like we in the north, and that is the point of living here.

I am, in many ways, like a tulip bulb, needing my period of dormancy. I feel my roots stir beneath the surface just a little on the warmer days, other wise, lying in wait, storing my energy for that moment when all comes back to life. The thrill of seeing it come back, just as promised, is a feeling unmatched by any other. Sometimes, the wait seems longer, almost unbearable, but sorry Dad, I am a tulip at heart and will remain forever seasonal.

VISIT ON THE BRIDGE

G’night Mom.”

“Good night Trev,” I answer without really looking up.

“Mom… will you tuck me in?”

I stop putting away the last of the day and raise my eyes; his big blue eyes meet mine, morphing before me from little boy to young man. A handful of months from teenager, he has been the typical distant being, pushing away for independence. His cherub face, round and sweet, is now positioned eye to eye with me. It was the same face really; one that lights up like Christmas when he smiles. He stands smirking, ready to brush the idea off if necessary.

“Of course I will,” I answer, being casual about grabbing any little bit of mothering allowed on the brink of adolescence. Trevor lopes up the stairs and hops into his bed pulling the red and blue quilt up under his chin. Stepping through the maze of clothing and debris, I suppress the urge to comment on the surrounding disaster of his room, not wanting to spoil the moment with too much mothering.

Looking at him grinning, this boy/man, I realize that Trevor has always been grown up to me. From the time he was a toddler, he was self assured, confident in his direction and always ready to take on a challenge. He taught himself to read, tie his shoe and use the computer. I drift back to memories of corn silk white blonde hair and saucer sky blue eyes that could switch from intense to sparkling in a snap.

I remember the serious eyes waking me one morning when I felt them inches from my face. “Mom,” he whispered, “Are you awake?” I opened one eye to meet his, his face barely the height of my bed.

“I guess I am,” I mumbled.

“Are you eighteen?” he asked; chin low and big eyes looking up through the bowl cut bangs.

“Yes.” I answered. “Just eighteen,” I lied.

“Good, this man wants to talk to you.” he pushed the phone to my ear. My three and a half year old, take charge guy had called the 800 number on the television commercial to order himself ‘Little Bear.’ “He said you have to be eighteen,” he explained head bent and nodding.

Trevor saw no need to depend on anyone and handled obstacles easily. Several months prior, while waiting to see his older brother off to kindergarten, Trevor heard my neighbor and I discuss the speed of the construction trucks passing by our house and both vowed to make a police report. Shortly after, while doing the breakfast dishes, my little man appeared, phone in hand, “Mom, the police want to talk to you. I told them about the trucks.” He held the phone forward, brows pulled together, proud of himself for calling 911.

In spite of being ever-ready to be a grown up, Trevor has always been kind and thoughtful of others, particularly me. His older brother was turning six and was beginning to let me know that I was not to kiss him in public and that he wasn’t a little kid anymore. I had read a book called Raising Sons and knew that this was a natural progression; a necessary step for boys in the process of becoming men. The author described an imaginary bridge that must be crossed and in order to be ready for that, a boy needs to come out from beneath his mother's wing; separating himself from her in order to make the slow journey across the bridge . I was prepared for this separation, but did not anticipate it happening so soon. My oldest was wiggling out with exuberence. One day I blurted out loud in exasperation, “Oh my goodness he’s crossing the bridge!”

“What bridge Mom?” Trevor asked, climbing up onto the bottom of my bed.

“The man bridge, honey,” I said, feeling his sweet concern.

“Am I gonna cross the man bridge, too?” he asked, trying to mask eager delight.

“No!” I answered dramatically, “I won’t let you go. Not for a long time!”

Trevor lifted his eyes with serious eyebrows, and then sparkled into a smile.

“I know! You can come with me!”

“Oh no pal, it’s not allowed,” I said, worrying that I was creating male identity problems. “When it’s time for you to cross, you will be ready and so will I. I’ll wave to you from here,” I smiled, waving.

“Mom,” Trevor said in a big deep voice, sounding like Froggy on The Little Rascals.

“Oh no! You crossed the bridge!”

“Just kidding,” Trevor giggled and rolled on the bed delighted.

