Open Book

Sense of Place

Tucked inside my mind, there is a town.

Nestled alongside a mighty, winding river, in a valley that meanders between the Blue Ridge and the Appalachian Mountains, this town is small, its residents nearly familial in their familiarity with one other, with ties that reach back for generations on end. And while it is much more accessible to more populous and cultured cities in the state than it used to be, it has - with near reverent intention - retained a sense of isolated self-containment, a world unto itself.

This is a town of seasons, four of them, each one a spectacular showcase for Mother Nature's talents. The mountains sing to the skies with glorious color in the fall, and wrap the town in the hush of a snow covered blanket when winter makes its way. Farms and gardens explode with lively life, announcing spring, and in the heat of summer, the river sparkles like a sliver of silver, offering respite and relief.

This town is small, but full of vim and vigor. Downtown hums with a steady flow of regulars and the occasional tourist who failed to do his homework thoroughly enough. Proximity to the "big city" makes it an attractive place for the urban sprawlers, out to have it all; and then there are the passers-thru, here on their way to somewhere else. The diner down on Fairlawn does a brisk business, morning, noon and night, and the buildings lining Main and Fifth buzz with a bustle of eclectic activity, keeping the trend of dying business districts at bay.

History has its place here, too, although not in any traditional sense. No great Civil War generals waged battle here, no vast and booming industry was birthed here. The history of this town is as eclectic as its people, preserved and passed down not on white markers along the highway, but through the art of storytelling and keepsake keeping. There is the house where Julia Lloyd was born, and raised, and died, and wrote great volumes of poetry - twenty-three, confirmed - that didn't see the light of day until she'd been gone from this world two decades. There is the jagged gash still visible on the east side of Black Rock Mountain, marking the spot of the great Swinging Bridge tragedy of 1938. There is the painted house at the corner of Fairlawn and Second, an enduring monument to the drug riddled artistic mind of the young Andy Meyer.

The people who live in this town, those who call it home, have also been slow to change. They are comfortable with who they are, and who they know, and where they lay their tired bones at night. They are proud of what they do, and where they're from, and why they stay. They, the people who live in this town, have hopes, and dreams, and destinies to fulfill. They are of their town, and their town is of them, and together, they have forged community.

This town exists in details, known only - for now - to me. Its place can only be found on the map of my imagination, its people only in the population of my mind. But it, and they, are as real as any town I've ever lived, or visited, or passed through on my way to somewhere else, and they draw me in, day after day, begging me to draw them out.

So that's exactly what I've done. Am doing. Drawing this world in words, its stories spilling over themselves onto page after page after endless page.

Tucked inside my mind, there is a town.

And it's a place I'm finding terribly hard to leave behind.

Legacy

In attempting to write a post about my father in the here and now, I found myself overcome with the feeling that it was somehow important to preface current events with some backstory. Important to whom, I cannot say. Me? You? The story itself? I don't really know.

This piece was written in February of 2006. It remains among my favorite things I've ever managed to put into words, less for the actual writing of it than for how deeply its subject took it to heart. Dad keeps a well-worn printed copy of this on the nightstand beside his bed, and thanks me for it, often tearfully, always sincerely, every time we're face to face.

Knowing that he knows? Really, truly knows? Well, it is one of the greatest gifts of my life, both given and received.

______________________

Growing up, I would often find letters tucked beneath my pillow or slipped under my bedroom door. Sometimes to mark a specific event; other times just because there were difficult words, not so easily spoken, that still needed to be said.

I have a smallish wooden box stowed in the recesses of deep dresser drawer that holds every one of them I ever received, my name spelled out across the now frayed envelopes in the familiar, concise block letters of my father's handwriting. From time to time, I revisit the messages he felt compelled to share with me then. The letters have yellowed slightly; the paper has thinned, its well-worn fragility evidence of how often they've been read and re-read in the years since they were written.

I read one, written when I was thirteen, and am gifted with humility, reminded that I once walked many miles in the same shoes my son is currently wearing, trampling on my parents' hearts in the process. My empathy comes naturally. I've been where he is.

Certain habits such as your inclination to not carry through projects to the end and your reluctance to use all of your God-given talents have never bothered me as much as it has other folks. (read, your mother) The reason is that I know youth is not an easy experience and my own background was much the same. However, just as it happened with me, you will wake up one day with the desire to accomplish certain goals. And just like me, you will succeed.

I read another, written on the occasion of my 17th birthday, and am fortified with confidence that my perpetual hopefulness is less a desperate clench than it is a determined grasp.

I want to bring attention again to the bits of advice that I gave you some time ago. I notice that you still have them posted on your bulletin board. I might just add one other pearl of wisdom - your Mom and brother are precious people and should be handled accordingly.

Now that your 17th birthday is near, I know that you realize your Dad has many shortcomings. It is good that you understand people are imperfect. But even so, Jenny, I look forward to our future relationship. I do not expect you to share all of your secrets with old baldy...Daddies are not for that. I do expect that communication lines are to be kept open always. Dads are there when their little girls need help. Dads may be able to give daughters another perspective on things. And most importantly, your Dad wants to do everything in his power to assist you through all of your times - happy, sad, gentle, or tough.

Together, we can rise above anything.

I read yet one more, written during the particularly delightful height of my teenage angst, and understand that leading with your heart does not have to be a sign of weakness. Instead, if done well and with consistency, it can be an impenetrable position of strength.

This is just a short note to tell you that you have been a real joy to me and that I am so very proud to be your Dad. We have our moments of happiness, sadness, friendship and disappointments to remember. We've each learned a lot about each other. I believe you have so much potential to lead a full and satisfying life. You are an intelligent, beautiful, and sensitive young lady. Much of your future depends on what and how you do of your own free will. If you will listen to what I have to say for the next few lines, I'll try to give you a few things I've learned that might help you as you continue to grow up into a lovely young woman.

- When faced with a decision of any consequence, stop and ask yourself, "What is the right thing to do?" Then do it.

- Life means more when you are doing something for someone else.

- You have tremendous influence on those younger than you. Your brother looks up to you. Keep this in mind as you make your way.

- Don't be afraid to show your love and respect for people.

- When you give 100%, the results will please you.

- Keep God ever present in your heart.

I wish you only goodness in the difficult years ahead. I'll try to always be there when you need me. But if I am not, try to recall this letter and all the love with which it was written.

I shared some of Dad's letters with my mother once, in a fit of sentimentality. She read a few, then handed them back, a misty eyed smile on her face. "Do you know what he was telling me during all of this? He'd say, 'It was you and me before she came along, and it will be you and me long after she is on her own. But we will get through it now, because it's you and me today.' I've never forgotten those words. I even remember where we stood and what he was wearing when he said them."

He is a wise man, my dad. The words he wrote to me resonate as clearly and as powerfully today as they did all those years ago, albeit for different reasons, viewed through the prism of an altered perspective.

Then, they were intended as a guiding hand as I stumbled through the maze of youth.

Now, I read them as a guiding hand as I stumble through the maze of parenthood.

Lessons from the past, applied to the present. I think this is his legacy to me, the one I'm meant to continue on. And I believe in it, with every fiber of my being.

Together, we can rise above anything.

Love is a very difficult thing to explain. It is also a very difficult bond to break. I am so pleased that you know I care about you and yours much more than some can imagine.

Was it not smart for God to make such a special thing out of the relationship between Dads and their little girls?

All my love, Dad

Was it not brilliant, indeed.

Then again, the better question might be: aren't I one of the lucky ones?

Turn, turn, turn.

I am a big fan of living in a place with four distinct seasons held neatly in the loose container of a year. A quarter of spring, followed by summer; three months of fall, with winter nipping at its heels. The changes of the earth rife with symbolism of the cycle of life, from birth to death and back again.

Spring. When the world gets reborn, sprouting new growth and curiosity. Subtle warmth nudging its way in, breathing expectation into cold, tired weariness, until all that was old is suddenly new again.

Summer. When the beauty and vigor of youthful exuberance fills the air. Days are longer, and busier, and full of the enthusiasm of wide-eyed optimism, promising that anything is possible.

Winter. When the passing of a year begins to show in the aging of the trees and the ensuing barren landscape. The quietest time of year, and slow; the peaceful respite it affords settling around us like a fleece blanket against the fierceness of the climate. The intimate, cozy wisdom of acceptance replacing anticipation as we understand that to everything, there is a season.

And Fall.

Every time the calendar flips a page and a new season emerges, I claim it to be my favorite, in the heat of the moment.

But Fall.

I love Fall. I identify with this season like no other. There is a maturity, a comforting coming of age feeling to this time of year, when the white hot spontaneity of summer passes into a more serene intentionality. There is a deep, abiding appreciation of where we've been, what we've done, accompanied by the time to pause for breath and note it. Frivolity evolves into the more intensely felt joy; wild abandon gives way to a more settled sense of purpose.

Fall is a time of reflection. Of translating experience into knowledge, and trading the ambivalence of youth for certitude that comes only with the tests of time. It's the season we give thanks, for family and friends, for sustenance and life. It's the season of abundance.

Soon enough, the nights will begin to shift, and the subtle, bitter chill of winter will send the briefest shiver of a reminder through our bones. The rich hues of autumn will begin to fade; the days will grow shorter still, darker and colder. The season will turn again, and so will we.

For today, though, Fall is here.

I can feel it in my soul.

Page 17

I glanced up from the book in my lap in time to see her round the corner and stop in front of the gilded mirror hanging on the wall over the corner table. As I knew she would, she stared into her own visage, turning her head this way and that, transforming her face into a variety of expressions while studying her own reactions. I watched her in silence, equal parts amused and transfixed, her vain habits no longer surprising, but always a fascination.

"Do you ever wonder what it must be like?" she asked. I wasn't at all sure she even knew I was in the room, and it occurred to me that even if she was aware of my presence, odds were fairly high she was engaging in conversation with her own reflection.

Still. One could never be sure with Lara. So I inhaled deeply and responded.

"I wonder about a good many things," I said, hearing the condescension in my own voice and regretting it almost immediately. "What is it that we're wondering about in this instance, exactly?"

She didn't acknowledge me physically, choosing instead to let my smugness hang between us while she leaned toward the mirror to adjust her lipstick, long enough for the air in the room to grow thick and acrid with age old tension. Finally, she brushed her thick brown curls from her shoulder with a practiced flip of a perfectly manicured hand and pirouetted to face me. Our eyes locked, and her ruby red lips curled into a cynical smile.

"Do you ever wonder," she repeated and then, whether in a rare moment of self-doubt or merely for effect, she paused. "Do you ever wonder what it must be like to be truly happy?"

I held her gaze. I waited.

"I imagine you must wonder," she continued. "It would be wholly unlike you not to be curious about a thing you know so very little about."

I turned back to my book, head down, hoping it would be enough to let her believe she'd won some ambiguous point and could go on her way, a fresh victory tucked into her coat pocket. But she didn't move, not right away. She maintained her position, staring at me, through me, around me, anywhere but into me - anywhere but there - until at last she grew bored of her own little game.

Only then did she turn on her heel and leave the room, making her way down the hall, around the corner, and out onto the porch, front door slamming behind her.

And only then, when I finally exhaled, did I realize I'd been holding my breath.

_______________________

She had loved me once. Purely and unconditionally.

She had trusted me once. Fiercely and completely.

But that was when she was too young to know better.

A faded once upon a time, when she still held the gift of blind faith, and I still held the pretense of believability.

She loved me once, a long lost lifetime ago.

Fragments

It was an ordinary day. No special occasions or unusual events; there weren't even any especially interesting undertones to it. Just more of the same, with some leftover yesterday spilling onto the platter of today and enough hints about tomorrow to force her to keep thinking ahead.

Same shit, different day, that's what her uncle used to say. Of course, he was never one you'd call optimistic about things, but still, the words ring true about more days than not, and they fit this particular day like a well-tailored suit fits a well-cut man.

At least they did until the lunch crowd cleared out and he was the only one left sitting there. Because then, suddenly, the ordinary day was anything but, and life took her for a ride down a road she'd never even bothered to notice was there.

_____________________________

Every now and then, she'd look over her shoulder in hopes of catching a glimpse of his face straining in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. She never caught him looking, but there was something in the hopefulness of the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this one time would be the time she would. They would lock eyes, and smile shyly at each other, and look away, at the same time. She'd be blushing, a thing she'd know because she could feel the heat rising to the surface of her cheeks. But when she'd finally dare to glance his way again, he wouldn't be blushing at all. He'd be looking at her, with an expression filled with a sure confidence big enough to carry the both of them forward to that next step, to chance a real "hello".

This went on for months in a one sided, unrequited affair of the heart built to a crescendo like a rolling wave, broken only when a real "hello" finally did come, changing everything, eliminating the barrier of the unknown, removing the aura of mystery that was, at the heart of it, the true attraction all along.

_________________________________

She has the most beautiful old soul, he said softly, almost to himself. The man in the baggy jeans and mud splattered Carhartt jacket perched the stool next to him nodded in muted agreement. It was true, as far as those things go. If souls do show the wisdom of their years, hers, sage and bold, had aged gracefully.

He wondered if her soul would recognize his when the time came; if souls had identities, an individuality of spirit, making them easily known to each other once we left our inhibitions behind.

He hoped so.

And while he was busy hoping, she was busy stealing glimpses into the deepest recesses of his heart, hoping against hope to catch him looking back.

Mrs. Wise

She was old when I was young. That fact alone lent her an aura of mystery whenever I would see her, stoic and still, staring out from behind the mesh of her battered screen door in her housecoat and cat eye glasses.

Her house was a tiny perfect box, covered in dull gray shingles, with eleven gray concrete stairs leading the way to the tiny square porch. I remember thinking that the stairs were steep; too steep for someone so old to be parading up and down with any regularity, certainly. I remember thinking, maybe she stands at the doorway, staring at the stairs, wishing.

I walked by her tiny box-like house several times a day back then, back in those days when my feet could take me anywhere I wanted to go, and often did. I would pass by on my way to school, too early in the morning, even then, for me to be concerned with anything more than putting one foot in front of the other to propel me in the right direction. At that time of day, her front door was always closed, a deep red gash against the drabness, and I would wonder sometimes, when I could be bothered to think ancillary thoughts, if she were still asleep.

But the walk home was a different story. A myriad of stories, really. The afternoon hours usually found me sleep walking my way toward home, a state conducive to weaving an elaborate web of daydreams. Every day, I would round the corner looking for her. Every day, there she'd be, standing behind the mesh of her battered screen door, looking out.

And every day, I wondered what she was looking for, or what she saw, and the stories came, filling in the empty blanks with smooth broad strokes, like crayons dancing on a page.

Alive, Again

A re-post of an old favorite. An attempt to bring some fresh air into the currently stagnant bloggy atmosphere around here. A fond hope that everything old can help make some things feel new again. A bit of momentary self-inspiration, just what the doctor ordered.

Because I tend to forget sometimes, but this aged post serves to remind:

If I'll only pay attention, it might surprise me to discover that the words I really need to hear have been whispering inside me all along.

_________________________________

Night falls with a graceless thud, a resounding full stop punctuating an emphatic end to an equally graceless day. Darkness falls with it, a blackness filling the room, meant to beckon rest that will not come. Sleep, a taunting bully lurking in the shadows of my restless mind, plays hide and seek with the incoherent multitude of unintelligible thoughts clamoring for attention inside my head.

I can't think.

I can't not think.

So I close my eyes, and drift into the shadowy no man's land nestled between suspended consciousness and wakefulness, neither fully here nor wholly there.

From this unfathomable depth, shrouded in a soft, shimmering mist, a warm breeze billowing the edges of my gauzy dreamlike state, vague awareness looms. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, clarity. Revealing that everything I'd long believed lost or missing from my life is near at hand, surrounding me, exposed. So close, the tastes of all of it linger on my lips, the sounds echo in my ears. So close, I am afraid to reach out to touch the elusiveness of it. I stand still, movement possible, but seemingly unnecessary, superfluous.

Everything I ever wanted is being handed to me where I stand.

But everything I accept into my shaking hands is weightless, shapeless. All that I imagined to be meaning and fulfillment, great piles of wishes, longings, wants, desires, are carefully balanced in my outstretched arms. Still, there is no burden, no end to my capacity to hold or to carry all of it and then some, until the unbearable lightness haunts me.

Everything I've taken, and all that I am holding, is empty. And all at once I know.

I know life is not lived when spent wasted on waiting for it to be doled out, as if there is no will involved. I know life is not lived when we allow it to be defined by someone else's expectation of what the one we lead should look like. I know life is not lived when fear obviates choice. I know life is not lived when the capacity for change is buried far beneath the complacency of blame. 

The meaning of life is in the pursuit of it. It's in the longing, the struggle, the dreaming of dreams. It's in the constant discovery and continual evolution of what we want, in the appreciation for the value of what we already have. It's in the learning, and in the process; it's in the losses and the gains.

It's in the realization that our expectations must be high, and in the understanding that we won't always reach them. It's in the satisfaction of honest effort, in the thrill of risking failure, and in the celebration when we achieve. It's in the strength to accept defeat, and in the grace to accept success. It's in the will to accept responsibility for ourselves, and in the benevolence to accept weakness in others.

It's in the power of having choices to determine our path, and in the strength to choose. It's in having the character to confront the inevitable bumps in the road and the detours, uncowed; still and always moving forward, reaching upward.

It's in broadening our minds to accommodate uncomfortable, difficult ideas.

It's in unburdening our souls to absorb the wonders of the world around us.

It's in opening our hearts to its vast ability to love, despite the pain of it, because the glory of it is what makes everything else worthwhile.

The meaning of life is not in always being sure of where you're going, but rather in never failing to appreciate the journey.

Daybreak dawns, washing away streaks of darkness, the final remnants of an unquiet night. The shadows of a restless mind disappear in the boldly stroked illumination of morning, replaced with the bright calm of peace, and the glowing, gentle simmer of determination.

I'm not sure I ever slept.

But I know that I woke up.

Alive.

The Change

The day turned on a dime, the searing summer heat broken by a thunderous storm that ripped through town as if on a mission, bent on destruction. By the time the wind was done howling and the rain was finished pounding, it seemed the storm had succeeded; tree limbs were severed, culverts were flooded, traffic was snarled, and power, to thousands of homes, was cut. Mission accomplished.

She sat at the window overlooking the grade school playground and surveyed the damage. By the looks of things, nobody would be swinging or sliding or shimmying their way across the rusted monkey bars any time soon. By the looks of things, though, nobody had visited the sad little playground for years anyway, and it was entirely likely that nobody would care about this most recent damage any more than anybody had cared about the years of neglect it suffered before the storm came. 