“Mom,” Froggy voice.

“Oh no!” I moaned, hand to my cheek.

“Just kidding!” he teased. Melting softly, Trevor touched my arm, “When I cross the bridge Mom, I’ll come back over to visit you, OK?”

“Thanks Trev,” I kissed the top of his head. A smile spread across his lips and off he ran.

I sit now on the edge of the bed, looking at the same little boy, well on his way across and close to the threshold of manhood. True to his word, I know that I am tucking in a little visit from the far side of the bridge.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

I’m not really a fan of New Year’s Eve. Very few of them, other than my husband’s marriage proposal, were monumentally memorable. For some reason, I have always felt like an outsider looking in.

As a child, I remember some house parties that my parents had; loud and crowded in the days when everyone, except my mother, smoked. The smell of cigarettes and the sound of laughter were irresistible lures to sneak peeks of the goings on from our banished bedroom prisons.

Throughout high school, babysitting offered a different outsider view. Grown-up couples, adorned in their slickest eveningwear left with hurried instruction, taking the excitement out into the night with them. Alone with sleeping children, it was me and the TV, observing celebrations around the globe, culminating of course with Time Square, Dick Clark and ball-dropping kisses between happy beautiful people.

By the time I was in college, I had taken waitress work to help pay my way and New Year’s Eve was, of course, big bucks. This view was almost like being actually “in” the celebration; certainly closer than smoky cracks in the bedroom door or the 2 dimensional view of the television; 3 D live people in their finery, laughing and toasting at my fingertips. Adorned with apron, a tray and a pocket full of money, it served as a decent passage of old year to new. But still, the feeling of being just over the threshold of insider lingered.

I do remember a black velvet, dance-all-night evening while dating my husband, followed the next year by a house party with good friends, good champagne, and a confetti strewn, one-kneed marriage proposal at midnight; I was indeed ‘inside’ the celebration. The eighteen years between then and now have seen the tamer side of the Holiday. There was the pregnant year, the new baby year, another pregnant year… and house parties that ranged from racy to reserved.

Having children led me out of the 9-5 business world and back to waitressing and therefore, New Year’s Eve droned on year after year as a lucrative, unceremonious work event. In the restaurant business, it is known as amateur night; people paying too much for too little and trying too hard to appear happy. As an adult viewing closely from the outside, it was nowhere that I wanted to be. Dining rooms were filled with people, often out because they were supposed to be, complaining of waiting too long and allowing their unhappiness to push through the make-up and jewelry. I was cynically happy not to be among them.

Last year was my first New Year’s Eve home in many years. We dined quietly on exquisite food with only a few visitors and whooped it up with our children at midnight. I’d be quite content with that celebration from year to year, but 2006 held more in store for me.

My husband’s territory as a regional manager includes the casinos; big accounts with big expectations. It was where we were expected to be on this most celebrated of evenings. It is not my cup of tea. Still, in spite of the hundreds of reasons I thought of not to go, dinner in one of the restaurants and a VIP table at their finest nightclub was the plan.

My first obstacle was deciding what to wear. The casino is a catch all from Salvation Army to Ultra tacky; from jeans to jackets and in no way measure of a dress code. The restaurant was casual, the nightclub… well, a nightclub. “You know, nightclub dress,” answered my husband.

“Actually, no I don’t know, as the last nightclub I recall was before we were married.” I pointed out to Mr. Business traveler.

“You know… sexy… night club.” I looked in the mirror and realized that ‘sexy’ was not an adjective that I could apply to my body this particular year and added a mental note to boost diet and exercise to # 1 and 2 instead of #5 and 6 on the resolution list.

Settling on a black sequin jacket and a pair of slimming black pants, I reviewed once again the instructions for the evening with my kids. My oldest chided me with mumblings of the ‘gynourmous’ house party he had pending (at my house) and I carefully put all systems in place. The youngest would judge the elders on who was the kindest sister-sitter (to whom there would be a monetary award.) The middle child was secretly told that he was actually in charge and being paid to report any indiscretions or un-authorized visitors. The eldest was once again warned the old people in the neighborhood had nothing to do but watch our house.

I suppose if you believe that we attract what we put out, I fully deserved the evening at hand. My first worry was the potential drunk drivers and the hour to and from our destination. My second worry settled in as the casino property loomed on the horizon. At least one hundred thousand people clamored into the glowing oasis for an evening of indulgence; drinking, gambling, and wild behavior; the perfect target for a terrorist attack. Yes, chemicals would surely be released into the ventilators at midnight and this potentially the end for me. I mentally added #3 to my resolution list; to stop watching realistic fiction on television

After circling the parking lot for forty minutes and following anyone possibly leaving like obvious stalkers, we squeezed into a spot on the roof top; the farthest spot from the action and the last to make it out in the event of a hurried evacuation. My paranoia heightened as we entered the building and I noted the absolute lack of security of any kind. I refused to allow myself to start looking for bulky jackets or unattended suitcases and called my children to change the pace of my insanity.

“Just calling to say we are here and that I’ll check in with you guys now and then, since it is loud and I may not hear my phone ring!” I bubbled enthusiastically.

“Mom, I think I’m going to throw up.” my little one whimpered. I instructed her brother on what to do and who to call if the dreaded feeling turned to reality and promised to call back soon.

After passing through a sea of people in the smoky, clanging, humming, flashing and endless circle of gambling, we arrived at the restaurant to meet my husband’s colleague and wife. The restaurant, a steakhouse, was the finest on the property and I was relieved to be in a more comfortable environment. I checked in one more time with my children before the four of us were ushered to our table, only to learn that the little one’s tummy had recovered and the dog had diarrhea on the rug. I made a note not to check back again until after dinner.

The food, wine and conversation were fulfilling and I had relaxed about having to spend this evening out. That is, until I made a trip to the ladies room. Somewhere during our two and a half hours at the table, the crowd had transformed. There was, of course, a line in the ladies room, but with three stalls serving two large dining rooms, this would be expected even on a typical day. I was only 5th or 6th in line and settled in to wait, taking in the sights around me. It seems the girls had all either ripped their shirts or had forgotten some portion of their attire as their tops were all open to their navels and a slight bend left or right resulted in an instant wardrobe malfunction. Perhaps that was the function? Breasts were falling out everywhere!

The girl in front of me in line had slowly sunken down to her knees and was in what looked like a head down prayer position. She spoke in drunkeneese, explaining to her breast-flashing counter part that she had only had a half of a ham sandwich and four martinis. I wondered who would try to balance 4 martinis with half a sandwich and prayed that she wouldn’t get sick right there in front of me. After all, I was enjoying being one hour away from the vomit and diarrhea scene at home.

Eventually, it was her turn for the bathroom and she made her way with no less effort than a pin ball in a machine, bouncing from sink to wall to friend and eventually landing in the stall. I was so fixated on the scene in front of me that I had not realized that guys had entered the ladies room. “Anyone want to use the men’s room, we’ll hold the door!” I looked down at my sequin jacket to reassure myself that I had not time-warped back to college.

Back at the table, we relinquished plates full of fabulous food to the waitress, unable to eat anymore. I regretted not being able to take the beautiful steaks home to my bottomless teenagers, but realized that hauling bags of meat to a fancy VIP nightclub table probably broke an etiquette rule. We paid the $500 dinner tab, making me wonder if bags of meat would really be so bad in a nightclub, and swiftly exited at 11:40 to our final destination.

Approaching the nightclub, men looking like secret service waited at the end of a long, red glowing hallway, talking quietly into headphones. Our VIP status came from my husband’s company spending an enormous amount of money to secure one of these special tables, held for celebrities and high rollers. Head nods and escorts, as if we were famous brought us to the place where one year would flip to the next. I knew immediately that I was in trouble as I did not know sign language, and only a deaf person with those skills would have communication abilities here.

The music pounded so loud and hard that my eyeballs vibrated in my head. It took a while before I could even attach a tune to the pounding. My attire, which went from overdressed in the casino to sophisticated in the restaurant, suddenly morphed to ‘over dressed’ in a different way. Clearly I had on way too many clothes to fit in. In fact, the breast flashers in the restaurant bathroom were too modesty dressed. I was instantly glad I did not search for ‘sexy’ in my own closet. It would not have held up here.