While she sat looking, it occurred to her that this particular playground had been abandoned by the robustness of youth, and the thought of it took her by surprise when it filled her with an inexplicable sadness. Being abandoned by youth was a thing she could relate to, although even she could admit it was absurd to feel this level of empathy for such a lifeless thing as a rusted out, busted flat, debris covered playground.

She stood to leave, tucking a stack of workbooks and two red pencils in her "Virginia is for Lovers" tote bag and flicking the switch to off for the overhead lights, just in case the power came back on in the middle of the night. She took one last tour around the room, in the dusky dark, straightening Amanda Cryer's chair and putting Simon Harpold's books in his desk. She thought about picking Johnny Johnson's jacket up off the floor, where it lay in a crumpled pile just like every evening, but she didn't do it. She just let it lay where it lay and stepped right over it, instead.

At the front of the room she paused - for the barest whisper of a minute - her back to the room. Then she walked out, closing the old wooden door behind her with a decisive click.

And that was the last Paul Revere Elementary School ever saw of Ms. Anderson.

*************

When she finally got home that night, carefully navigating the downed tree limbs and the brake lights of wary drivers ahead of her, she wasn't surprised to find her own apartment without power. As old as the building was, it happened even without the assistance of a significant storm blowing through. She slipped off her shoes, and then her dress, and wrapped herself up in the red terrycloth robe her mother had bought her fourteen Christmases ago, the one that fit her body like a glove despite its ratty appearance.

She made her way to the kitchen, the fading daylight affording her just enough time to find three candles, a pack of matches and a wine glass, which she promptly filled from the bottle in the fridge, still icy cold. By candlelight, curled in her favorite chair, she graded the day's classwork from the Scholastic's "Math for Fourth Graders" workbooks, leaving encouraging notes in the margins when she could think of something original to write. She had gotten through seven of them and was working on the eighth - Todd Seaton's - when she used her last gold star.

And that's what did it, that last gold star. The empty tape where dozens of bright gold stickers of honor had been stared up at her, and maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the dizzying way the day had turned on a dime, maybe it was the sight of a playground abandoned by the very youth it needed to thrive; maybe it was all of those things, or none of them it all, but that empty tape, and that last gold star shining on Todd Seaton's "Nicely done!" workbook pages, well, that's what did it.

The first three days she called in sick. She never left the house, surviving on applesauce, and buttered toast, and chicken noodle soup with soda crackers, once the power came back. She didn't speak to a single soul those first three days besides old Principal Ewing, and he only called because he couldn't stand paying for substitute teachers out of his paltry budget when he had perfectly good staff, already accounted for.

On the second day, he sent his secretary Janet out to pick up the workbooks, which she found tucked neatly into a linen "Virginia is for Lovers" tote bag out on the front porch, no note, no how-do-you-do's, no nothing.

On the third day, the only edible things left in the cupboards were two cans of corn, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and a tin of salmon, God knows how old.

On the fourth day, Ms. Anderson loaded two suitcases and a large overnight bag into her blue Ford Escort and drove away.

And while the future's there for anyone to change, still you know it's seems, it would be easier sometimes to change the past.

It seemed to Mavis that she had lived the most of her life in a state of being startled by its swiftness.

She had tried to bring this up with Frank an odd time or two, early in their marriage, but every time she did, the words came out sounding funny. They must have, because Frank would always respond by giving her a bemused glance, effectively ending the conversation. The words to explain it were hard enough to come by inside her own head; before long, she quit trying to make sense of them for anybody else. But spoken or not, it was a fact that Mavis's life had taken her by surprise the vast majority of the time.

When she went to first grade with all the other kids her age, she remembered thinking, "It's too soon! How did I get here so fast?" And from there, before she knew it, she was walking across the wooden stage at the far end of the high school gym wearing her first pair of heels, shaking hands with Principal Greene. Three months after that she was pregnant with Jenny, planning a small wedding in Frank's family's backyard, and preparing to move to Hawthorne to start a whole new life. It all happened that quick, like lightning. Like the finger snapping demands of some arbitrary ruler of her universe, unseen, unheard, and unappreciated, certainly, if the truth be known. Resented on occasion, even.

Her life was as it was, though, moving swiftly along the rapids of time, happening to her rather than being lived, more often than not. And after a while, she even stopped minding so much, and tried to keep up, to go with the flow.

-------------------

Mavis opened the door and stepped out into the screened in porch off of the kitchen. It was a small porch, but it was her own personal hideaway, and sanctuary would not have been too strong a description, either. There were two Adirondack chairs, painted bright yellow, with a square table set in between, holding a pale blue glass ashtray and a hand-carved wooden lamp she'd found at the White Elephant sale at church years and years ago. There were potted plants scattered here and there, around the perimeter of the porch and hanging from its rafters, a lively mix  of flowers and herbs and long, leggy vines. And her wind chimes were here, too, hanging from cup hooks spaced at appropriate intervals, jingling and tinkling at the slightest breeze.

It was a simple, cozy place, this porch, but in Mavis's mind, it was a six by nine foot slice of heaven itself, especially of an early morning when the fog had yet to burn off of Purgatory Mountain, and of an early evening, too, when the whoosh of a breeze rolling off the James River would send the chimes into an operatic quiver.

It was a place that held her last fond memories of Frank, a place her husband built with his own two hands as an anniversary present for her. It was supposed to be a place for the two of them to sit and relax, to sit and ruminate on the day gone by, to ponder about the day to come tomorrow. She remembered how excited he would get at every little advancement in the progress, coming to find her, wherever she was, doing laundry, cooking dinner, even coming after her when she was down the street chatting with Mrs. Lane, for heaven's sake. He'd track her down, grab her by the hand and escort her to the sight of his latest improvement, smiling that lopsided goofy grin of his all the while. Even if she couldn't tell a thing, couldn't see the smallest change from the last time she'd looked, she'd clap her hands in delight anyway, just to see his crooked grin grow that much crookeder.

This porch was the last productive thing Frank managed to finish before the grief ate him alive, sent him spiraling into a vortex of anger, hatred and depression from which he couldn't be saved. Wouldn't be saved, despite the best efforts of old Dr. Flynn, who'd brought Frank into this world and could not bear the thought of seeing him out of it, too.

Dr. Flynn tried; oh, mercy, he tried, there can be no saying he didn't. But with Frank, no amount of trying was enough when not one ounce of it was coming from the patient himself. There comes a time when a body has to want to help itself before any real healing can commence, and when that body's mind decides it doesn't want to, well, then, there's little to be done.

That's how it was with Frank. When Benji died, Frank just up and quit, gave up for so long that his body finally gave out, and Mavis knew that to be the truth. Knew it no matter what those big time doctors up at Memorial Hospital tried to tell her about atherosclerosis, and acute myocardial infarction, and cardiopulmonary something or other. She listened to these big time doctors talk to her, using their big doctor words and their big doctor hushed voices that lent such formality of finality to everything they said. Mavis listened and nodded, her head swimming; she listened and nodded and didn't understand a thing until Dr. Flynn, who'd driven Mavis to the hospital, following close behind the ambulance blaring its god awful sirens for thirty miles or more, well, she didn't understand one thing about what was happening right there where she was, center of attention, until Dr. Flynn held her by the shoulders and looked her straight in her face and said, "Mavis, honey, I'm so sorry. His heart. It just..broke."

And that, at least, Mavis finally understood.

-------------------

Out on the screened in porch, she tucks herself into the yellow chair closest to the outside world and slips her shoes off. The grass in the backyard is lush and green, and in need of a good mowing. Tomorrow she'll see about getting the Lawson boy or maybe one of his friends to come over and cut it for her. But not tonight, she thinks to herself. Tonight I'm going to sit right here and listen to the quiet.

Once upon a time, life moved so fast and so furious that it threatened to run off without her. These days the time shifts in the slow motion of suspended animation, and Mavis can't help but wonder if life -her very own life - had finally succeeding in leaving her behind altogether.

Part the third.

Jenny is a dreamer, and smarter about the ways of the world than she has a natural born right to be, considering she's only sixteen going on seventeen, a couple of months away from entering her Senior year of high school. For instance, Jenny knows her mother loves her, despite the fact that Mavis hasn't actually told her so in a very long time. Years, even. But Jenny knows why this is without ever being told, and she's come to understand the reasons for it by virtue of having lived a parallel life, with the same world altering, sensibility shattering moments. Jenny understands that her mother is no longer the woman who gave birth to her all those years ago, the one with the quick laugh and the creative streak a mile wide. She understands that her mother is now Mavis, someone wholly changed and different, and she makes accommodations for it because she knows she's no longer the little girl she once was, either. She makes accommodations for it because, bless her heart, Jenny loves her mother right back, and nothing will ever change that most basic fact of her life.

Which is not to say it isn't hard sometimes - most of the time, truth be told - because it is. But Jenny has had a lot of practice, and what used to seem impossibly difficult has become routinely sufferable. She stays out of Mavis's way when she can. She keeps busy, eyes on the prize, her head stuck up in the clouds where she can keep her dreams in sight, making sure they don't take a notion to go floating off without her.

Of course, there is a delicious sort of warped irony in even that, because Jenny knows that nothing can get her mother's liver in a quiver quicker than catching her daughter in the middle of a visit to that faraway and distant place. And for all of Jenny's wisdom, for all her well-honed instincts about her mother, what she doesn't know yet is that Mavis is just afraid. She's scared, is all, although she'd never admit it to a soul. But it's true. She's scared to death. Because what if Jenny's dreams don't come true?

And, then again, what if they do?

Either possibility is as frightening to Mavis as most any great unknown would be, and now here they are, this very summer the one that begins to lurch them forward all herky jerky, like an old fashioned wooden roller coaster, and Mavis just has not ever been a fan of the big surprises life likes to hand out, ready or not, here it comes. She just has not ever been a fan, at all.

Junior

She can't say she's surprised that she can't hear a sound, not one lone bit of noise as evidence of her daughter's presence in the house, but that doesn't stop the silence from annoying her a little, anyway. It never ceases to amaze Mavis how thin skinned she can be when it comes to her first born, how easily irritated, for no good reason to speak of beyond the fact of being irritated.

For goodness sake, if she had a dime for every time she bit her tongue, or choked back a remark that bordered on just plain mean, or took pains to scrub a grimace off her own face when dealing with any and everything Jenny, she'd be a wealthy widow by now instead of one barely scraping by on a measly monthly Social Security check and the pathetic pockets full of change waiting tables at Mom & Pop's Place gets her. She'd be a wealthy widow, alright, and Jenny would go off to that college up north she's so desperate to study at, far away from here, taking her unintentional ability to annoy the bejeebus out of her mother right along with her, packed in an overnight bag if need be.

Mavis grabs the red and white checked dish towel off of the counter and takes a mindless swipe at a non-existent spot before folding it over the oven door handle. She takes a look around at the spotless kitchen, a place for everything and everything in its place, clean as a whistle, and nods in self-satisfied approval, flipping off the overhead light. Just in time, too, she realizes. Glancing at her watch, she makes her way to the sofa in the living room and turns the television to channel 6.

___________________________________

Little Jimmy Lawson is called Junior now that he's reached puberty and has a little hair on his chin. And chest and legs, too, for that matter. Junior has surely grown up good, or so the ladies who come into the hardware store to buy a new watering can or some paint for the coming weekend's honey-do list remind him incessantly, forever and ever without end, amen.

He'd prefer to be called James, if he had his way. But his daddy is a big Earnhardt fan from way back, and when Dale Jr.'s own daddy died on that black Sunday in February 2001, Jimmy Lawson did the only thing he could do as a man, as a fan of the Intimidator, the only thing that felt right: he transferred his loyalties from father to son, vowing to stick by the young driver of the Budweiser Chevy, win, lose or crash.

Not long after that sad black day in our nation's history, Little Jimmy celebrated his 12th birthday. When it came time to make a wish, he blew those candles out with all his might and asked for only one thing. Please let them stop calling me Little Jimmy, was his wish, his one and only, the thing he wanted more than anything, especially before he had to enter Riverside Middle School in the coming fall.

Little Jimmy got his wish that year, and learned a valuable lesson about being specific when going after what you want in the process. Because that very day, his daddy tousled his hair and said, son, you're too big to be Little anything now. Little Jimmy could swear he saw a tear well up in his daddy's eye as he reached out to grab his boy's shoulder with his big right paw and said, Happy birthday, Junior.

Little Jimmy Lawson has been Junior ever since that fateful 12th birthday, going on five years ago now. And well, he might not have picked it as a name himself, but he figures he can live with it.

For a little while longer, at least.

The best is yet to be.

Life feels like it's busting out all over these days.

The flowers in the garden bed out front are on the verge of bursting into bloom, the newly potted ones on the back deck already radiant with fiery color. Kids of every age and size spill into the daylight hours, the summer break a timely reprieve from being stick and mortar bound inside a classroom. This early in June, even the grown ups agree with that, but ask them again late in July if you're looking for a different answer; you'll likely get one. Down the street, the town pool is open and in full voice well into the waning daylight, laughter splashing over the fence and into the warm, almost buoyant night air. Listen hard enough and that warm night air will carry sound: the chatter coming from the baseball field off of Leventhal Road, the oomph of a ball being caught in a good and broke-in leather mitt, the crack of a wooden bat making solid contact with the object of its desires.

Even the local paper is near to bursting these days, chock full as it is with announcements of upcoming events of the sort that only hit the calendar pages in summer, when kids are out of school and parents are desperate for things to occupy their attention; when young love begins to stir and needs room to grow, places to go, people to be seen by; when working folks are off their clocks a little bit from the excitement stirred up from the heat of it all. There are street fairs on the agenda, and art shows, and a free tennis camp at the Rec Center, open to the public. There will be movies shown outside, lit up on the side of Jimmy Lawson's ACE Hardware store building on 3rd Avenue, and a few decent concerts will play at the amphitheater just outside of town, along the road to the big city. Fourth of July festivities galore are in the works, from watermelon seed spittin' contests to a neighborhood pot luck picnic to a fairly sizable fireworks display being hosted up at Collier's farm, come one, come everyone.

Days are abuzz, full to overflowing with possibilities, up to and including the time honored summer favorite of nothing doing but lazing around, sipping a tall cool one, staring out into the heat of a day, just thinkin'. Just sittin' and a-thinkin', as Grandpa used to say, little bit of this, little bit of that, and who knows, maybe sowing seeds of a dream or two in there while you're at it, for good measure. That's what a summertime day is good for. Daydreaming the time away while a tall cool one of what's your pleasure sits a spell itself, over on the table, near at hand, and sweats to beat the band, waiting.

___________________________________

The Lanes, who live three houses over, take their daily constitutional as soon as the last dirty dish from that night's dinner has been washed and put back where it belongs. They hold hands, usually, and walk along in silence, mostly, although they stop often to admire a newly painted mailbox here, to ooo and ahh over the Meyer's new baby there. They walk the same mile and a quarter loop every evening without fail, weather permitting, of course. And to Joe Lane's way of looking at things, no weather permits like summertime weather.

She watches them from her front porch sometimes, and as they pass by with a wave and a matching set of smiles, inevitably the tune to the song Grow Old Along With Me starts to strum and hum its way through her head. God bless Mary Chapin Carpenter, anyway, she thinks. Such a lovely voice, that one, and a bit of an attitude, which is refreshing. Girls these days need it if they plan on getting anywhere in this world. Anywhere in this world away from here, especially, she thinks without quite meaning to, but there it is, she can't take it back now.

Mavis returns the wave, even manages a neighborly smile, and watches them walk a little while more, until they pass under the shade of the George's massive Oak tree and become miniature versions of themselves, silhouetted against the burnt orange sky.

She turns around then, heading toward the kitchen, forgetting all about Joe and Gracie Lane and their shadowy silhouettes, wondering instead where Jenny has gotten herself off to this time. She's a slippery one, that girl of hers, so quiet Mavis forgets she's there sometimes. So quiet, Mavis isn't entirely sure she is there, although she was told to come in a half hour ago, and Mavis could just absolutely swear she heard the back screen door slam shut a few minutes after that.

Then again, it's Jenny, now isn't it? I won't swear to a single thing when it comes to that child, Mavis thinks to herself, not for the first time, and strains to listen through the quiet for any sound at all.

Sara

It looks like rain today.

Gray skies hover overhead, the thickening clouds like a down comforter blanketing the earth, or at least my little corner of it. It feels like rain, full and damp, and smells like rain, fresh and musty all in the same breath.

We need rain, in the worst way.

The parched, hardscrabble ground beneath my feet attests to that, the scorched grass and forlorn daylilies seconding the motion, listlessly.

It's been so long since we had a good rain. A real gully washer, filling the sky with thunderous roars and the creek beds with streaming movement. A real good rain, hard and long, cleansing and nourishing, almost purifying.

But it sure looks like rain today.

Naturally, since today is a day rain will mean nothing but trouble, in the getting to and from, in the movements in between. If the rain comes, and it sure looks like rain, you can bet it will catch me in my hose and heels and black skirt and stupid white blouse with the red buttons, soaking me clean through until I'll look like I'm entering some sort of office temp lunch hour wet t-shirt contest instead of trying to put forward a dignified, grown up appearance.

The look will backfire on me, it always does, and if it takes the rain to do it this time, so be it. If it weren't the rain, it'd be something else. You just can't fake a dignified appearance. Not when you've spent your entire life avoiding even the appearance of dignity to the utmost of your ability, living in blue jeans and tennis shoes and the t-shirt of the day. Maybe 'Joe's Place' on Monday and 'Harvard Athletic Dept.' on Tuesday. Maybe the pale blue 'Carolina Girl' proclamation come Thursday, although it's getting close to time to retire that one to the nightshirt shift; the holes in the shoulder seams are a bit too much for public consumption anymore, even for me.

I'd rather be myself today. Today of all days. But today of all days is the one day I need most to be anybody other than myself. A good foot forward, for appearance's sake, propriety and all that crap.

So I'm wearing the hose. And the heels, low as I can get away with and still call them 'heels', and the black skirt just to the knees.

It's the white shirt that's going to do me in this time, I can feel it.

It looks like rain today.

Henry

There were a dozen or more of them standing on the platform, waiting, each wearing a red and black jacket with an image of a soaring hawk spanning the breadth of their backs. Their chattering was mindless, a staccato buzz like so much background noise, with the occasional sharp spike of excitement escaping from one or the other's throats as if by accident.