As we followed our guide, I was hoping that the VIP table would be in some magically quieter part of the club, but to my shock and dismay, the special tables were located on platforms in the four corners of the dance floor. On these platforms were low bench style couches with tiny tables all snugly nestled around, oh yes, the speakers! These were not ordinary speakers, they dwarfed my kitchen island! In fact, the speakers doubled as little dancing stages were girls randomly came up and gyrated on the six inch, strappy sandals that connected their long legs to their bodies. These were not hired dancers; merely girls out on the town having fun! I must say, the view from the couches left nothing to the imagination. While the girls shook and thrusted and caressed themselves to the music, cameras filmed them and projected their images to a giant screen just above the DJs head; drunken moments of fame.

My husband’s mouth moved and I knew that meant he was talking to me, but making sound of any kind was not possible, so I sat on the couch wondering if I could ask the DJ to turn it down just a little. Champagne was poured and my husband made a second attempt to communicate, this time pulling his head close to mine. I shrugged as if to say I can’t hear you, so he leaned in to my ear and yelled again, this time, not only could I not make out the words, but I was sure my left eardrum was perforated.

Finally, he made some dance moves and pointed to the dance floor which was packed body to body with twenty-five-year-olds. I squinted my eyes in the strobe lights and shook my head no. Through a combination of charades and lip reading, he managed to ask me if I was “old.” I looked at the bottle on the table and wondered if there was enough in there to make any of this seem normal. I opted for the “When in Rome” plan and I tossed back my little glass of champagne and hit the dance floor. The DJ played snippets of retro music between the vulgar contemporary noises. My hearing had finally been damaged enough to make out the words and to even recognize some music from back in the day.

“I wear my sun glasses at night” pulsed through the speakers as my husband made his fingers into upside down circles across his face, earnestly attempting every corny passé dance move ever known as if to intentionally add to the outrageousness. Before long, but not soon enough, it came time for the countdown. I know this only because the numbers were flashing on the screen where the dancing girls had been. I wondered if this is when the nerve gas would come through the vents and wished I was anywhere but there. Just for fun, I clicked my heels together and yelled ‘there’s no place like home!’ No one even noticed, proof positive that we were light years from reality.

The music continued to pound, no Old Langsyne in the house, and dancing and kissing blended into one big throbbing blur. I fought my way to the bathroom, warding off a couple of charade like pick up lines, proving that it was far too dark and drunk in there. I would have lectured the young men that I was old enough to be their mother, but they wouldn’t have heard me.

Back at the VIP couch, I looked at my cell phone and noticed that the kids had called several times. I knew there was no way to call them back, but decided this was as good a time as any to learn how to send a text message. It’s a tricky process to get a whole message typed in there, particularly in a dark and vibrating room, and after I had mine completed, I pressed the wrong button and deleted it. I had endured one hour of madness and finally realized that there was not enough champagne in the building to turn this around. I handed my husband his jacket and headed for the door.

Outside in the casino, I welcomed the smoky air and noticed that I could no longer hear the humming and clanging. I dialed home, but could not hear if anyone answered so I left what may have been a message. In the car, I realized that there were a million crickets chirping loudly in my head. I carefully watched for evidence of drunk drivers and pointed out to my husband every time the speedometer register over 65, although in the blissful state of deafness, I’m sure he did not hear me.

When I awoke in the morning, the crickets were still chirping in my head. “Happy New Year,” my husband said rolling in my direction, “Can you hear me now?”

“Crystal clear,” I answered, “and yes, Sir Dancealot, apparently I am old.”

SHINING LIGHTS

Our children are all gifted with different abilities, different drive and different motivation. Our job is to help them discover their potential and the opportunities afforded them. In this country, the opportunities are abundant. We want to give our children everything they need to be happy and successful.