They milled around in a gangly, irregular circle, attempting to exude a collective cool nonchalance. Succeeding, for the most part, unless a passerby happened to single out an individual for undivided inspection. To the ordinary outsider looking in, the group of boys in matching jackets milling around, waiting, was only that, and nothing more. Nothing extraordinary, certainly. Nothing even unusual, mostly, except maybe for their ages, superimposed against the lateness of the hour when the ordinary outsider looking in might assume they should be home in their beds, feeding sleep to their hungrily growing youth.

To the ordinary outsider, they were just a dozen or so boys in matching school jackets, waiting on a train.

But Henry knew better.

An insider, looking out, he wanted to scream at the man in the trench coat, reading the paper, not paying them a bit of mind. He wanted to shout at the lady sitting on the lone bench with the flowered bag at her feet, gazing idly down at her own nails as if they were telling her some fascinating tale. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, hard. Look! he wanted to shout at her. Can't you see? Don't you know?

But he didn't. He couldn't. He was an insider, looking out. One of a dozen or more, scared to death, but even more frightened of showing it; one of a dozen or so sending mindless chatter into the cool night air with intent. Hey, go ahead. Look at us, their collective nonchalance dared the daring. There's nothing to see here.

Nothing at all.

Henry turned back to the group, pretending to listen to the random mumbling, pretending to contribute some astute bit of teenage commentary to the discussion; pretending to be mildly bored, standing on the platform, waiting.

Pretending.

Just like everybody else.

Moon Dance

There was the scarcest sliver of a moon last night, perched jauntily in its darkened corner of the sky like the slightly off-center grin of a young boy, full of himself.

What to do about dinner, she muses, mostly to herself, but still expecting a response.

Chinese?

Yes. Chinese.

The absence of the usual snarl of traffic was mildly unsettling, but in a good, butterflies in the belly sort of way, where one might imagine themselves traversing the road less traveled, despite knowing better. Butterflies are free to fly inside an imagination illuminated by the scarcest sliver of a jaunty moon.

Do you ever wonder? she thinks.

I try not to, he replies, surprising her. She thought she'd kept her thinking to herself.

A heart beats before she counters. I wonder, she says.

I know, he claims.

She settles deep into the leather, closes her eyes and smiles, believing that he does.

The fortune cookies sit there on the counter; golden crescent slivers taunting her with their promise of pithy wisdom until she can't take it any longer and breaks hers in half before taking the first bite of brown rice. She always does. And then she snaps his in two, because he never cares.

You will find peace of mind, she recites. Good for you.

I assume it's spelled p-e-a-c-e, he poses. Not p-i-e-c-e.

She opens her mouth to affirm his assumption, but he kisses her silent.

You talk too much, he says.

His face wears the scarcest sliver of an off-centered grin, a grown man, full of himself, and she is momentarily luminous, dancing in its glow.

One Night

When I was very young, too small to reach the cookie jar without dragging a kitchen chair to the counter's edge, too quiet to be seen eavesdropping on grown up conversations I shouldn't have understood, I knew things.

I knew that life was hard, and that love could be expensive. I knew that being smart could buy you trouble, and behaving badly could borrow you attention. I knew that people marched to their own drummer's beats, and that it didn't matter if I couldn't hear them, or feel them; I knew it wasn't very likely that I would ever follow, even if I could.

When I was very young, too inarticulate to tell you all about it, but far too wise not to comprehend, I knew things.

_______________________________

The pearls draped in a string of creamy white perfection along the scooped neck of her black satin dress. Every few moments, she would raise her hand to run her fingers over the length of the necklace, and with every subconscious touch of assurance, her full ruby lips would part in a generous smile, lighting up her face.

He marveled at the juxtaposition of human natures she'd managed to gather together for a common singular cause, some so at ease with their lot in the world, others struggling lifetimes long to feel comfortable inside the confines of their own skin. He watched her from across the room - the flitting hand, the fleeting touch, the fluid smile; he studied her as she performed, greeting her guests with such smooth graciousness, it seemed she'd been born to the role.

_______________________________

There were forty or more, I don't know. I lost count early on in the process. Or lost interest in the count, at any rate. There were a lot for the size of the room, this much I can say for certain.

It was stuffy in there. The air was almost too thick to breathe, but nobody else seemed to notice. Wouldn't have killed them to crack a window, even if it was winter. The cool air would've been refreshing to say the least, considering the amount of hot air being generated inside. I finally had to leave, sneaking out a side door.

Not that anyone would have missed me much, or taken notice of my absence in some mournful, longing way. I'm not even sure what I was doing there in the first place, if you want to know the truth. So I left, and good riddance to bad rubbish is really all I have to say about that.

_______________________________

She went straight for the center of the room, not by design, but drawn there as if by a magnetic force. She could no more have avoided arriving face to face with him than she could have flapped her arms and flown to the moon, so she didn't even try to fight the urge. She followed the compulsion right into the darkest depths of his coal black eyes, locked onto hers, boring into her until she winced in pain.

"Maggie," he said. He stated. He very nearly spat.

She wanted to respond. She heard herself, the word "Seth" dripping like acid rain from her tongue. She saw herself, in her mind's eye, curling her upper lip into a snarling grin, lifting her eyebrow in an unspoken rhetorical question.

She wanted to respond, but didn't. Instead she just stood there, withering in his glare. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

_______________________________

One night in early February, they reunited under the auspices of business needing tended. Money was involved; of course it was. No other single person, place, or thing was powerful enough to speak to the basic instincts, to the thread of commonality woven through their lives, tightly knotted here, perilously snagged there.

Money was the thing that brought them back together.

But they were family.

And one night, in early February, that was the reason they stayed.

Sometimes I Cry

I am a collector of souls.

Wandering through this wonderland is among my greatest fascinations and purest simple pleasures at the moment. Casually peeking in on the lives of strangers, reading their innermost thoughts, gleaning those facets of their personalities they are willing to share with the world at large. I never cease to find myself amazed at finding boundless numbers of blogs that speak to me by baring the souls of their keepers.

It all breeds a certain easy familiarity, doesn't it? Sometimes, like a fly on the wall, it seems like eavesdropping on thoughts I have no right to hear. But at other times I am completely drawn in to the feeling that I'm a participant in the lives being spun on the web.

I laugh out loud. I cheer for victories, as big as beating cancer and as small as a successful day of potty training. I have been swayed to rethink myself by an eloquent, well thought out argument. I have been moved to rail in protest at rants that go against my grain. I've been touched by the grace with which people face their disappointments. I've been inspired by the will with which people overcome their fears. And I've been left awestruck by gifted, insightful writers.

But sometimes I cry.

Sometimes the souls are left unguarded and defenseless, exposing the shockingly jagged shards that are the harrowing frailties of human nature. And when these moments of weakness turn into words on a page, those sharply drawn edges, whose frightening profiles belie a stark fragility, pierce me with stunning, cunning swiftness, penetrating deeply. I recognize the painful parts of a former self. The words remind me of familiar gaping wounds that were not so easily healed.

Comments beg to pour out of me, words of encouragement or empathy. I want to envelope them in a vast cyber hug, assuring them..."you will find your way...it can get better". I want to offer stories of shared emotion, to make them understand they are not alone. But I know from experience that the only solace, the only peace, the only answers, will come from deep inside themselves. Even then, only when they are ready to find it.

If I could, I would roam the world like Johnny Appleseed, scattering the seeds of hope in every damaged, hurting soul. I would water the plantings with insight drawn from a well of strength. I would painstakingly weed out moments of bitter disappointment and overwhelming exhaustion. I would stand protective watch, guarding the seedlings from storms of despairing doubt and ferocious fear. And soon enough, the hope would begin to sprout and bloom, stretching itself to meet the light of a brand new day full of breathtaking promise.

Instead, all I have are words.

_______________

Originally posted August 13, 2004. Reprised because it applies. Again. Still.

Roads / One

There is a stretch of familiar road curling around the base of the mountain. I follow the lazy, winding path to its end and stop the car, staring at the view that still manages to take my breath away, after all these years. I'll never get tired of being awestruck by the expanse of evergreens blanketing the rolling mountains as far as the eyes can see, the sky above casting a shimmering glow. It's ethereal.

A rumor of snow has settled on the horizon, and in the hush, I can hear the earth around me fortressing itself against the onslaught. Trees whispering as they crouch in close, twigs crackling in forest code. Even the house seems hunkered down, wisps of smoke from the chimney promising warmth and toastiness inside its walls.

There is no sign of human life, beyond the artifacts of a recent presence. The radio is playing as I open the door, letting myself in; a woman's voice, strident and impassioned in argument against yet some other of man's inhumanities to man, greets me. The fire is roaring, illuminating the room in flickering bursts of yellow orange, and the place gleams in its spotlessness. I expected nothing less.

I'll remedy that spotlessness in record time, if history is any guide, and I can't help but laugh. Because if truth be told, she expects nothing less, either.

My coat comes off, then scarf and gloves, and I toss it all on the first chair I come to. Carrying my bag to the back room, I pass through the kitchen, where a bottle of wine sits uncorked and breathing on the counter, a single glass beside it. It's enough to stop my progress, at least for the time it takes to pour a fistful of the rich Cabernet to keep me company. I kick off my boots and toss them in the mud room, out of sight, out of mind. When I finally do make it to "my" room, leaving a trail proving my existence along the way, I'm somewhat surprised to realize how little time it's taken.

It's been months since we've talked face to face. It took hours to drive the clogged interstates and to navigate the barren mountain roads.

But within mere minutes of being here, I know.

I'm home.

The Space Between

A conversation, a lively one, about the seven deadly sins.

Which one are you?

I couldn't answer.

Because my life is lived in the shadow lands of the in between spaces.

Where courage is driven by the wild abandon of lusty hope, and humility nips at the heels of an overly satiated ego.

Where gluttony binges on the bare bones of absentia, in ravenous, needy mouthfuls.

Where sloth becomes a physical need, that cannot, will not, be denied in the aftermath of zealous diligence.

Where ire, raging like a river in a storm, only finds peace in the patient pauses of the passage of time.

Where verdant envy bears fruitful compassion, and greed grows like an unruly weed from seeds of kindness.

Where sin and virtue overlap to shroud the lines drawn with intention to segregate the heartless from the soulful.

Where the lost and the found, more often than not, prove to be one and the same.

So I just sat there quietly.

Listening.

In the Middle of the Night

In the middle of the night, they come to me: dreams, ideas, grand theories about the whys of the world, the hows of humanity.

In the middle of the night, they come to me, whispering their secret knowledge into the deepest crevices of my mind, tucking them there for safekeeping, like the mason jar full of twenty dollar bills buried in Uncle Dan's back yard.

Daybreak dawns, and those tucked away secrets are forgotten, leaving only the questions, the ones that begged for the revelations that come in the middle of the night, behind.

Even if the answers to the mysteries of life could be recalled, indexed to forethought, there is the sense that the light of day would only make them seem insufficient, calling their validity, their credibility, their very existence, into question.

But somehow, in the middle of the night, the answers that come to me seem iron clad and water tight, sensible and true.

Somehow, they seem easy.

In the middle of the night, they come to me, revealing everything already known, if never learned.

A River Runs Through It

There is a red brick path tracing steps through history, past landmarks where a democracy was conceived, past monuments to the men and women who birthed this nation I call home. Following along, it's easy to get lost in long ago days. Stories and teachings come flooding back: one if by land, two if by sea; no taxation without representation; don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes. Even against the bustling backdrop of modern times, a small withdrawal from the memory bank with eyes closed is all it takes to allow a reverie of reverence; willfully succumbing to that reverie affords the ability to be awed by what transpired centuries before, cynicism and homogenized texts be damned.

_________________________

A string of Irish pubs line up before me at high noon, like so many Minutemen volunteering for service. From an open door, the smell of stale beer and seafood is all it takes to stop me in my tracks, taking time to read from the daily specials board propped up on the sidewalk. Behind me, a tantrum brews.

"But that's noooootttt McDonald's, Daddy!" The little girl is adamant. There are no garish red and yellow signs, Ronald is nowhere in sight.

"Yes it is, sweetie. It's just a very fancy, special one."

"Steven!!" his wife glares, her tone a foot stomping petulantly on the pavement. "We did NOT come all the way to Boston to eat at McDonald's!"

"But Mommy?" the little girl's voice has lost all traces of tantrum, and now exudes purpose, her wide eyes finally spotting and locking on the familiar arches, sparkling in glittery gold above the entrance. "It's an extra FANCY one!"

Smiling, I follow my nose to a pint of Guinness and a bread bowl full of chowder, hoping Steven has ideas in his back pocket to make up for the McNugget lunch he's about to enjoy.

_________________________

People ask me once in a while, on those occasions when I ramble on in depth and my obsession with all things Kennedy becomes transparently apparent, how my fascination came to be. There is no answer, really. It's just always been there. But I respond, because people need answers when they ask questions, that I was born in Washington DC in 1963. They always nod and say ahhh!, as if it makes perfect sense.

The Kennedy Library moved me in ways I can't describe. Walking up the hill to the breathtaking building was an experience I'll never forget. I was so moved, so emotionally charged, it took several minutes and a walk down to the harbor view around back before I could bring myself to enter the front door.

The opening film, narrated in JFK's own voice, with seventeen minutes of rare footage from his life leading up to his acceptance of the nomination of his party at the 1960 Democratic National Convention, set the tone. For the next three hours, I wandered through the exhibit space. Reading his personal letters, watching snippets of the televised debate with Nixon, retracing the origins of the Peace Corps. Standing behind Bobby's desk, following the trail of evidence proving the existence of the curse, hearing Cronkite's stoic voice crack while breaking the news to a stunned nation.

Wavering between the rush of exhilaration for all that was, and the pull of grief for all that might have been.

_________________________

I'm on the T, sitting next to a young mother who is trying to organize a brood of four and across from several students engrossed in a heated debate, about what, I can't decipher. A group of seven women boards, maps in hand, talking rapidly over top of each other, clearly confused as to where they are going, much less as to how they intend to get there. Within minutes, the Bostonians among us get the confused ladies lined out, and their nervous banter quickly evolves into giddy gratitude, each of them in turn pointing out how friendly and helpful people have been, how clean and welcoming the city. Conversation ensues, "have you tried...", "did you go to...", "you really shouldn't miss...". As the seven exit the train at their agreed upon stop, the doors sigh closed behind them, bringing the impromptu party to a too abrupt end.

_________________________

There is a river running through the heart of Boston, and a walk along its banks envelopes you in the arms of this city where the past and present co-exist. Breathing deep of the cool November air, you take in the magnitude of the skyline, massive monuments to modernity scraping the sky, towering protectively over beloved pieces of the past, preserved for all posterity. You wonder at the promises of tomorrow, built upon the foundations of a million yesterdays; you imagine the mighty and the masses walking daily in the footsteps of the revolutionary and the brave.

And you remember, determined anew to never forget.

I am certain that after the dust of centuries has passed over our cities, we, too, will be remembered not for victories or defeats in battle or in politics, but for our contribution to the human spirit. ~ John Fitzgerald Kennedy

The Pied Piper

Looking around the room, filled to near capacity with tens of dozens of other people much like me, was an experience in and of itself, nearly overshadowing the main event. There was an air of charged anticipation; currents of heady expectation, electric and alive, flowed unchecked through the waiting crowd. People squirmed in their seats, talking and laughing in low, hushed library tones that quickly accelerated in both decibel and velocity, the murmurs becoming a deafening din, the noise bubbling to the surface, heads bobbing up and down, back and forth until the entire scene resembled a cauldron of some sort of simmering mystical brew.

An unseen wrist flicked, and darkness crashed, stunning the throng into a collective gasp, the intake of air sucking the oxygen from the room for a brief, glorious, lightheaded instant before exhaling in a rousing, desperate release, the entire room erupting, its volcanic roar spilling up and over the rafters before flowing back down in a rush of sound; the nebulous, joyous, raucous sound of a symphony falling on soon to be inspired ears.

No rock star took the stage in a blaze of smoke and mirrors. No infamous for fifteen minute popette of current culture appeared out of a pre-fabricated fog. No showman, full of pomp and flagrant circumstance, devoid of substance.

He was just a man.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is our time.

Our time to make a mark on history.

Our time to write a new chapter in the American story.

Our time to leave our children a country that is freer and kinder, more prosperous and more just than the place we grew up.

And then someday, someday, if our kids get the chance to stand where we are and look back at the beginning of the 21st century, they can say that this was the time when America renewed its purpose.

They can say that this was the time when America found its way.

They can say that this was the time when America learned to dream again.

He was just a man.

A simple man who has lived a not so simple life.

He was just a man who followed his heart. Who made decisions by asking himself, "What is the right thing to do?" Who turned his pain into purpose, his losses into the wider world's gain. Who turned his successes into progress, his unfailing optimism into infectious, spirited energy.

And when he raised his right hand to wave good-bye before exiting stage left with the confident stride of someone with places to go, things to accomplish, an emboldened, resurrected, palpable passion stirred within the newly faithful, leaving little doubt that every man, woman and child present this day would stand willingly and follow, whenever, wherever, he chooses to lead.

A Story from a Life - Part Three

One

Two

__________

The relief I felt was as palpable as the comforting arms of a good friend hugging me, holding me close to their heart, telling me without words that everything would be okay. It's difficult to explain how a secret, a wholly altering secret with the power to impact several lives in its path, can burrow a tunnel within your soul. A small, tight place where you can bury all of your emotions under the darkness of denial to the point that the denial of a thing becomes your sole purpose in being.

Once the tunnel is exposed to the outside world, and the contents are flooded with the blinding light of Reality, the whole of it becomes something entirely different from what you've allowed yourself to believe it to be.

So, I slept that night, blanketed in a peace I'd forgotten was possible, a calm tranquility long forsaken by the effort of keeping the secret. The night passed slowly, allowing me time to catch up with myself, affording me a deep and restful sleep that had evaded me for weeks. One night, in the midst of it all, caught between the denial and acceptance, where no worry existed, no anxious glances over my shoulder were needed.

I slept for nearly fourteen hours, missing my Women in Literature class, missing the meals in the dorm cafeteria, missing the daylight altogether. And yet, somehow, I found myself on that lost day, gathering strength for the days, weeks, months...for the life ahead of me, from that point forward.

Following practical and insistent instructions he relayed to me during one of our many phone calls that evening, I walked to the student union building across the street from my dorm and scoured the bulletin board, looking for a stranger offering the kindness of a ride home. My heart skipped, from dread, not joy, when I was able to secure transportation from a girl heading my way, that very night, in mere hours.