Living in a town of affluence has offered numerous teachable moments to me. It seems that every day, another massive home is erected, another hummer in the driveway. My children have, on many occasions, inquired as to why their friends have this or that and they don’t; seeing life as ‘not fair.’ My answer is always the same; it depends on which shoulder you look over. Look over this one, and it appears as though you have been short changed, but glance over the other one and see the child who is hungry, friendless or afflicted with and illness, and suddenly you feel rich.

This morning, I watched as 152 girls who had endured unspeakable childhoods were handed an opportunity; one that our children have as a right. A television interview aired displaying the opening of the Oprah Academy in Johannesburg, South Africa. 152 girls ages 11 and 12 crossed the threshold to a new life, a chance, a dream. The faces of these children were remarkable to me. Their lives had consisted of rapes, beatings, losses, hunger and poverty. Many had lost their parents. Many had seen the ugliest side of humanity. And yet, instead of feeling defeated and hopeless, they excelled. These girls had been chosen as leaders; survivors of the unspeakable.

Before the Academy and in spite of their circumstances, they diligently committed to themselves and to their future by excelling in their schools. Some were beaten daily by peers for their accomplishments. Some started and ended each day hungry and slept each night on the floor. Instead of allowing their lights to be extinguished, they somehow burned brighter. Each of them embodied a spirit so strong and rooted in faith; it shone through the dimmest of circumstances. It is remarkably similar to the light that emerged from the lowest of birthplaces; a smelly dirty stable that brought forth hope and truth.

They stood and spoke at the opening ceremony about commitment, hard work and gratitude. They smiled and laughed and showed no signs of the difficult lives and sadness they had known.

When asked what their favorite song was, they unanimously agreed on a song called “Hold On.” It is a song about how to hold onto Jesus when the times are tough. My daughter and I sat glued to the television as the school bus in front of our house came and went. We talked about her “choice” of breakfast and of which pair of shoes to wear and how these girls were lucky if they had any food or shoes at all.

On the drive to school, we talked about the little girl whose home was shown in the interview. It was clear that she was immeasurably grateful to have food and a bed and a chance to learn. She was given the opportunity to take everything God gave her and put it to work and was eager and committed to be the best person she could be. I said that I was sure that because she was given a chance, she was going to make something of her life.

“Wow,” Cadence said staring out the window, “kids here have that chance every day and they don’t even take it.”

Perhaps the difference is that we don’t have to search for opportunities; they are so prevalent and so large that we don’t even see them. In the darkest of places, living means burning as brightly as you can to stay alive and the light of survival is strong.

“I’m going to take all of my chances Mom and be the best I can be!” Cadence said as she closed the van door with a wink and a thumbs up.

Thank you, Oprah, for your compassionate work.

Thank you girls for your light, shining all the way to my daughter.

THE GIVE-AWAY GIRL

Giving makes me happy.
Giving is easy.

I love this time of year. I love to shop and wrap and give; tremendously self-serving as it gives me such happiness to please. I give at church and give to charities and give donations of all sorts: to school functions, fundraiser and such.

I am not selfish.

I love to share.

I model giving to my children and hope to teach them the joys of sharing. One of my children is giving by design. My daughter is the first one to offer help, to take in a stranger, to make everyone feel included.

Cadence was brought into the world with direct instruction from God. I remember debating the recommended tests while Cadence blossomed in my womb. I remember the morning that I discussed the testing relative to my age with my husband. At thirty-seven, it was recommended I have amniocentesis to rule out downs syndrome and other birth defects. We had rejected these tests in the first two pregnancies, knowing the information would not change the course for us. This time, my husband hesitated; suggested perhaps it would be a good idea.

The discussion was unpleasant. I felt divided. I retreated to the shower to clear my head. The hot steam circled and I looked down at my swelling middle, watched the water caress the baby within.

Loudly, a voice spoke in my head, “I created this child. Why are you doubting me?”

Chills covered me in spite of the heat as this voice, not audible, yet louder than thunder filled me.

The voice was not mine.

The thought was not mine.

I dashed dripping down the stairs to the kitchen to inform my husband that I had heard from God. Without hesitation, he nodded, “Skip the tests.”

Cadence has a purpose and I have known that since my shower that morning. She has delighted people with her smile, her friendliness and her exuberance since she was tiny. As a baby, she welcomed all strangers with a smile and offered love to all creatures. She has a bold and brave spirit and compassion for everything; a tiny lady bug trapped in the window and the child at school left out of the game at recess. She is the first to offer when she sees someone in need and is easily moved to tears in hearing of another’s pain.

She quickly and faithfully turns lemons into lemonade. Presented with a problem or disappointment, Cadence automatically turns the adversity over to find a gem beneath. Her cup is always full, her compassion spilling over.

Her gifts, I have always told her, are her big voice and kind heart and God expects her to use them together. Using her big, bold voice without kindness could be hurtful; her compassionate heart kept silent would serve no one. Cadence knows she is commissioned in this way and is never to stand as a spectator to injustice of any kind.

In kindergarten, this natural path revealed a speed bump. I was the mommy helper in Cadence’s class. Her teacher read The Rainbow Fish; a story about a fish who was beautiful and the envy of all. He was happy with his glorious sparkling scales until one day a little fish asked him for one. Shocked and angry, he retreated from the others who coveted his glory and wanted him to share it.

Ultimately, the rainbow fish lived in isolation, unhappy in all his beauty as he had no love. Finally, he decided to share one scale with the little fish who asked. He felt so wonderful watching the delight of the little fish that he shared again and again until he, like all of the others, sported one shiny scale. Messages of sharing and belonging and kindness were discussed and the children were sent to draw and write about a time when they felt that tingling, wonderful warm feeling that came from giving and sharing.

I roamed the room to find children who needed help, careful not to gravitate toward my own. I noticed, however, Cadence sitting, chin in hand, staring at a blank page. She rose and went to her teacher and firmly stated, “I know the feeling you are talking about, but I don’t get that feeling for giving.”

Suppressing humor or judgment, her teacher spoke of examples to help her conj our up that warm and loving feeling. How about when you donate something to charity?

“No,” Cadence clarified, “that’s stuff I don’t need anymore.”

“What about when you share your favorite toys with a friend?”

“Pretty much when I do that, I just am waiting for when I get it back. I don’t get that good feeling you’re talking about.”

Well A+ for honesty.

No speaking the rote the lines expected here! I cringed with the reality that my sweet, helpful, loving, kind child was apparently selfish.

Three years later, Cadence is a precocious and grounded third grader, fortunate enough to be involved with a “Girl’s Group.” This group was formed with the intention of guiding girls to relate on a deeper level, different from typical, clicky third grade style. They come together once a month on a quest for deeper relations with “soul sisters.”

They discuss feelings, relationships and caring while exploring cultures old and new. Native American traditions, cultures from around the world and various religions are intermingled to give the girls a deeper meaning of relationships.

The December meeting was to be about ‘giving.’

The story this time is shared in advance to help the girls understand.

The story, The Giveaway Girl, is about a little girl, the sister of the little drummer boy in Bethlehem, who is anxious and worried about visiting the child laying in a manger. She is worried because she has seen the kings coming with their valuable gifts under the bright star; anxious because she is poor and has nothing to give to this important new comer. Her brother has his drum and will play a song for the baby God. She has nothing to give.

She stands under the blinding star and looking for guidance in the cool night air. She wraps her sweater around her for warmth, seeking inspiration. It is suddenly clear. The sweater, her only beautiful possession made by her late grandmother. She decides that it is filled with love from her and her grandmother. She cuts off the sleeves, mends the remains into a beautiful blanket to warm the baby.

The story touches Cadence and she takes the edge of her pajama sleeve to absorb the tear collecting in the corner of her eye. I then read the commission letter. The girls in the group are to bring something ‘special’ of their own, wrapped anonymously in a bag, to the next meeting to give away. It should be something that is meaningful: a favorite toy or object, perhaps something given by a Grandmother. Cadence begins to pace around her bed, piecing the words together in her mind.

“Mom, I know how this is going to sound and I know that this probably means that I am selfish, but I like my things and I don’t want to give them away!” Our eyes meet and she huffs, tapping her hand on her thigh, “I can’t give away my tamagachi, it’s on its third generation and its part of my family! It would be like you giving me away!” She looks up, brown eyes wide and troubled, “and I can’t give away Alex,” she pleads, cupping the sparkling stuffed turtle in her hands, “he’s like my child.”