I went through the required motions of making the arrangements, somehow, some way, even though I knew this trip home would be one of the most difficult journeys of my life. But he was adamant. We had to tell my parents, his mother. We had to start dealing in truth and consequences.

Of course, he was right.

Of course, I was terrified.

When he picked me up at the designated drop off point in my hometown, and I came face to face with him for the first time since he was let in on the secret, he said and did everything right. How do people manage that? I wondered at the time, and wonder still. How do they learn the right things to say, at the right time? How do they have an inherent ability to maintain reason when insanity swirls around them, when there is no rhyme or reason, honestly, to be found? It's a quality I've never acquired, but I can easily admit that seeing him, being in his presence, strong, responsible, empathetic, never admonishing me for what had transpired, only searching for the Right Thing to come...well, if I wasn't in love with him before that moment, I fell there hopelessly and forever in that moment.

I'll never be able to articulately, or even adequately, translate the intensity of it. He made me look into his eyes. The first words he spoke to me were in the form of a kiss. He told me he was taken by surprise, obviously; it was unexpected. He told me he was nervous, about the responsibility, about the sudden and unavoidable shift in the direction of his life - our lives. He was scared, more than a little; all of those things and a million more. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, "But I'm ready. It's what I wanted, maybe a little earlier than I planned, but it is what I planned, in my mind, for us. We're going to make it, and as long as we're in it together, it's going to be okay. Do you believe me?"

Right there, right then, I did. With every fiber of my being.

It's a fact of life that people disconnect from each other, painfully obvious in a family context. Parents who refuse to "get" their kids; kids who loathe their parents; entire family units torn apart by misunderstandings, lack of communication, utter failures of unity. I do understand this exists, but it brings me profound despair all the same.

The reaction of our parents to the news that we were pregnant and had decided to become a family of our own, was one of initial shock, followed by immediate, and sincere, support.

What do you want to do? How can we help? Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor? This is not the end of the world, together we can make it the beginning of something wonderful.

I've tried in the many years since to imagine how my life might have gone if they had reacted differently. If they had said, in effect, this is your mistake, you deal with it. How could you be so stupid? Don't you see you've ruined your life, and ours with it? But I can't imagine that scenario with any clarity, because it never would have happened. Despite my fears, my belief that I had let them down in the most tangible of ways, I really never expected anything less of them when push came to shove. And, as usual, they stood by me, and him, and dedicated themselves to offering of themselves in every way humanly possible, to be there for us, without remorse. To love us, without condition.

I am awed to this day by the strength displayed on all sides: his mother, my parents, our extended families. I am aware to the very center of the very core of my being that their strength enabled us to handle this new course of our lives. Without them, I have no doubt we would have stumbled, and struggled, and most likely have made a mess of things.

With them, beside us, we instead embarked down the road that led us to where we are today.

It was my dad who insisted we wait until the baby was born to get married, only for the purposes of adequate insurance coverage and entering into our life together free of the debt should problems arise. Problems did arise, a story for another day, but proof of my father's wisdom. It was his mother who insisted she would continue to pay for his college education, demanding of him that he fulfill his promise and potential. It was my mother who held my hand, went with me to the doctor, doodled possible baby names in a notebook. It was all of them, together, who taught us what it really means to be parents, a feat they pulled off without lectures or judgment, but rather with lessons that poured forth from their hearts and their actions.

There have been many angels in my life; steadying hands, inspired influences, sources of comfort and assurance. Guiding lights who sometimes showed themselves to me, and who other times worked their wonders without me knowing of their presence.

So, yes. I believe in angels.

I am surrounded by them, every second of every day, in the form of my family.

From the day I tremulously loosened the grip my lonely and scary secret held on me, to this present day in the here and now, I've lived my life with a fierce determination to live up to the faith these guiding lights have invested in me. It's an effort, ongoing and rarely easy; I fail miserably at times. Even so, their belief in me never wavers, leaving me no choice but to find the power within myself to ultimately succeed.

And I will, you know.

I know.

A Story from a Life - Part Two

I knew, even as I was unloading the car and moving into my dorm.

I arrived on campus, on the cusp of the rest of my life, pregnant.

I knew it, but refused to acknowledge it in the most wholly defiant way. "That will never happen to me. I'm too smart; too aware; too informed." Yeah, whatever. All those things may have been true in theory; the reality was another story altogether. But damn if Denial isn't a grand place to live when you're eighteen years old and have just made the most flippant of choices, one with the power to alter the entire world and universe as you've always known them to exist.

Weeks went by, and then entire months. The brand new box of tampons on the top shelf of my closet remained unopened, gathering dust. In an ironic twist of fate, my roommate was an anorexic ballerina who was missing periods, too. Rather than become a topic of late night girl talk, this strange common bond morphed into the elephant in the room that neither of us ever mentioned.

I would spend my nights at the house he shared with four roommates. I'd wake up early and make a mad dash to get to my dorm's locker room style public bathroom in time to puke my guts out before the rest of the floor got out of bed. Every single day, for weeks. And it wasn't just any puke; it was that vile yellow bile vomit that burned my throat, leaving a bitterly sharp metallic taste in my mouth for hours afterward.

Still, while I consciously developed this routine of secrecy and even catered to it, I refused to live in that consciousness long enough to be concerned. I never had flashing moments of panic, wondering, "What the hell do I do now?" On some level, I employed the logic that if I wasn't even having that conversation with myself, then it wasn't really happening.

God, how astonishingly stupid. Not to mention dangerous.

Looking back, I have come to a sort of peace, reaching the conclusion that there was a subconscious method to my obvious madness. I'm convinced an instinct of self-protection was behind the mental block I formed against the reality that a life was growing with abandon inside of me.

I knew a lot of people, too many, really, both close friends and those of the mere acquaintance type, who had abortions when we were in high school. In those days, access to an abortion was as easy as coming up with the money. No consent, no counseling. Show up with the cash and all your problems would be solved within hours. My best friend went through the experience twice, while I tried to be supportive of her in whatever feeble way one child can support another child through a traumatic life choice like that. I drove her to the clinic and helped her with the forms. I counted out the cash and paid the bill. I squeezed her hand and bought her chocolate milkshakes. I held her tight while she sobbed inconsolably into my shoulder.

I was always pro-choice in the great national debate. But I had also seen the process with my own two eyes. The physical pain, the emotional strain. The spirit shattering aftershocks that rumbled long after the deed was done. When I got pregnant and faced the choice for myself, something, somewhere deep inside, made the decision for me. I protected myself from facing the reality of the situation; I kept the secret locked away long enough, until ultimately, there was no choice.

And through it all, I told no one; the weight of what I knew but refused to face carried in surreal isolation through every bout of morning sickness, every glance at the top shelf of my closet, every waking hour and most fitful, sleeping ones, too. I went home for Thanksgiving, and then Christmas, celebrating the holidays as if nothing was different. As if the landscape of my life had not been altered forever. As if I didn't know that the lives of everyone I loved were about to change right along with mine.

My dad took me back to school in early January. I remember crying as he got ready to leave, so hard that I could scarcely breathe. I remember him hugging me, taking me by the shoulders and asking what was wrong. I remember shrugging, and saying only, "I miss you." He knew my boyfriend had decided to take a semester off, to stay at home and work, saving some money while he tried to get his academic act together. I'm sure he chalked up my emotional outburst to that, on some level. I remember being relieved to let him believe it.

Within days of my return to campus, my clothes began to feel tight, and I felt like I was suffocating. Alone, depressed, and scared, I finally reached out. I called my best friend back home, and after rambling for long minutes, I told her. I spoke the truth, out loud for the first time in a tumbling spill of incoherent words, and I will never forget the queasy mixture of panic and relief that swept over me as the words traversed the thin line of wire connecting the miles between us.

Once I hung up the phone and contemplated the magnitude of the conversation I'd just had, I went across the dormitory hall and pounded on the door.

Laura and I had become friends almost by accident. Neither of us had much spare time; we were both taking full class loads and we were both totally wrapped up in our respective boyfriends. Even so, we found a way to forge a friendship in bits and pieces, managing to get to know each other farily well, relatively quickly, courtesy of the cocoon of college. Laura opened her door, saw my face and that was all it took. We cried together, and we talked. Other girls from our floor materialized out of nowhere, and we talked some more. I got all of the questions: How are you? Do you know you have options? What are you going to do? Do you need a phone number, a ride, some cash? Do your parents know? What are you going to do? Are you feeling okay? Have you had morning sickness? It's been HOW long?!? What are you going to do? How does he feel about it?

How does HE feel?

How the hell would I know? He doesn't even know yet, at least not from me. Thinking that into the buzzing silence inside my head was like a punch in the stomach; saying it out loud to a room full of upturned faces was like stepping on the ledge at the end of the world. How unbelievably selfish I had been. The tears began to flow in earnest at that moment. The reality check had finally been cashed, and there was no turning back now. But even though I knew I had to tell him, and soon, I was afraid.

So, I waited, trying to build up the courage to do the right thing. To do the responsible thing. I waited, scared, lonely, full of self-hate and doubt, full of the realization that I had made the worst possible mess out of a horrible situation, for all concerned.

While I waited, stuck, unable to move, my best friend took action for me.

Two of the longest days of my life later, I sat alone in my room, studying for a test in a course I was sure would never appear on my permanent record, when the telephone rang.

It was him.

My heart pounded so hard I had trouble hearing his voice over its drum beat in my ears.

"I heard something today. About you. Well, about us," he said.

"Yeah?" I managed to reply.

"So, is it true?"

I paused, thinking absurdly for the briefest of moments that if I just hung up the phone right then, it would all be over. Heavy sighing ensued on my end, an attempt to keep the tears from choking my throat closed completely.

Finally, nearly whispering, I answered, "Yes."

I waited some more, for what felt like a lifetime, steeling myself for his rage to explode through the receiver.

It never came. 

Instead I heard, "I want to marry you."

___________________________________

How many seminal moments does one lifetime have?

I'd never cried so hard in my life as I did that night. Relief. Stress. Joy. Terror. Uncertainty. Indecision. Confusion. Love. Everything. It all washed over me, wave after wave after wave, and I remember saying out loud, a whisper into the empty room, into the darkness that surrounded me, "I'm having a baby."

And then I slept, as if entire years had passed since I'd last closed my eyes.

A Story from a Life - Part One

There are seminal moments in everyone's life.

Sometimes they go unappreciated as they happen, and even after; largely, strangely, ignored with no intense reflection given to their enormous impact on the person you become as a result of having lived them. Other times they lie in wait, quietly dormant before finally approaching the fore of your psyche like a Mack truck on steep descent with no brakes, daring you to fail to acknowledge their bit of space and time inside your destiny.

The story I'm about to translate from the pages of a memory steeped in the endless layers of a lifetime of years, qualifies. It occurred to me as it happened that my life was undergoing a swift and irrevocable change in direction; it didn’t occur to me to stop to think about it much. Lately, though, the events that took place then, the ones that sculpted my life into its current shape, have been tugging at the sleeve of my consciousness, asking to be acknowledged, understood, appreciated. Begging, even demanding, to be explored.

Given little choice in the matter, I’ve complied.

So, here, then, is the story of the genesis of My Unexpected Life, as remembered by me, in its entire fragmented bits and pieces splendor.

_______________________________

 
One sunny afternoon during the spring of my senior year, my best friend and I went cruising in her mother's powder blue Chevy Capri, listening to Molly Hatchet cranked on 8-track tape, on the prowl for something interesting. We found it, soon enough, in the form of a picnic shelter replete with beer, boys, and rock and roll. As we made our fourth nonchalant drive-by, we recognized a few faces, and finally gathered up the nerve to park the car.

This, as it turned out, was a seminal moment in my life.

_______________________________

I was never the kind of girl who had a lot of dates or steady boyfriends. I was, by personality, not the cliquish type. The whole idea of allegiance to a few was too confining, too limiting. Instead, I had friends that crossed every spectrum of the high school hierarchy, and no enemies to speak of. I dated some, messed around more, and generally had a relatively normal teenage social life. I was no angel by any definition, but I was - by the good grace of genetics - intelligent and athletic, two traits that served to offset, if not completely obscure, whatever trouble I might manage to find.

I trained myself at a formidably young age in the fine art of being a chameleon. I developed the ability to fit in whatever the circumstance, wherever the need. I was never the shining superstar at much of anything; but, more to the point, I was never the outcast, either.

The downside to this adaptive nature of mine showed itself often in my teen years. I had an intense internal life, where I served as my own personal judge, juror and self-destructive executioner. I knew myself as no one else could, if only because I wouldn’t let them. I befriended my demons, understood my limits, and built walls against my fears. I was vividly aware of my extremely dark side. At the same time, even as a very young child, I also knew enough to keep this private self in the shadows of my public persona. I took immeasurable pride in my ability to weather the severe storms; I believed I was extremely adept at dealing with the depression, self-doubt, and obsessive withering introspection that raged inside. This belief would prove dubious with distinction later on in my life.

Beneath the plethora of masks, the normal evolutionary aches and pains of being a teenager, and the outward displays of borderline indifference, there churned a driven and ferociously ambitious girl. I had grandly grandiose visions. I wanted to live the Big Life; to gain fame and acclaim through the power of my written word. My goal - in my mind, my ultimate Destiny - was to become the youngest ever Editor-in-Chief of Vanity Fair, with a flourishing literary career on the side. My girlfriends dreamed of prom dresses, romance, weddings, and babies. To my way of thinking, this kind of talk was silly and insignificant; in my own dreams, those things were superfluous afterthoughts. I could concede that they might someday be a part of my life...have a place in my life; but I vehemently refused to allow that they would ever be my life.

And so, while I partied hard, gave my parents more than their share of worry, conned my teachers into "letting" me skip class, and rarely denied the devil on my shoulder, I also worked hard to maintain a private course meant with full and deliberate intentionality to lead me straight to the mountain peaks of the future that was my Destiny.

It was no accident that by my senior year everything was in perfectly in line. I had the stellar grades, the financial means, the parents whose only wish for me was that I rise to my every potential, and the immense motivating desire to get as far away from home and small town life as physically possible. I could attend virtually any college I wanted, and was accepted by all four I applied to. My life was an open menu of choices, by virtue of designed intent and sheer will.

Then one sunny spring afternoon during my senior year of high school, when I was seventeen, I met a boy. He was cute. Adorable, in fact. Better still, he was older, already a junior in college. He was home on spring break, doing what college students tend to do, break or not, and so it happened that I met him at a keg party at a local park. 

We talked. We laughed. He poured me beer, I giggled like the schoolgirl that I was. We talked about music. We talked about sports. I discovered that he had a weakness for long, brown, wild curly hair, which I conveniently had a head full of at the time; he discovered that I had a weakness for a sense of humor, and kept me laughing until my face hurt. There were dozens of people at the party that day, and yet somehow, for most of it, there was only us.

I felt more than a little confused and surprised by how easily I’d leaped into crush at first sight, even as it was happening. It just wasn't my style; it didn't fit with the master plan. But within a few short hours, I blushed profusely when he asked me for my phone number, writing it on the back of his hand while my heart pounded wildly in my throat, hoping against hope that he’d actually call me.

He did.

Later that night, talking in the stops and starts of two strangers trying to get to know each other, he asked if he could call me from school. He told me he would be home for the summer in a few weeks. He said that he wanted to take me on a real date. I mumbled and stuttered my way through a "that would be great". We sat breathing in each other's ears, tongue tied, for what seemed like hours.

I remember the giddiness I felt as we hung up from that first phone call. It was a feeling that only grew in intensity as the summer wore on.

He was enrolled at WVU, way too close to home for my taste. A school I had sworn, publicly and with vigor, I would never attend.

But then a beautiful spring afternoon and a mindless cruise around town happened.

He was a boy. I was a girl.

He spent an entire summer paying attention to me, and I spent an entire summer wanting him to never stop.

I received my grant of late acceptance from WVU on a Tuesday. By Friday, my dad and I were in the family station wagon, crammed full with my clothes, stereo, books, and other bare essentials, driving down the highway on the three hour trip into the rest of my life.

I Do, Redux

My husband is a scientist, a field not usually associated with comedic tendencies. He's a geologist, specifically; an expert in all things dirt and rock. Not exactly the stuff of high hilarity. He's logical, methodical, and practical to excess when the situation calls for it.

But he also has an incredibly sexy talent. He is relentless in his ability to make me laugh.

His sense of humor is not a thing I can quantify or explain. Unlike a stand-up comic, he doesn't walk around telling jokes or spitting out one liners. I seriously doubt he even gives it much thought, truth be told.

It's just him.

It's the perfectly timed lift of an eyebrow across a crowded room following the entrance of a particularly flamboyant acquaintance.

It's composing and sending an impassioned five paragraph email - out of the blue - to a sportswriter who offended him once. Eight years ago.

It's waking up in the middle of the night to find me watching CNN, putting on his best anchorman voice to say "We reeealllly miss Bill Clinton (wahwahwah) and George Bush is a murderous moron," and then falling right back asleep.

I wish I could tell you the gist of the conversation from the other night that had me laughing so hard tears poured down my cheeks and I was gasping for air. Or show you footage of his diva-esque performance to Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love. Or forward you the instant messages he sends me, the font and color changing on every single line as he types 8 careful keystrokes an hour, and still gets the words wrong.

Maybe you just have to be there.

Someone once said that laughter is the shortest distance between two people. I think I believe it; I know my own funny man lives right inside my heart. Oddly enough, it's a whole lot lighter for carrying him around in there.

___________________________

The two of us have never been a married couple without children, not even for a single day. Early in our marriage, I used to wonder if we'd ever know how to relate to each other without the common bond of raising our kids. I used to worry we'd grow apart, and slowly, without realizing it, become virtual strangers. I used to think that it might be possible for us to wake up some day in the distant future, look at each other, and say, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"

Silly me.

Because I know exactly who he is, after all. A wonderfully goofy, sincerely amazing man who loves me; one half of a brilliant whole. I get the distinct feeling that our little nest, when and if it ever does empty, will always be mighty full.

___________________________

Sometimes, not frequently, but often enough, I'll be sitting across from the man I've been married to for more than two decades, the man whose habits I can recite without thinking, the man whose body I know better than I know my own, when just in the middle of a sentence he'll reach out to touch my face and I'll suddenly sense him looking into me while he leans in, almost painfully slowly, to kiss me, with his eyes wide open, never taking his off of mine, until my head swims, my legs lose their purpose, and my heart skips a beat before stopping altogether.

And in that moment, it feels like the very first time all over again.

I could die tomorrow, an obscenely happy woman at peace with herself.

But then, sometimes.

Not frequently, but often enough.

He shows me what forever means.

My husband is a scientist, a field not usually associated with comedic tendencies. He's a geologist, specifically; an expert in all things dirt and rock. Not exactly the stuff of high hilarity. He's logical, methodical, and practical to excess when the situation calls for it.

But he also has an incredibly sexy talent. He is relentless in his ability to make me laugh.

His sense of humor is not a thing I can quantify or explain. Unlike a stand-up comic, he doesn't walk around telling jokes or spitting out one liners. I seriously doubt he even gives it much thought, truth be told.

It's just him.

It's the perfectly timed lift of an eyebrow across a crowded room following the entrance of a particularly flamboyant acquaintance.

It's composing and sending an impassioned five paragraph email - out of the blue - to a sportswriter who offended him once. Eight years ago.

It's waking up in the middle of the night to find me watching CNN, putting on his best anchorman voice to say "We reeealllly miss Bill Clinton (wahwahwah) and George Bush is a murderous moron," and then falling right back asleep.

I wish I could tell you the gist of the conversation from the other night that had me laughing so hard tears poured down my cheeks and I was gasping for air. Or show you footage of his diva-esque performance to Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love. Or forward you the instant messages he sends me, the font and color changing on every single line as he types 8 careful keystrokes an hour, and still gets the words wrong.

Maybe you just have to be there.

Someone once said that laughter is the shortest distance between two people. I think I believe it; I know my own funny man lives right inside my heart. Oddly enough, it's a whole lot lighter for carrying him around in there.

___________________________

The two of us have never been a married couple without children, not even for a single day. Early in our marriage, I used to wonder if we'd ever know how to relate to each other without the common bond of raising our kids. I used to worry we'd grow apart, and slowly, without realizing it, become virtual strangers. I used to think that it might be possible for us to wake up some day in the distant future, look at each other, and say, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"

Silly me.

Because I know exactly who he is, after all. A wonderfully goofy, sincerely amazing man who loves me; one half of a brilliant whole. I get the distinct feeling that our little nest, when and if it ever does empty, will always be mighty full.

___________________________

Sometimes, not frequently, but often enough, I'll be sitting across from the man I've been married to for more than two decades, the man whose habits I can recite without thinking, the man whose body I know better than I know my own, when just in the middle of a sentence he'll reach out to touch my face and I'll suddenly sense him looking into me while he leans in, almost painfully slowly, to kiss me, with his eyes wide open, never taking his off of mine, until my head swims, my legs lose their purpose, and my heart skips a beat before stopping altogether.

And in that moment, it feels like the very first time all over again.

I could die tomorrow, an obscenely happy woman at peace with herself.

But then, sometimes.

Not frequently, but often enough.

He shows me what forever means.

Table For One

Settling into the chair at the bar table, where I always sit, the server approaches me with a menu and a spiel. I hold up my hand and say, "No worries. I already know what I want." As she walks away from me, I think: if this were a different place and time, she'd know before I did.

"Mornin' Flo."

"Mornin' hon," she'd reply, setting my ice water with lemon on the table before I even sat down.

"The usual?" she'd ask.

"Don't mind if I do," I'd reply, spreading the newspaper out in front of me, ashtray and cigarettes at three o'clock, within easy reach.

But it's here and now, not then and there, and everyone around me is transitive, in a state of constant flux. I'm the only one that stays the same.

I've become 'the usual'.

______________________________

There are three kinds of servers in the world of tables for one. When you dine alone as much as I do, they are easily identified. It's in their approach, and in their eyes.

The first type ignore you as long as possible, all while trying to get rid of you, to turn your table, as quickly as possible. They don't refill your coffee cup or your iced tea. They 'forget' your special requests: no sour cream, onions on the side. They drop your ticket in front of you before your meal even arrives, and once it finally does, they consider their job done.

Sometimes I leave whopping tips for these kinds of servers, a limp sort of "I'll show you" challenge. See? See how wrong your preconceived notions about me were? I'm a damn good tipper, asshole. Then, usually, I never go back to that particular eatery again. As if I'm punishing them. As if they'll miss me terribly. As if I'm teaching them a lesson, thinking they'll come to their senses and treat the next solo diner that much better for having learned it.

The second type never leave you alone. Seeing you sitting there by yourself triggers compassion mode. Or maybe it's pity. Whichever, they flit by your table like a hummingbird, one-sided conversation buzzing around your head. Despite the fact that your nose is purposely buried in the carefully positioned and quite obvious novel opened on the table in front of you, a prop designed to ward off these unwanted advances.

I tip this type well, too, but I'm not sure why. A reciprocal pity? Thanking them for extended, unwanted kindnesses, because I know their hearts are in the right place? Whatever the reason, I tip them well. It soothes the simmering irritation, just enough. I'll probably revisit the establishment where Nosy Ned is employed, although I'll make sure to avoid his section the next time around.

The last type is the best type. They see me come in alone, and so what. I'm just another guest, another table; they're just a server, doing their job and doing it well. I never have to ask for a second or third cup of coffee. The ranch-on-the-side for my fries arrives sans reminder or follow up request. The chit chat is minimal, unless I initiate it, and then it's friendly, casual, non-binding.

When I find this type of server, they come to know me by name eventually. I become a regular. I tip them well, but this time it's out of appreciation. They see me eating alone, a couple of times a week, and understand it's a choice, not a loneliness. They take no pity, they harbor no preconceived notions. They get it.

"Hey, Joe, how's it goin'?"

"Great, great," he'll reply, setting down the ice water with extra lemon wedges he poured as soon as he saw me walk in the door. I grab the newspaper off of the counter and sit down. "The usual?" he'll ask.

"You know what? Not today," I'll answer. "Surprise me."

He'll grin, and throw me a wink. "You got it."

______________________________

I lift my head up from the book that's captured my attention, and look around. There isn't a single face I recognize. You'd think living in a place this long, eating in an establishment this often, you'd come to spot familiar faces once in a while. Doesn't happen much, although scanning the lunch crowd, it's safe to say the people here today are much like the ones here last Thursday. Only the names have changed.

A state of flux, the constant. Transition and rotation. Gain a little here, lose a little there: pounds, insight, perspective.

In the end, the more things change, the more I stay the same.

I've become 'the usual'.

Someday, that too will change, and I'll be ready.

Surprise me.

The Road Home

As soon as we turn down the wooded lane beneath the broad canopy of oaks and see, through the tunnel like opening at the end, the two story white house with the sweeping porch, I am overcome with a rush of deja vu.

"I've been here before," I say. "It's so...familiar."

We park along the short circular drive, right behind a bright yellow Ford pick up truck that has seen better days, and unfold ourselves from the car. My legs had begun to ache in protest at being confined for so long in the tight, cramped space beneath the dashboard. It feels good to stretch.

There are eleven steps leading up to the house, up to the wide expanse of porch that hugs the first story in a protective embrace while, at the same time, welcoming guests with the open arms of gracious rocking chairs and soft green ferns. The porch's ceiling is painted a pale sky blue, and the total effect is exactly as intended. A gentle netherland, neither fully outside, nor fully in; a place of its own.

__________

I remember kneeling at the table on the porch, coloring contentedly. I remember the red canvas Keds, the green gingham checked jumper, and the pull of the rubber band holding my ever present top knot in place, brown curly hair sprouting like a fountain from the crown of my head. I remember the coal barge gliding past, the resounding horn blaring hello in response to my furious waving from the top of the river bank. I remember tomatoes on the vine, red and ripe for the picking. I remember my grandpa's poodle, Tina, snoring in his lap as he rocked gently, back and forth, back and forth.

I remember my grandmother coming outside, the metallic slam of the kitchen's screen door announcing her. I remember her leaning over to kiss the top of Grandpa's head, earning a smile from him and a growl from his "other woman". I remember the taste of the Coke float, creamy vanilla ice cream melting in the soda pop, a frothy sugar high in a glass. I remember climbing up on the wrought iron couch and propping myself snugly up against Grandma's side, squeezing just so under the softest spot of her arm. I remember the scent of White Shoulders.

It always takes me home.

__________

The house seems eerily quiet; an instinctual defense against the stifling humidity. The slightest movement would only encourage the wet, weighted heat, forcing an unasked for lethargy. Better to beat the heat at its own game, choosing stillness, almost out of spite.

We sit in the rocking chairs closest to the broad carved railing, and add our own quietude to the cacophony of silence, waiting. I close my eyes, listening for a minute or two to the memories singing softly in my head. The screen door opens, and with my eyes closed, I can almost see my grandmother standing there, eyes twinkling, looking out.

"How about some nice lemonade?" Three tall, sweaty glasses appear out of my reverie, an oasis of sweet relief right before my eyes.

"Mmmm. Good stuff," he says, clinking his glass against hers in an expression of gratitude. "Not too sour, not too sweet, and ice cold. Just about perfect, I'd say."

She nods, smiling, and eases herself into the rocker directly across from me, settling into a smooth back and forth motion.

We sit a while, sipping lemonade, rocking in harmonic silence.

__________

I remember a Sunday drive to the old home place, a car ride that seemed to take three weeks getting there and three minutes coming back. I remember the open fields, as far as the eye could see, or at least to the foothills of the mountains draped like a scenic backdrop fit for a sweeping epic of a tale. I remember feeding a baby goat from a bottle, and his gripping the nipple so hard, it was everything I could do to keep my hold on it, keep him from running off, bottle and all dangling from his little goatee mouth.

I remember riding on the back of a tractor, scared half to death, but more afraid of not taking my turn and suffering the ridicule of my cousins. At least the boy cousins, and seeing as they outnumbered us girls six to two, it was a fear with some built in legitimacy attached. I remember picking rhubarb, sticky stalks I'd never seen or heard of before. I remember my first bite of strawberry-rhubarb pie, hot from the oven, washed down with the ice coldest glass of milk I'd ever tasted.

I remember hearty good-byes, all around.

I don't remember ever going back.

__________

"It was so nice of you kids to come out here to pay us a visit," she says, as we start to make motions toward taking our leave.

I smile. I haven't thought of myself as a "kid" in forever and a day, but from the perspective of 87 years on this earth, I suppose she's got it right.

"Thank you for having us," I say. "It's been a lovely day."

"Help me get myself up out of this fool chair, will you?"

I reach down, place one arm around her thin shoulders, one hand steadying her sharp elbow, and help her to her feet. She grabs me in a hug, and I catch the unmistakable scent of White Shoulders mixed with old age, a familial signature scent these days, clinging to her neck.

"I have a little something for you," she says, wagging a finger in my direction. "Don't go running off just yet."

I turn to look out over the fields. They seem smaller now, and overgrown. The mountains have moved in closer to the house, which has shrunken a bit with age itself. The barn looks weary, as if a strong glance might be enough to knock it over, and I see no sign of a tractor or a baby goat. Just an old hunting hound sleeping in the burrowed out ground beneath the massive hostas thriving at the base of the porch steps.

I hear the metallic slam of the front screen door and turn to face her.

"Here we are," she says, holding a small envelope in her tiny, world weary hands. "I hope you'll like these. I think they belong with you."

I open the envelope and slip out the photographs.

"See what she wrote there? On the back?"

I flip one of the pictures over, and there, written in my grandmother's fancy flowing script are the words, "Don't get any wrong ideas, but aren't I the wild one?"

"You look just like her, you know."

Smiling through the lump in my throat, I nod.

Then I reach to hug her tight, once more.

For the road.

The one that always takes me home.

It's Raining Outside

I have a rant inside me fit for a royal rant, but it can't come out the way it needs to. Not really. It's discombobulated and not well-rehearsed. Parts of it inappropriate for this forum, if common sense counts for anything. Parts of it inappropriate for this typist, if self perception counts for anything.

It's there, though, and it has to come out.

No rant; a ramble, then.

_________________________________

The week started with an email. That led to an instantaneous shudder of realization. Which led to dwelling on a disappointment. While trying to unpack the personality - mine - that I'm POSITIVE exists inside all the baggage; maybe tucked away in the attic with the winter coats, but somewhere.

And a trail of loose work ends to tie up, too, before the long weekend.

Build from the information given, the week you imagine developed, and cue the blaring alarm clock.

It's 6:25 a.m.

Today is Friday.

_________________________________

A Day in the Life.

1 September.

Kitty. God. She had to be at the vet this morning by 7:30. A day of glucose testing and her first ever experience with "summer camp" (boarding) for our trip to Charleston. She was one pissed off kitty. Back at home, waiting for me? One pissed off son. My old "piece of shit" (car) (are you over the "quotations" yet?) that we are "letting him use" (sorry), wouldn't shift into gear. Call the husband, blah, blah, blah, go to work.

Last day before a three day holiday weekend. What do you think? Not much going on, except my asinine discomfort. I left at noon. Ish. Came home to find the son. And hell, read any post from December to July of this year. Pick one. Your favorite "man/child" (slug; or is that insulting to slugs? they're useful, aren't they?) story du jour. Yeah, like that. The calm before the storm of the past couple of weeks didn't fool me for a second.

But I rode it like a champ.

Joint decision: I stay home. You know. It's "my turn" (quotes: last time, I promise) to stay home to "babysit the house" (gah). Honestly? I'm not entirely disappointed. About the not going. About the rest? Oddly hardened.

Dad calls (the man's timing? freaky) from his office line. "Hey you. You know that 'address bar' on the internet?" (yeah) "You know that arrow thing, and you click it and there are a bunch of sites listed? Ones you've visited?" (yes) "How do you get rid of those?" (snort. for real) I walk him through the steps of deleting cookies, erasing history. "You are something else. How do you know all that stuff? Boy, there was some baa-aa-d stuff on there. I really wanted to get rid of it." (Um, Dad. Gotta run! Love ya! Call ya later!)

Hey! Kitty! Can be rescued! Without having to bunk with the 800-pound lug of a golden lab who sniffed her Pet Taxi like he'd found his long lost mother (seriously. dude)! I'll be her hero! *inner dog lover voice scratches her head and says wtf?* Ahem. So. I saved the day. I rescued her from "summer camp" (ibid). She adores me.

Life is good in places.

_________________________________

I'm the only one home, this Friday night of Labor Day weekend.

It's raining, and feels a little chilly in here. After the summer we've had, the coolness of the air outside is a surprise. A pleasant one. Ernesto's visiting. Not being too rowdy yet, so I don't mind him being around so much.

There are candles. Don't let me forget to blow them out later. Ha!

College football is on the TV in the other room, the volume muted. Do you like the new clock rules? I hate them. The drama at the end of a game with 7 seconds on the clock and an honest to God prayer in hell? I LIVE FOR THAT. (Too much?) It's what makes the college game what it is. Take that away from me, you...you...TV Robber Barrons, and I'll... I'll...I'll not like it, not one little bit, that's what.

GnR is on the stereo; the volume, well, voluminous. In homage to 'Mudge (if I can be so bold) (hey! is that my personality? I knew it was here somewhere!) and his naming of a number one (finally) in his favorite 134 (?) Songs of the '80s. You really should go back and read the whole series. I enjoyed it immensely. So much so that the poor aforementioned 'Mudge very likely thinks I'm an over the hill groupie. (I'm really not. I swear. Like, totally.) Anyway. It was fabulous and his number one, impeccable. (I love the internet.)

A lull, underneath it all. Yes, under all of *that*, the bottomless pit of stream of consciousness constantly churning in my head, there is a lull.

I could tell you I've been thinking. Taking advantage of this bit of time, solitude.

Not true.

Wondering, Pondering, perhaps.

But not thinking.

There's a lull.

_________________________________

Underneath it all.

Life is good in places.

_______

It's quiet now. 

I love the internet. You guys and gals are Masters and Mistresses of the fine art of listening, and let me tell you.

We all hear way too much. Noise.

Listening?

Well, that's something altogether different.

Art.

Having said the above, this post will very likely self-destruct during my 3:00 a.m. self-guided walking tour of the house en route to the glass of water I will "inconveniently" (UNDOUBTEDLY) forget to pour NOW.

If self perception counts for anything.

Hmmm. Maybe tea. Screw the water.

A cup of steaming tea, nice in this chill, on the nightstand.

College football on the bedroom television, the volume muted. Michael Cunningham in my head; the volume, well, voluminous.

I "really should" (cannot wait to) tuck in bed and "get a good night's sleep" (dig into this amazing book) (see sidebar) (it's a k-e-e-p-e-r). 

Right after I blow out the candles.

Monica

She wore a yellow flower in her hair, tucked loosely behind her ear.

Everybody noticed her without seeing her, every single school day. Because of the way she prowled the hallways, one shoulder pressed tightly against the wall as if it would collapse in a heap of rubble were she to cease making physical contact with it. Because of the way she crouched in the corner closest to the entrance of the building, before class and during lunch, picking methodically at angry red welts on her arms and legs. Because of the barrier of silence that surrounded her, making her appear slow witted to the point that even teachers, grown ups who should have known better, would snap impatiently in her direction if a moment came when they had no choice but to communicate with her.

Everybody noticed her, but nobody approached her. Even the bravado of youth wasn’t enough to repel the fear of reaching through her palpable aloneness; touching her strangeness, her insulated isolation, with their own potential susceptibility was too much risk for no known reward.

Everybody noticed her without seeing her, until the day she came to school with a yellow flower tucked behind her ear.

----------------------------

He was the one every boy in school wanted to be, and every girl in school wanted to be with; tall and athletic with a shock of brown wavy hair shading the pale green glint of his eyes. Popular and fearless, funny and just this side of dangerous, he was the key that opened the locked golden doors leading to all that glittered about high school life. He led, and others followed, a Pied Piper for the eighties, dressed in faded jeans and high top tennis shoes.

The morning she came to school with the flower in her hair, she seemed changed, somehow. Instead of crouching in the corner of the building, she walked among the crowds, twirling a strand of her stringy hair in one hand, head down, but smiling shyly at people, making awkward eye contact through the top of the black framed glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

Everybody noticed her that morning, with nudges and sneers, whispered words and raised eyebrows.

He noticed her, too, wearing her own new bravado tucked loosely behind her ear like a dare he couldn’t resist.

“Pretty flower, Skeeter,” he said, a smile in his voice that might have appeared warm and friendly to ears unaccustomed to hearing it.

She blushed, so intensely it seemed to tint her entire body in shades of rose and crimson. Her mouth moved in the shape of “thank you”, but no words came out.

“What?” he asked.

She staggered backward a step or two, and tried again.

“What did you say?” he leered, leaning in menacingly close, no trace of the pretense of a friendly smile present in his voice any more.