“You don’t have to give away your most special thing,” I reassure her, stroking her silky brown hair hanging sadly across her face, “but it should be something meaningful. You have four days to think about it. No need to decide right now.” She hops off the bed renewed and determined to figure out what she can part with.

“Perhaps something from one of your collections,” I suggest. Brown silky hair swishes back and forth as she scans the room. A smile spreads, one finger pointing forward with a head nod and she slips into her dressing room. Quickly she emerges with a vase from her dresser, a dreamy look on her face and in an Academy award-winning voice announces, “This is it. It sits on my dresser and every day when I look at it, it makes me think of all the people who love and care for me.”

I say nothing but gaze at her through the top of my eyes, raising one eyebrow.

“What?” She looks at me, holding the passionate expression a moment longer. “Okay fine it’s not that special but its pretty and I don’t want to give away my special things!”

“Give it some thought,” I say as I stand to leave, “you’ll know the right thing when you find it.”

“Aha!” she bellows as she jumps over her bed and dashes to her desk, “This is it! It’s from you to me and so it has both of our love. I’ll give this!”

My stomach clutches as I swallowd hard and rolling my lips tight to keep the word ‘NO’ inside.

“Really?”

“That?”

She victoriously holds high a huge chunk of amethyst that I had purchased in Newport when I was in college. At the time, I bought it because I believed it was a powerful source of energy. Over the years, it represented many things to me. It has been packed and unpacked, move after move, from this life to that one; from college to marriage, through divorce to independence, from remarriage to mother hood.

It sat, through all phases, in a prominent place in my bedroom as a symbol of hidden beauty. It is proof positive that what appears ordinary, even ugly on the outside, contains beauty and magic inside. Its final role, before I passed it to Cadence, was as a focal point during my labors to deliver these three beautiful children to the world. It only seemed fitting that Cadence, my grand finale who embodies the spirit of finding the gem inside the rock, should be the recipient.

“Are you sure that’s the right thing?” I squeaked out in a voice too high pitched.

“Yep! It’s perfect!”

I breathed deeply, exhaled and managed to say, “Whatever you decide, you have four days.” What else could I say? Wasn’t the lesson being taught how to share and give away something meaningful? What lesson would I teach if I were to say that object was too special? How could I model self-less giving if I restricted her decision? I began to wonder who this lesson was for.

Two days later, Cadence appeared beside me at the kitchen sink, fiddling nervously with her turtle in her hands. “Mom, about this giving thing, I know I am supposed to give away something that is special to me and I know that I will come home with something that is special to some other girl, but if I give a way something that I care about a lot and it means nothing to the other girl, and I take home something of hers that I don’t care about but she’s sad not to have it, what is the point?”

I put down the dish in my hand and looked out the window for an insightful answer. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. What is the point exactly?

For two more days, Cadence pondered her selection and finally landed on a stone angel from her collection. It was from a collection I gave her grandmother over the years who in turn, gave the collection to Cadence. There were two identical angels; twins sitting on opposite ends of the shelf. She decided that this was meaningful because the angel not only came through several special people, but that it had a matching partner which tied her to her soul sister as two parts to a whole.

She came home from the experience with a small dinosaur skeleton that her soul sister won at a science fair. It had meaning to both girls in that they are both lovers of science and animals.

The exchange was successful.

The lessons that came out of that week were profound.

We give in many ways, but it is only giving from the heart that has true meaning.

I could give away all of my possessions and live in poverty, but if the purpose is to be a martyr, to be glorified in self-righteousness, then it is not true.

Giving out of obligation is dove-tailed by resentment. Cadence seemed to know this all along. Giving because you ‘have to’ is void of joy and therefore is an empty gesture. My ‘give-away girl’ is not selfish, but true in her intentions. She gives easily in love and with kindness, but to give without truth of heart is as bad as being selfish.

When we give of ourselves because we care deeply, because we are grateful, because someone is in need, because we want to, that is love and that is true.

True giving makes me happy.

True giving is easy.

Real giving feeds my soul.