She tucked her chin to her chest, attempting to turn away, stumbling over her own feet in the process.

He laughed, the boys that wanted to be him and the girls that wanted to be with him following suit.

Nothing fortifies the puffed out chest of false bravado like the encouragement of an adoring throng.

He reached out to the mortified girl, and pulled the yellow flower from her hair. He spun in it his fingers for a prolonged nanosecond before dropping it to the ground and stepping on it. Then he turned his back on her, facing the crowd, his expression smugly stoic, his eyes as hollow as a dead man’s. He sauntered through the crowd, into the building, without a word.

I watched the whole thing happen, right in front of me. I felt sick to my stomach by the end of it, and I couldn’t be sure if it was because of what had taken place or because I hadn’t done one single thing to try and stop it.

I followed her to the tennis courts, where I found her crouching in the corner of the chain link fence, rocking on her heels back and forth.

She wasn’t crying.

She didn’t look at me when I crouched beside her.

She didn’t say anything, and neither did I; we crouched in silence, side by side, for long minutes that felt like days.

Then, I stood up and reached out my hand. I helped her to her feet and we began the long walk back towards the now empty entrance to the building.

In the grass, a patch of dandelions grew; bright yellow buttons against the brown-green school yard.

I watched her bend to pick one.

I watched her tuck it loosely behind her ear.

I watched her turn to face me with a smile.

“I’m Monica.”

I stood there, struck momentarily dumb by the unexpected sound of her voice.

Finally, I nodded, and said, “I'm Jennifer.”

She laughed, a squeaky, tonal noise I can still hear today if I close my eyes hard enough. “I know that, silly.”

I watched as she bent again, plucked another dandelion, and handed it to me.

I watched her turn, and continue on her way, head held high.

----------------------------

I noticed her without seeing her, until the day we went to school with yellow flowers tucked behind our ears.

On that day, my eyes were opened wide.

Nothing has looked quite the same since.

Still

When I was in high school, I knew a guy. We rarely saw each other during the week; passing with a smile in the hall every now and then or running into each other in the smoking area between classes was about the extent of it.

Weekends, however, were another story altogether.

Inevitably, we'd end up at the same parties, in the same condition. As Saturday nights grew progressively darker and later, we grew progressively drunker and more stoned. Couples would pair off, others would leave, a music filled quiet would hover and there we'd be, virtually alone.

So we talked. Into the wee hours of Sunday morning, we would talk about everything under the moon. He was quiet and shy, usually, but in those hours he would crawl out of his shell and expose his soul. He would articulate his philosophies of life with an angst filled eloquence I'd only heard before in books.

We talked. He told me stories about his life at home, the only son of a prominent child psychologist in town. One who apparently enjoyed using his own offspring as guileless subjects in a twisted living laboratory of emotional abuse. He shared all of this with me while I tried to silence my tears; he shared it even when I let the sobs come loud so I could stop listening to him. Because he knew I was hearing him, anyway.

We talked. He asked questions no one had ever thought to ask of me before, and made me think out loud. He would push and prod, eager to explore someone's thoughts besides his own. He told me once that he wished he could crawl inside my head, just for a little while, and sit, absorbing the stillness of it.

We talked. And we grew very close in our strange way, one weekend to the next, picking up right where we'd left off the Saturday before as if a week of days hadn't just passed like a wordless river between us.

One day at school, a rumor rumbled its way through the halls. When it finally got to me, I knew in my heart he really had chased down that bottle of aspirin with the better part of a fifth of his father's Jack Daniels.

He survived, but he was never the same.

Neither was our friendship.

Because from that point on, he was a prisoner in the hell of his own home. Not for his own protection, but as punishment for the pall of embarrassment his father 'endured'. Do you have any idea how damaging an only son's attempted suicide can be for the stellar career of a vaunted child psychologist? To this day, I cannot forgive this man I never met for the benign neglect and malignant attention I will never understand.

We lost touch. I hardly ever saw him anymore. On the rare occasions I did, his eyes were hollow shells staring at some distant point on the horizon as invisible to me as I had become to him. There was no connection, no recognition, no attempt at acknowledgment. There wasn't anything.

I was off at college when I heard that he had broken into his father's liquor cabinet and drunk himself into a near stupor before opening the door and taking off, on foot. Many hours later, and yet only three miles from his house, a police cruiser pulled up alongside as he stumbled and talked to himself in an indecipherable language. He was a minor. He was publicly intoxicated. The cops put him in the squad car, and drove him to the city jail.

In his cell, behind bars of steel this time, he was evidently coherent enough to comprehend the fact that the cops intended to call his father. He pleaded. He begged them not to do it, to let him sleep it off. He cried. Yelled. Wailed. He balled himself up into a fetal position in the corner of his cell, whimpering like a scolded puppy. The officer on duty became concerned enough to place him under watch. Concerned enough to take his belt, and his shoestrings.

But he didn't take away the sheets on the cot.

The overhead water pipes were an easy toss for a tall young man, standing on the bed.

Stepping off it too easy a solution for a broken young boy, standing on nothing.

His name was Scott.

I don't think of him quite as often as I used to.

But I thought of him today.

And I miss him.

Still.

The Sounds of Silence

I'm not really sure what's going on here with the lack of posting. Seems the more hectic things are, the busier I am, the more all-consuming life becomes...the less I have to say. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense on the face of it, and yet, there it is.

Suddenly, after a frenetic few months, life is like a leaf fluttering softly to the ground, settling finally into a stillness. Truth be told, it's a welcome sensation. The hustle and rush is waning, and I find myself being absorbed in a vibrant silence that has been missing for too long a time.

The calm before an as yet unnamed storm?

Maybe so.

But by virtue of the quietude, I've rediscovered the art of active listening, and in the golden silence, I hear the gentle whisper of the winds of change.

_________________________

We walk a good ways without talking, hand in hand, guided by the light of the summer moon. It hangs low in the sky this night, full and round, a heaping scoop of orange sherbet dripping its pale glow on the darkened landscape's silhouette.

"It's so close, I think I could reach out and touch it," I say, a hush to my voice, fitting for the atmosphere of the moment.

He shifts his eyes toward the horizon, squeezing my hand, and we walk a good ways more in practiced, comfortable silence.

_________________________

The noise fills my head, courses through my blood stream, spurring me to action driven more by over stimulation than by reasoned deliberation.

The quiet fills my head, admonishes my inner voice, nudging me into increasingly unfamiliar territory that I gradually begin to recognize as the peace of thoughtful consideration.

Keeping measured time with the relaxed pace of a mind no longer racing, my breathing slows. In the pause, everything is clearer, starker, somehow more real, and senses long dormant in defense against the chaotic clamor tingle, stirring back to life.

Hoarded Extraordinaries

I can't remember a time when I didn't believe extraordinary things were my destiny. But one day you realize you've followed destiny's footsteps along the garden path to normal, and have settled there quite comfortably.

It was the final inning of the final game, the one for all of it. You were my coach, walking to the mound to take the ball from my hand. You had to pull me, even though I'd pitched the game of my life, because the arm was tired, the score was close, and you knew I'd given everything I had to give. I wanted to cry, but wouldn't, and you knew that, too. In the blink of a moment you were Dad, tugging the bill of my cap, looking in my eyes and saying, "I am so very proud of you."

Normal is as normal does. It's in the everyday, the ordinary, by definition. Wake up in the morning and head to work. Put in a full day, do a few errands. Cook dinner, throw away yesterday's paper. Watch some TV, or read, or coax a little evening conversation. Lay down and ready yourself to do it all again tomorrow.

Dreaming. That's what I thought, really. "I must be dreaming." The pain from the c-section was excruciating, the exhaustion threatened to smother me. I lay in the hospital bed, barely aware of my surroundings, unwilling to open my eyes. Then I heard you. Humming, softly. I turned my head to see you sitting in the horrid, hard plastic chair, scooted up right next to my bed. And you were holding her. This red, wrinkled, tiny human being was cuddled in your arms as if she'd been born to lay exactly there, in the crook of your elbow, head resting against your chest as you hummed her a lullaby. Watching you with her, in that very moment, was when I knew. So many things.

I still believe I'm destined for extraordinary things. Exceptional, life changing things. Legacy things. Impact things. I've got ideas, in my little mind. I've got plans and dreams of making a difference in this world. Of slaying dragons, of conquering fears, of saving lives and of unearthing buried talents.

You are crying like your heart is broken, but all I want is for you to go to bed. In your mind, the world has ended and you are mourning its passing with every last wail in your body for what seems hours. I can't take it any more. Angry, I go to your room and lift you out of your crib. Your face and jammies are soaked with tears, your eyes are swollen puffy, your face is covered with a web of red blotches, and now my heart is broken, seeing you this way. I hold you close, swaying back and forth in the darkened room until your sobs subside into hiccups and your breathing softens into raspy regularity. We stand there together in silence for a little while, when I feel your pudgy fingers feathering my cheek. I look over at you, looking back at me, thumb firmly planted in your mouth, a wily little grin of victory on your face. "I love you, my sweet mommy."

What resides within a person, enabling them to cross that line between good and great, between normal and ethereal, between ordinary and extraordinary? It lives in me, I'm sure of it. Even if I don't always know what it looks like, or recognize it when I see it. Even if I have a tendency to pack it away temporarily in a little locked box, hoarding my extraordinaries away for safekeeping. And there they'll be, waiting for me, in a moment of inspiration or insanity or curiosity, to open the lid, unpack the contents, and study the wonders inside.

There are times I may have doubted, but I've always really known.

It lives in me.

Turn the Page

He has taught me things through all of this, in spite of himself. In spite of myself. Some lessons I'd rather never have learned. Whatever naivete may have still existed within my inner workings has long since been ripped to shreds, lying now in tattered remnants, not so artfully arranged upon the pages of my scrapbook memory.

"We'd like to take you to dinner. To celebrate."

He hesitates. I knew he would. "I don't know. It might turn out like my eighteenth birthday. Good times, on what should have been the biggest day of my life."

He can fill me with awe with his select-a-vision, his ability to segregate one event from another, as if there were no relativity. As if the forces of the cumulative pounding waves of transgressions could be compartmentalized, each its own animal.

"You do remember, don't you? We found out on your eighteenth birthday that you'd failed to graduate with your class, officially. That news was somewhat larger than a few candles on a cake." I remember the phone call from the school. And the letter from the attorney with a receipt for $700 stapled neatly to the top of the notice postponing another court date, hand delivered in the courthouse hallway.

"But I finished, and I'm graduating soon. I told you I would. Seems like a bunch of wasted hostility now, if you think about it."

He's teaching me things. About how his mind works, if nothing else. About how very little he understands our minds in the matter.

We meet his dad for dinner, and my husband extends his hand to my son in congratulations. An awkward extension, from both ends, relief tinged with apprehension. A tight rope I attempt to traverse between these two men in my life, alternately clinging white knuckled to, or tiptoeing delicately along, its minuscule breadth.

Conversation turns to sports, mindless chatter in starts and stops, interspersed with nervous giggling emanating from my throat against my will. But we get through it, and before my husband turns to walk to his vehicle, he turns to his son and says, "I'm proud of you. For this. I hope you feel some of that for yourself. It's a step. A good one."

Our son nods, and says, "See you at home," before folding himself into the passenger side of my car. I exhale, again, and close my door behind me, glancing sideways at the profile of the young man beside me, part stranger, part piece of my heart.

He grins and shrugs.

The CD changes and a familiar chord plays. Reaching to crank the volume, I say, "Know something? If I had a stage and a guitar, and maybe Michael Franti on the stool next to me, this is the song I would sing for you."

Don't fear the nighttime. Because the monsters know that you're divine.

The lyrics start and I wait for the groan telling me what a dork I am. It never comes, and the song plays on, soon enough layered over with our two voices, keeping the beat, word for word, in fractured harmony.

Don't fear your family. Because you chose them, a long time before your birth.

It's never too late, to start the day over.

It's never too late, to pick up the phone.

It's never too late, to lay your head down on my shoulder.

It's never too late, to come on home.

As the song ends, I feel my eyes brim, the emotions of the day threatening to spill over. He reaches his long arm across the front seat and messes up my hair. It's a gesture I've used on him a billion times in these past eighteen years, a spontaneous response on those occasions when his boyish ways would render me otherwise speechless.

I can't help but laugh.

I'm no longer naive enough to believe that this day, this one tied up loose bit, signifies the end of the story.

But he's taught me things through all of this.

And in spite of myself, I've come to realize that I am not yet jaded enough to lose appreciation for an opportunity to turn the page.

In spite of myself, I've learned that from him.

Mavis & Me

This was originally written July 31, 2004, but somehow never posted here. I remembered it after a nearly identical experience just yesterday, right down to the egg salad sandwich and the purchase of a brand new Berg.

----------------------------------------------

The bottom of the sky falls out, releasing a torrential rain serving only one purpose: to stoke the steamy sauna that is a July afternoon in North Carolina. It stops, though, as quickly as it started, and by the time I get where I am going, the sun comes out full strength to do that thing it does so well.

I park in an open space right in front of the little bookstore. It's a treasure chest of a place that hasn't been Starbucked out of business yet, owned and operated by a bespectacled bibliophile who sells the popular stuff to pay the rent, but fills the store with stack upon stack of volumes written by locals, and little known gems, and soon-to-be-knowns written by authors who gratefully appear in person to read for small, appreciative audiences.

In short, one my favorite places on earth.

As soon as I walk in, the first thing I see is the table full of signed books, prominently featuring a paperback collection of short stories by an author I adore. It is a title that has somehow escaped my awareness, and the feeling is a little like opening an oyster to find a rare black pearl, when suddenly you're giddy with excitement at the dumb luck of stumbling on such a rich reward.

Elizabeth Berg is one of my favorite writers. Not that she's a genius in any real literary sense; it's much more simple than that. I love her work because she tells my stories. She tells them in words so real, so common, so pure and true; words that seem like they've been wrenched right out of my own experience and onto her pages. And while she must spend hours precisely crafting every line, they end up on the written page with apparent effortless ease, as if they were meant to be just exactly where, and what, they are.

The best part of this whole deal from my end is that it's her doing all the work. As much as I feel it, or think it, or want to say it, I never really could. But she can, and she does, and for that enormity of talent, I adore Elizabeth Berg.

Grabbing up a signed copy of this new-to-me Berg collection like a kid stealing the last of the goodies from the cookie jar, I add it to my already hefty pile and make my way to the cash register. The owner, soft spoken as a librarian in the hush of the store, offers a comment or two about each of my selections, dabs of insight thrown in free of charge, the sort of perk you just can't get in the conglomerate queues of a sterile big box retailer.

To the left of the bookstore's entrance is a small deli that closes way too early for my liking, Saturday lunch ending at two. I'd spent more time than intended browsing books, but have designs on ordering a sandwich to go. Five minutes to closing, I walk through the door, and am greeted by a young guy working alone, wiping down the counters.

"Too late for a sandwich?"

Scarcely looking up from his work, he replies, "Nope. What's your pleasure?"

I take my egg salad sandwich, bowl of fresh fruit, and bottle of ice cold water outside, where there are three picnic tables in a small grassy space in back of the store, right next the white fence that surrounds a broad meadow where the Belted Galloway roam. I settle in at the middle table, the one tucked in the shade under an old, gnarled tree. Spreading my luncheon feast out on the table, I reach for the bag containing my brand new copy of Ordinary Life.

In a twist of acutely perfect, if coincidental, timing, the opening piece in the collection strikes a chord that resonates in my heart. Titled Ordinary Life: A Love Story, it is the story of Mavis, a 79 year-old wife and mother who has decided to lock herself in the bathroom for a week. She's not mad, or upset, or anything at all, except ready for some time to herself, to think and to contemplate. She has made up the tub with blankets and pillows, a cozy little bed. She's stocked Wheat Thins and Heath Bars under the sink. There is a stack of books and magazines at the ready.

She tries to explain to Al, her husband of forever and a day, why she's doing this. He thinks it's crystal clear she's lost her mind.

"I just got an idea that I really want some time completely to myself. And I'm taking it. I don't see the point in running off somewhere. We can't afford it anyway."

-------

"What the hell would you do if I did this, Mavis? What would you think?"

"I would try to understand," she says. "I wouldn't think it was so crazy, needing to get away from the world for a while. I would just let you do it...and I would not try to make you feel bad and guilty."

Silence. And in it, his recognition that she is absolutely right.

So, eventually, Al does come around, bringing her a nightgown, or a clean towel on occasion. They have conversations through the door, Mavis content in her little retreat, Al counting down the days until she comes out, comes back to him.

She spends the week thinking back over all of the ordinary moments that have added up to the sum total of her life, the tender ones, the mundane ones, the hits and the misses, wondering what it all meant, and if she lived it well enough. Washing her face before her last night in the tub, she sees her reflection, and it strikes her.

"I am seventy-nine years old," she says, into the towel. And then, into the mirror, "And I have done everything right..."

She leaves the bathroom, walks down the dark hallway, and climbs into bed next to Al, already asleep in the room they've shared nearly every night of their married lives.

She is thinking that all of life is accidental: the pink smudge of dawn, the depth of the oceans, the turning of the earth, everything...And so, one's own small life. What could you make of it? Who knew whom you would be born to, befriend, live out your life with? Those were accidents too, weren't they? Completely arbitrary things, barely noticed, most often. And yet...Couldn't there be just a bit of a grand plan, she wonders, maybe just a touch here and there; couldn't there be some benevolent intention that graced some lives?

By now, I've stretched out, laying on my back on the picnic table bench. I close the book slowly and hold it to me, a "she so gets it" reverie apparent, I'm sure, on my face. After a minute or two spent trying to readjust myself to the real world around me, I begin to pack up my stuff. Just as I stand to walk to the car, I notice the guy from the deli leaning against the back door, smoking a cigarette. Watching me. We lock eyes for a beat, before he says, "You were lookin' pretty far away there for a while. Have a nice trip?"

I laugh out loud before answering.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

The very best kind.

While Dorothy Waits

Everybody knows that confrontations at three in the morning never end well.

It's one of those facts of life written in the stars. A thing nobody has to tell you. A thing you're just born knowing.

Thursday after work, we received a call from a local business establishment. At worst, our son had stolen from us again. At best, his behavior was sketchy, and with a history like his, sketchy behavior generally means the worst is likely.

My husband stewed, unable to reach his son to hear his garbled explanation, his Scottarian logic, and if he had reached him, I have no doubt my husband would have gained nothing more than a bad headache and a severe case of agitation. Not reaching him, however, only produced the same results, tenfold.

I heard my husband crawl in bed beside me around midnight. I heard him toss. I heard him sigh. I heard him turn. I heard him get out of bed again, nearly two hours later, and I heard him pace the floor downstairs.

At three in the morning, I heard my son use his key in the front door. Seconds later, I heard the argument begin. The irritation and anger in my husband's voice was matched beat for beat by the outright moral indignation of the accused. How dare we!? he yelled. Things were going so good for the past few days! (And by good, I can only assume he meant we haven't had any contact, therefore no conflict.) I can't be sure, but I may have even chuckled involuntarily into my pillow at the absurdity of his debate as I lay still and silent behind closed doors, tucked securely in my bed.

At three fifteen, our son was gone.

Friday, not ten minutes into my workday, the assistant principal called, inquiring about her wayward summer school student's whereabouts. Third day (being a holiday shortened week, the only Friday class on the schedule), and he was a no show.

I have no doubt this absence was intended to hurt us. Because he, clearly, could care less. We wonder if he's left his latest place of employment in the lurch, as well. Because, you understand, that might hurt us, too.

We haven't seen him since. Again. Or heard from him. He could come home in five minutes, he could come home tomorrow. He might be on a bus headed to Key West, to live the life he believes is his destiny. Bumming around, "having a good time", preferrably at someone else's expense.

I have no way of knowing.

________________________

I woke up at 6:30 this morning. Why, I cannot say. But as soon as I poured my first cup of coffee, I was overcome with an ambition to clean my son's room. I finished at four this afternoon.

I threw away four bags of garbage and washed nine loads of clothes. I scrubbed ungodly stains from his grimy carpet and sprayed three-fourths a bottle of Febreeze. I turned his mattress and hung his denim comforter outside to dry. I even scrubbed his bathroom.

Organizing his bookshelf was by far the hardest part. I kept the books my non-reader child had actually read and enjoyed, but I boxed up all the books I'd ever bought him on the hopeful basis of inspiring this love of mine in him. They're in the attic now, out of sight, out of mind.

I have the feeling that my husband thinks my industriousness today is some sort of grieving process. He's been giving me wide latitude, watchful but quiet. When he pulled the stove and refrigerator out of their places to finish the awkward spots in the wallpaper stripping/paint job I started in the kitchen two years ago, I felt him trying to help, in the way he knows how. I knew he was trying to do a thing that would make me happy, lighten my heart just that much, if only because I'd been waiting two years for him to get around to this particular item on the nagging honey-do list.

And it looks fabulous, truly. The job looks finished, finally.

But I know better. It wasn't grief that drove me today. It was a need to remove the stench of my child's apathy from our home. To purge the mountain of littered disdain I am forced to look at, be slapped in the face with, every time I pass his doorway.

He can live that way on his own dime, on his own time, in his own heart and mind. But when he comes back, if he does, he'll be walking into my world now.

His bullshit is not welcome here anymore.

________________________

I've showered, rinsed the filth from my hair and skin, and am feeling squeaky clean and freshly new right this minute.

I'm cooking baked scallops, tomato risotto and asparagus for dinner. There is a fine selection of music standing ready to go on the stereo. Mother Nature even decided to cut us a break this weekend, and the weather, knock wood, is positively brilliant, the quintessential North Carolina summer afternoon.

And now?

There is a cold beer in the fridge calling my name, which I plan to go fetch on my way to join the timeless Ms. Dorothy Parker, who is waiting patiently for my presence on the deck.

It's just another lovely day in paradise.

________________________

Everybody knows that confrontations at three in the morning never end well.

But I didn't even say good-bye.

Stories

Some would have you believe there are two sides to every story. I disagree. Stories shared between two or four or twenty people are multi-faceted gemstones, polished by individual memories until they glint in the sunlight, casting kaleidoscopic shadows on the sky.

We tell a lot of stories in my family. Always have, like a tribe sitting around a bonfire, passing our oral histories from generation to generation to keep them breathing, to keep them alive. There are stories about my grandfather, a man I never met, that I could recite with such clarity of detail, you might think I'd been there. There are stories about my childhood, retold as seen through my parent's eyes, where a simple day in the life takes on the onus of a morality tale for the ages. There are stories that my kids remember, slices of moments I would have missed completely were they not repeated, over and over, with childlike wonder.

Whenever I spend a few days in the company of my family, my head is filled so full of these well loved histories, freshly told, that there is scarcely room for anything else for days on end.

______________________

We're sitting on the screened in porch late on Monday evening, when Dad says, "Remember the time...?" and launches into the story of a long ago softball practice.

______________________

Dad was the coach of my softball All-Star team. We'd made it to the regionals, a tournament on our home turf to decide which team would represent a three state area at the Southeast tourney in South Carolina. We practiced like dogs, twice a day, giving up afternoons at the pool with our friends and all of those other 'normal' summer things. We worked our asses off. Most of the girls were willing to do it because my dad inspired them, made them believe there was not one single reason we couldn't do it. The only thing keeping us from going all the way was ourselves.

Did we want it? Yes!

Did we really want it? YES SIR!

He inspired all this in me, too, of course, but it was more than that. I wanted him to be proud of me. Not just as another player on the team, another cog in the victory machine. Of me. For me.

At our final afternoon practice before the games were to begin, we all took our positions on the field for the last time, me on first base. Dad hit one long fly ball to right field. She caught it, threw it in to the cut off man, and ran to the dugout with the rest of us cheering her name at the top of our lungs.

Once the outfielders were all in, he would hit a ground ball to each infielder, who would throw a clean, crisp pass to me on first and take their turn running off the field to their own cheers. Third, short, pitcher, second, a high pop up to the catcher. Everyone perfect, everyone in, except for me.

Standing alone at first base.

He lobbed the ball up in the air and took a healthy swing. The ground ball hit a rock on the field and took a wild bounce. I couldn't field it. He hit me a second ball. Maybe I was distracted by being the only one who messed up, but I messed up again. The ball dribbled right between my legs. He hit a third. A fourth. A fifth. The rest of the team stared, in quiet awe as he peppered me with line drives. He pounded grounders in my direction so fast, so furious, Jeter couldn't have kept up. I threw my first baseman's mitt to the ground, crossed my arms over my chest and stood stoic, glaring defiance.

Like Babe Ruth calling the famous home run, Dad pointed the end of the bat at me. In the hushed silence, his voice boomed.

"Go. Home."

I was stunned, but refused to show it. Not even stopping to gather my gear, I ran off the field, and took a short cut through the woods. I cried all the way home. I was embarrassed, but it was so much more than that. I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that I'd disappointed my dad.

I'd let him down.

______________________

This is a story my dad has told and retold a thousand times, although from his perspective. Never failing to add, "It was my worst moment as a parent. It is one of the few, but biggest regrets I own, that I would do anything to live over again."

I think that says a lot about my dad, right there.

But the thing is, he never bothers to tell the end of the story.

So this time, I'm going to finish it.

______________________

Hours later - it had to have been; it was dark, and I'd already fallen asleep - he knocked on my bedroom door. I didn't turn the lights on when he came in because I didn't want him to see my swollen eyes and tear stained face.

There's no crying in softball.

He pulled a chair up to my bed and made me face him. "I'm sorrier than you'll ever know for what happened today. I've tried so hard to make sure I never treated you any differently out there than the rest of the team. To let them know you weren't getting special treatment because you are my daughter. Today, I failed. I treated you differently by being harder on you than I would ever have been with any one of the rest of them. I'm ashamed of myself. And I owe you an apology."

I looked at him. "It's all right, Dad. I'm sorry, too."

He handed me a bright white softball, clearly brand new. There was writing on it - 'Most Valuable Player' - and it was signed, 'Coach'.

"This was supposed to be yours after the season. I want you to have it now. I want you to know."

I hugged him. He squeezed me tight, kissed my forehead, and left the room. I lay in bed, holding the ball - the trophy - and rolling it over and over in my hands. That's when I saw the writing on the other side.

'Most Valuable Person'

And it was signed.

'Love, Dad'

Fade to Black

She can't remember the last time they met, though it was only three years ago this third of July, a hot, moonless summer night, when she'd spent the final moments holding his hand, alternately speaking to him in hushed tones and singing "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" ever so softly into his ear, her cheek meeting his where it lay on the stiff hospital pillow.

She can tell you how they met, in vivid technicolor detail; about the pouring rain that day some seventy years ago when her big brother brought him to the house, a drowned rat by all appearances. But even so, she couldn't take her eyes off of his; they way they twinkled and danced! Just one look, and before she knew it she was following him down the yellow brick road of his dreams, into happily ever after.

She can't remember the name of the nice lady who fed her lunch yesterday and breakfast this morning; the one who cajoles her into taking "just one more bite"; the one who brings the styrofoam cup of too sweet lemonade to her lips to wash it down; the one who is a mere child herself, but inevitably crows about what a "good girl" she's been to eat so much of the tepid, pureed gruel that passes for a meal these days.

She will ask you, though, about your babies, and even about Ms. Stinky-son, her great grandson's not-so-favorite kindergarten teacher. Did "that woman" ever give him back his truck? she'll ask, recalling an incident long forgotten by the parties involved, a glint in her voice as she stands ready to defend the shaggy haired five year-old with the tear stained face of a decade or more ago, standing in living color before her mind's eye, in its own twisted version of the here and now.

She can't remember why she doesn't see you everyday, or, perhaps more aptly put, that she doesn't. Where has everybody gone? Why is she in this awful god forsaken place? She hates it here, she says, without saying a word, but still, you can read the indictment on her face. She wants to go home. Can't you take her there? Sit on the big flagstone back porch and gaze across the river, have a glass of tea and talk about remember when? The pleading that goes unsaid is enough to break a soul in two, jagged edges still piercing and pinching long after the visit is over.

She won't remember that you've been here, almost as quickly as you go. Tomorrow, today will be just yesterday, those short term memories the first attacked by the cruel, unforgiving scourge that wipes the surface of her mind clean each night.

But you'll remember.

"I have to go, Grandma. I'll be back soon."

Her face turns, seeking yours.

"I love you," you say, nearly choking on the swirl of emotion you feel welling up from the depths of your suddenly fragile heart.

Her cloudy eyes find yours, and lock there in a long, present moment.

"I love you, sweetie," she states with all the authority of the grandmother you've always known. "And don't you ever forget it."

24

The bride wore white, which was a tad over reaching given the circumstances. Her mother had found a dress on the rack at a small local shop. A simple, to the knee number with matching heels. It wasn't a flowing, sequined gown, but it did have bits of lace at the collar and pearl buttons. The bride frowned, but some mother's dreams die hard, and some daughters understand this.

The groom wore a black suit with a red rosebud boutonniere. He looked uncomfortable, and young, and paced as if it were his job.

The couple's child was festive in a bulbous pink cotton ensemble that clashed mightily with her three week-old, ruddy red complexion. Even so, she was the belle of the ball.

The bride was responsible for the wedding bands. Half way to the church, she realized they were still sitting in their boxes on top of her childhood dresser. She was fifteen minutes late to the church, setting off a seriousness to the morning's already steady pacing.

The ceremony was attended by five people, in the gorgeous stone chapel that had survived horrific fire years before. It felt heavy with symbolism, that sanctuary; replete with stained glass, polished wood, and an altar adorned in flowers.

The bride remembers wobbling on her tricky heels, and the kiss. Everything else about the most important, pivotal fifteen minutes of her life to that point is remembered on the basis of photographic evidence.

The reception was held at the home of the bride's grandmother. The vast backyard reaching to the river bank and overlooking the state capitol building a fitting backdrop; it had been the setting for so many important family memories through the years, it seemed the only right and perfect place to celebrate this one.

It is highly probable that few in attendance that afternoon all those years ago, whether in person or in spirit, expected this marriage to last. Including the bride herself, it might be said. They were so young; there were so many obstacles. Success would take work and effort and a maturity quite possibly beyond their capacity. Still, there was at least one person present who knew better.

Fortunately for the skittish bride, that singular exception happened to be the wholly committed groom. And through the years, on the dug in heels of his determination, on the broad shoulders of his strength, and on the vast wisdom of his mind, they did, indeed, survive.

And more. They thrived.

On the soaring faith of his heart, they proved happily ever after to be more than an unattainable fairy tale ending.

_______________

God knows it wasn't always easy, or even pretty. There were too many rough spots to count. Over the years, the union teetered on the brink of youth, of money stress, of jealousy and pettiness. Of thoughtlessness and even, sometimes, cruelty.

But he was stubborn, and she was willing. They stuck with it. And somehow along the way, they managed to figure it out.

They learned to respect and appreciate each other's uniqueness, instead of resenting and judging it. They patiently learned to speak the language of each other's hearts, instead of closing down the lines of communication. They learned to trust the other's intentions, instead of creating clouds of unwarranted suspicion.

They learned they were better individuals, separate but equal, when they united as one. They learned that kindness, respect, trust and understanding were more than words on a greeting card. They learned that the trials and struggles made them stronger, that the joys and thrills brought them closer.

They learned to share. They learned change could be a good thing.

They learned that love wasn't so hard once they quit trying to fight it and instead gave in to the immense wonder of it.

_____________________

The couple wears a bit more gray in their hair than they did on that day twenty-four years ago. Time stands still for no one.

Then again, neither does love.

But if you're very, very lucky, and hold on to it with all your heart, it will take you on the most amazing ride of your life.

Quiet

There are certain subjects that have become conversation non grata. Not because they aren't in the forefront of most every waking thought, but rather because they are the elephant in the room, ambling aimlessly in worn out flip flops, already discussed ad nauseum. Not to the point of extinction clearly - there it goes again, stomping its bulk about, leaving giant, scarring footprints embedded in its wake - but to the point of understanding that talking about them is a futile exercise in...well...futility. So we've entered into a subconscious pact, and the subject goes unbroached with deliberate intent.

Enough practice, we've found, makes it work. In an intricate dance, we talk about the weather. The weekend. The way we were. The summer ahead. We talk about other things. The easy quiet we've always known, just enjoying each other's company, returns as the elephant in the room grows still. Nothing more than dead weight now, taking up space, despite its best efforts to make sure we never forget.

______________________

What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this with a man like me?

Thanking my lucky stars, I think to myself.

And across the silence, a smile says everything, without a single word spoken.

Where I'm From

If you can tell me why I suddenly feel the need to "intro" my posts, feel free to offer up your analysis, because I have no clue.

This is my favorite meme, of a sort, on the entire internet. I first learned about it ages and ages ago from the talented Colleen, who found the template here (courtesy of Fred, of Fragments From Floyd, I should have noted). An amazing anthology of end results can be found here.

The only reason I haven't tried it before is because I believe I could end up with a million different versions of this poem, depending on the given day.

I finally decided, so what?

This is where I'm from. Today.

____________________

Where I'm From

I am from greasy restaurant kitchens, from Coke floats and the hardwood floors of musty, sweaty gyms, filled with bouncing echoes of rousing cheers gone by.

I am from the sweet, meandering valley, nestled contentedly within the mountain mama's majesty.

I am from the wild rhododendrons, powerful and plentiful, from the verdant banks of the mightily lazy Kanawha.

I am from long Sunday drives down dusty roads and boisterous whiffle ball games at picnics, from Jesse Lawrence and Prairie Hinkle and Mamie Marie.

I am from the debilitating weakness of addiction and from the unsung strength of perseverance.

From boundless potential and dared dreams.

I am from the charred stone of the Methodist church, from spirituality that knows no walls.

I'm from the rolling farms and the odorous paper mills, from fried chicken, spring onions on white bread, and Diner Burger secret sauce.

From the timeless bonds of passionate laughter, the great unknowns of Marfan's, and the pointlessness of kept secrets, finally shared.

I am from words, powerful and plentiful, passed down through generations spanning the branches of a gnarled family tree, lodged now for safekeeping inside the vault of me.

Ghost

I thought long and hard about posting this, the result of a raw middle of the night stream of consciousness written after a particularly ugly battle of the wills. I thought long and hard about writing it and deleting it. I thought - long and hard - about closing comments. In the end, I didn't do any of those things, for one reason. This is my life right now, the underlying reality of it. It's painful, and it's awful. It colors everything I do from reading the paper, to laughing with co-workers, to driving down the highway, to standing on my back deck, looking in amazement at a family of baby chickadees. It just IS. And while  you can't know, because I haven't told you, not anything close to everything, you surely can surmise, and have imaginations. Although I would tell you that whatever you think? You should re-imagine, because it's worse than that, these things we're dealing with in our here and our now.

So, I'm posting this. Because I need to have a place to let it go, to let it out. It makes a difference, in ways even I can't understand. But I am not looking for, I do not want, your sympathy. You are kind, and good, and pretty, even. But it's an unsympathetic situation, a fact of life.

This post is how I felt about it, in the middle of one particularly ugly night.

This post is for me.

As is, I suspect, this rambling, superfluous explanation.

But you should know, I am okay. I will survive this.

We all will. The alternative is unacceptable.

The when and the how, though, surely, yet to be determined.

_________________

Endless shouting, streams of screams of words that have little meaning in the scheme of things. Communicating nothing. Falling on deaf ears. You can't know, or you won't know, how it feels. You won't hear. I can't speak. I can only scream pointlessness into the nothingness.

What I want to say, to tell you, to make you understand, is how it feels. How your disappearing act impacts, a cause and effect that is as painful as it is confounding, as unnecessary as it is disillusioning. As tragic as it is otherworldly.

You are a ghost to me. This is not anybody I know, or remember. The apathy you wear around your life like a shield, protecting you from what?, is something I cannot penetrate, something you cannot, will not, relinquish.

And so, through the fear, through the impenetrable armor of deceit you've chosen, my words mean nothing to you; less, even, than the myriad of consequences you face. I can't get through. And if I could, I've come to realize, it wouldn't matter.

Still. I'm going to tell you, because it's what I do, and how I cope, and the only way I know to lay it down in order to step over it, walk around it. Put it in its proper place, and move beyond it. Accept it as a truth, one I never wanted, but must learn to live a life around.

I need you to know that it feels like a death.

And it's not a death. I know it's not.

But it feels like a death.

Things have gone missing in that forever kind of way. Things I loved. Things I planted and nurtured and grew and shaped with my own two hands. The sweat of my brow. The genetic fiber of my being. The whole of my heart.

And they're not things, but what then? How else to describe them? I could hold them, with my hands and in my mind.

Things are gone that can never be replaced, absent this world, save the emptiness their goneness has left behind.

And they're not things. They're pieces of a soul. Parts and parcels, tids and bits, memorable and lovely and special. Things.

Things have gone, never to return. Not in the form that I knew them, the easy, comfortable, natural as the rain form.

And they're not things. Not material, but palpable. Not objects, but subjects, all shapes and sizes.

Things are gone and I grieve for them. Long for them. Need for them like my lungs need air, like my body needs the pumping of my blood to give it life.

It feels like a death.

And I know - I KNOW - it's not.

But the ghost of it hovering over every thought I think haunts me, just the same.

It feels like a death.

And I know it's not.

I know.

It's not.

But the mourning of the loss is real.

The grief is suffocating.

And in this process of elimination, the letting go of loved, integral things, the only words I have, the only thing I know for sure is that it feels like a death.

The sadness begins to settle, full of remorse and regret, giving way to anger when there is only so much sadness one person can absorb. Giving way to a question - why? - that will drive you mad, interminably circling the drain where no reason exists.

There.

The words you'll never hear, because you won't. Because I can't.

Because something is missing, in that forever kind of way.

And it feels like a death.

A Peony For My Thoughts

Along my daily sojourn through the neighborhood, I can't help but notice a plethora of peonies in full bloom. My own peony bush in the front yard yields countless buds, each as tightly balled as a frustrated fist, unwilling or unable to loosen the tension on itself and spring forth in a burst of color. The deep pink petals strain against containment, nearly pulsing with a want to release, reminding me, strangely, of the throbbing vein in my temple.

__________________________________

It's early evening yet, a couple hours of good sunlight left in the day stretched out in front of me and a mile long list of things I should be doing rattling around in my head.

Instead, I'm reading blogs. Stalling. Pretending to wait for the slow build of motivation or inspiration, neither of which seem inclined to show themselves all that often lately.

I'm reading blogs and a post makes me so angry I shake. The words are an inadvertent quagmire of confusion mingled with sentiments so bloated and so egotistically over reaching they make me want to scream in frustration. I don't even comment. I shouldn't even be reading. I think of train wrecks.

And reveal myself as one of the rubberneckers I profess to loathe.

______________________________

There is a wooden birdhouse hanging from my back deck. It's one of those completely citified, country style hand painted jobs, done up in a golf motif. A gift from my mother-in-law, I'm sure. For the past several weeks, I've had the privilege of observing a tiny momma chickadee as she built her nest inside the unnatural habitat. She's a beautiful thing, so delicately fragile, but surely and confidently dedicated to what she must do.

She seems to have grown accustomed to my presence. When I open the door and walk out back, she cocks her head in my direction, eyeballing me for the briefest of moments before focusing her attention again on the task at hand. I began to hear hungry chirping from within the confines of this tract home aviary not long ago, and this morning I witness one of the shaky chicks emerge from the pre-drilled circular doorway and take flight.

Amazing.

You must know by now that I am entirely and utterly a city girl. At the very least a townsperson, as awed by my rare forays into nature as I imagine a moose might be strolling about my living room. Such a simple thing, witnessing the expansion of a suburban family of winged creatures and following its progress. And yet so full of metaphor and analogy and wonder.

_________________________

There have been a multitude of future worries, natural outgrowths of present nightmares, folding and packing themselves into my extended baggage. Anticipation, usually, in my experience, a life affirming emotion, doesn't seem the right word for what I view on the horizon and not so nimbly begin to prepare myself to brace against. Rather than face the future stresses as they inevitably will come to pass, I instead stand idly by, watching them pile on and snowball, and freeze me in mid-thought. Before they even happen.

A recipe for disaster, I know. But my ability to compartmentalize, to break all things down into bite sized pieces for ease of consumption and digestion appears to have momentarily abandoned me. Through the stifling veil of 'Overwhelmed', I lose sight of the power of inhaling, of breathing deeply of the goodness in the here and now, and instead begin to choke on the fumes of what might come at some future point.

Perhaps there is some need in me to wallow in the fountain of worry for a while. Maybe I need to feel the debilitating force of it washing over me in order to get back to the core of what I know, and who I am; a person skilled at breaking things down into manageable, bite sized chunks, understanding the limits of 'more than I can chew'. There is a distinct probability that my all too willing submission to the undercurrent is intended as a powerful, if subconscious, reminder. Be who you are. Control what you can. Surrender the rest. Let go. What will be, will be, but never more than you can handle if you resist the temptation to be less than true to all those things you've learned about yourself.

Point made. And taken to heart.

_______________________

This morning as I left the house, I was greeted by an abundant burst of color. My peony had given up the struggle against itself, against nature, and opened itself to the vastly greater world around it. In all its massive, deep pink, blooming glory.

It was quite a sight to behold.

Null

How is it possible that I never see it coming?

Wait.

That's not fair.

It is far more likely that I do see it coming, but know there isn't a damn thing I can do stop it, so choose arbitrary blindness as the best, safest choice from the bad lot of options.

For Christmas, I was presented with evidence that my youngest child had systematically stolen over $800 via cash withdrawals from my personal credit card.

As an early Mother's Day gift, last night I embraced the escape of sleep with the words, "I don't care if I'm on my deathbed. I never want anything to do with him again," tumbling directly from my husband's lips into the deepening, hardening crevice of my heart, drowning in my own dry as dust tears.

The days between these far flung holidays are a wasteland of months, littered with hard feelings, shock, and devastating numbness, plaited together in a triple stranded braid woven so tight, the pain is the only thing that hurts so good.

Everything else is nothing.

The nothingness.

Is everything.

And life spins on, all around me, oblivious to the empty shell with the superficial smile and shiny eyes faking it with abandon in its midst.

Stages

I am an ordinary woman whose life is graced with a million extraordinary bits of happiness. If you were to meet me on the street, it's entirely likely I'd be wearing a goofy grin. Of course, it's equally likely that I'd be oblivious to your presence, engrossed in my own little world.

But I'd be smiling.

That said, there is a persistent undercurrent, constantly threatening to overshadow the goodness of my life. Constantly giving me pause, making me question the tiny inanities that bring me joy. This undercurrent has size and mass - six feet four inches and 180 pounds, to be exact - and is unrelenting in its abuse of the heart strings that eternally, maternally connect us. This undercurrent is capable of creating tsunami-esque waves of emotion and worry, pounding my well-being with daily doses of stress and irritability.

Day to day, I ride these waves, managing to keep my head above water. For the most part. Every now and then, though, the fight escapes me, and I give into the pull, sinking beneath the surface, letting go.

Giving into the grief.

Denying its influence, but isolating myself from the good things in a gesture of acquiescence.

Allowing the anger - internal and external - to seethe into maddening frustration.

Making deals with myself: if I care enough, if I sacrifice enough, if I let my hair turn completely gray. Then? Then will it just BACK.THE.FUCK.OFF?

It's the sadness, truthfully, that ultimately exhausts me, and smothers me, and can make me question everything else until all that is worthy in my life becomes a shadow of a doubt.

Acceptance is the one that saves me. Or rather, I suppose, my stubborn refusal to accept this nightmare as anything more than a temporary subplot to my life. This is what keeps me fighting through it, securely tethered to the shore.

I may wallow in the undercurrent for brief moments here and there, but I know it for what it is. It will not beat me.

It will not define me.

It is not me.

Who am I?

I am an ordinary woman whose life is graced with a million extraordinary bits of happiness.

And I will never lose sight of that.

Not completely, anyway.

I promise.

Myself, most of all.

Thought

She thinks there must be an easier way, but since she hasn't the capacity to figure out what that might be, she doesn't say anything.

She thinks the colors are all wrong, but has no better ideas to offer up, so resigns herself to a lifetime of variant shades of green.

She thinks she's rambling, has stopped making sense, but it doesn't matter, really, when nobody hears.

She thinks of a million errands needing to be run, a dozen household chores, but the price of the energy required is too steep a cost to pay.

She thinks it's too familiar, somehow, too close in resemblance, but she doesn't trust her recognition of it, and can't be sure.

She thinks she's heard it all before, everything, a thousand times or more, but doesn't stop listening, in spite of herself.

She thinks today will be different somehow, but in her heart of hearts, she knows better.

She thinks silence is a greater virtue than patience, but can't convince her mind of it.

She thinks, therefore she is.

But only in her head.

She thinks.

Storm

There are prevailing winds, seemingly content to hover over our lives like a threat. They circle in the atmosphere above us, all around us. Great sweeping loops of worry, and disappointment, and turmoil, forcing us to wander aimlessly along the round trail they blaze, helpless to steer ourselves off of the beaten path.

So we wander. Aimlessly. Questions without answers looming larger with every step. Garden variety, Journalism 101 type questions. How? What? When?

And the insidious one.

Why?

The swirling subject of the winds is at the forefront of every waking moment, biting the tips of our tongues, our words trailing a bitter, metallic aftertaste in their wake.

Every now and then, we build a temporary shelter from the winds; rickety and unstable, only sturdy enough to afford a few moments respite from the battering, from the endless pounding in our ears, and in our hearts. Without a word, we duck inside the structure and breathe rarefied, peaceful air. Quiet air, where our internal voices are silenced, and we can hear each other talk of things besides the turbulent weather.

_________________________

We sat on the deck in the falling darkness, tucked inside the evening's shelter. We took turns choosing the music. Coldplay for me. King Crimson for him. Motown for me. Jean Luc Ponty for him. We debated tastes, and the worthiness of musicians today against the great artists of our youth.  We spoke of the mundane. Cabbage flowers. Cats vs. dogs. Shay's Rebellion, of all things. We counted stars, and named a few, facing each other in our rocking chairs, my legs resting on his thighs, his feet propelling us in a gentle back and forth mimicking the meter of the dialog.

Silence melded into the darkness.

Tired? I asked.

Not particularly.

Good, then. Want to go up?

A smile. If you only knew how rare these days. How breathtakingly beautiful, always.

He goes in to turn off the music, I stay outside to extinguish the candles, gather up the detritus of the evening. I follow him into the house, and find him on the phone.

I hadn't even heard it ring.

I wish like hell it never had; that the prevailing winds could have shown the tiniest restraint of decency.

_________________________

There is no decency in the eye of the storm. The rickety ad hoc shelter is flattened, without remorse. The winds whip, and howl, and scream in graceless glee.

The prevailing winds prevail.

There are no tears. In the absence of shelter, in the interest of self-preservation, skin grows thick with resilience, emotions mummify in a brine of disgust.

The prevailing winds prevail.

And hearts harden against their blistering force.

Daffodils

When I look at the photographs, slightly faded and dogeared, I see them through eyes that have gained the sharp focus of reality acquired with the passage of years. Stringy dishwater blonde hair and a gap toothed grin for her. A mass of knotted brown curls and a perpetually scraped knee for me.

But if I stare at them long enough, I begin to see them through the prism of memory. Evocative snapshots of encapsulated moments in time emerge, and my vision softens.

I was the quiet one, and small for my age. Elaine was my best friend, and everything I wasn't. Even though she was a whole year younger, she was taller by a good bit. She was what my mother called 'gangly': skinny as a rail, with legs up to there. She had iridescent, long blonde hair and an effervescent, almost forceful personality, groomed through years of vying for attention as the second to youngest in a family of nine.

We were very nearly inseparable.

I remember the afternoon we knocked on the door of the tiny box-like house, selling Girl Scout cookies. I hadn't wanted to stop there. I remember first asking, and finally almost begging, to skip the house with the steep stairs. I think we would have passed it by, too, if Elaine hadn't been in a mood, opting take my skittishness as a personal challenge.

We knocked on the door, me sulking in the background, Elaine front and center. She was the official looking one, after all. Her uniform was a picture of perfection, from the beret tilted just so on her head, to the green socks and polished saddle oxfords. I'd lost my beret somewhere, sometime. I wore black gym shorts under my hated dress, with green and gold banded tube socks tucked into the bright orange Converse high tops on my feet. Elaine's merit badges were sewn with precise invisible stitches across her sash, a text book example of the good Girl Scout. I'd earned a lot more of them than she had, it's true. But while some of mine were sewn, in bulky, looping stitches, others were held in place with safety pins pilfered from the stash found in the middle drawer of my mother's dresser.

So, she took the lead, climbing the stairs, knocking confidently on the battered screen door, its banging rattle sending uncomfortable shivers of awkwardness up my spine. Elaine beamed in the old lady's direction, chattering a mile a minute. She introduced the two of us to our new prospective customer with a beguiling grin, holding the sales form up for effect.

The screen door opened, and for the first time, I heard the woman speak.

"Would you like to come in?"

Her voice was gentle and soft. Kind. She held the door as we entered the little gray house, and then shuffled ahead of us into the living room.

I remember thinking how dark it seemed inside her house, like I'd stepped into a scene straight out of a black and white movie. There was a lamp turned on, and even it seemed to cast an old fashioned sepia toned glow on everything it touched. I remember thinking it somehow wasn't right, my being there, standing inside the rooms of this tiny gray shingled house, invading places I'd previously known only in my own imagination.

I'm fairly certain I didn't say a word that day.

But I did learn that her name was Mrs. Wise.

In my mind's eye, in my own little world, I remember thinking it a perfect fit.

We left without a sale, which, naturally, infuriated my partner. Elaine proceeded to issue forth a litany of complaints about wasted time, cheap old ladies living in musty smelling houses, and general creepiness right up until we knocked on the door of the next house over. Then she was finished, the visit to Mrs. Wise's house already a distant memory, long ago and far away.

I couldn't have told you exactly why, but I avoided walking past the tiny gray house for a few days after that. Before long, though, I started to miss rounding the corner, looking for her. I started to miss finding her, standing behind the mesh of her battered screen door, looking out.

One day, walking home from school along my usual route, I passed a patch of daffodils. Without thinking about it much, I picked six of the prettiest ones I could find, and rounded the corner.

Mrs. Wise was standing in her doorway, in her house coat and cat eye glasses, looking out. I stopped in the street, looking up at her. I waved. She saw me, and waved back.

I walked up the eleven steep concrete steps leading to her tiny square porch, and held out the spring bouquet. She opened the door, taking the flowers from my outstretched fist.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked, in her gentle, soft, kind voice.

I nodded, stepping inside. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the tidy living room, surrounded by books, and photographs, and artifacts from a life, abundantly lived. A pile of knitting was perched neatly on the arm of a well-worn chair, a cup and saucer on the table beside it. A radio played, so softly I wondered if I were imagining it.

She came out of the kitchen carrying my flowers in a tall, cobalt blue glass. She placed the makeshift vase on the table beside her chair, moving her teacup to make way, and the sepia toned glow from the lamp turned the daffodils a beautiful shade of deep gold.

Then she looked at me, and smiled.

So Much To Say

There are things I want to tell you.

I don't want you to just hear them, though. I want you to understand them.

I want you to take them into your mind, and your heart, and your soul, and know them.

That may not be possible. I may not have the power to communicate what I want you to know so that you feel it, in every fiber of your being. But I need to know I tried.

___________________________

When you were born, life as I knew it changed forever. The earth still rotated around the sun, but my world revolved around your very existence. The responsibility, when I allowed myself to consider it, was awesome and intimidating. The challenges, from cowering self-doubt to overwhelming exhaustion, were massive. The fear of failure, even though it wasn't an option, could crush me in the weakest moments.

But the love. My god, the love.

The bond between us started before you were born, when your heart grew from mine, and my heart expanded to hold yours. There is nothing to compare it to, this love between a mother and her child. There is no other relationship like it. There are other kinds of love, of course, all felt deeply, and intensely, and with the power to move your soul. But there is no kind of love as unconditionally intrinsic, with the power to define your heart.

I asked you the other day what you wanted for yourself out of this life, and your response was quick and sure: I want to be happy.

I wonder if you realize that all I want for you out of this life is happiness?

I wonder if you understand that every time you think I stand in judgment of you, I'm really judging myself? Have I done everything I could for you? Have I prepared you well enough? Have I shown you ways to be successful, empathetic, curious, wise? Have I instilled in you the tools you need to stand on your own two feet, to survive and thrive? Have I helped you to become the best you can be, or at least, the best you want to be? Have I given you the freedom to grow into yourself?

Have I inspired you to dream?

We're not so far apart, you know. At the end of the day, we both want the same thing.

For you to be happy.

Our ideas of what that means and how to get there is where we seem to disconnect. I'm learning, though. Slowly, but surely.

As a parent, as your mother most especially, I have dreams for you. Those dreams are simple, really, but closely held and guiding. Filled with expectation and chased with purpose on your behalf.

The thing is? It's not up to me anymore. They're not my dreams to have; not to choose or to chase, or even to question. And to be quite honest, this just might be the most difficult lesson I've ever had to learn as a parent. As your mother, most especially.

The hardest thing I've ever tried to do is to take a step back to let go. To trust in the framework and foundation that we've laid enough to have faith, despite what I may perceive as evidence to the contrary, or my own impatience with the route you may have chosen for yourself. To transfer the responsibility and the accountability to its rightful owner. To shove my dreams aside, and give your own the room they need to flourish.

So, see? We're not so far apart. At the end of the day, we're dreaming in parallel, and that thing we both want most for you goes by the same name.

Happiness.

And I am learning, slowly but surely, that like 'love', happiness is one of those words that defy explanation. You can't name its terms for someone else, because there is no clean cut, one-size-fits-all definition.

You know it when you feel it.

There is no single road to lead you there.

You follow the beat of your own heart to its doorstep.

There is no person alive who can give it to you, no matter how desperately they might try.

You have to find it inside yourself.

All I can do is wish it for you. Encourage you in your pursuit of the things in life that make you come alive, make you whole. Support you as you explore the myriad of possibilities that might take you there. Be there for you should you stumble or fall as you search. Celebrate with you the joys, large or small, that you discover along the way.

To accept that you might choose a direction I wouldn't select for you, and to believe in you in spite of it, knowing you will reach your destination anyway.

And to remind myself, as often as need be: it's your journey to take.

See? I'm learning.

Slowly.

Painfully, at times.

But surely.

_____________________________

My love for you is endless and boundless, without condition. Nothing you could ever do or not do, say or not say,  be or not be, will ever change that.

You live inside my heart.

I don't want you to just hear it, though. I want you to understand it.

I want you to take it into your mind, and your heart, and your soul.

I want you to know it.

I want you to know it so that you feel it, in every fiber of your being.

And that's the thing I want to tell you.

I only wish I knew how.

Noise

She holds her head high, spine upright and straight, bracing her posture against the flood of emotion welling inside. I watch her from my seat, three pews behind, one distant relative removed, filled with an awed, misplaced pride at her grace and dignity in the face of such unspeakable pain.

She turns, and our eyes lock in synchronistic harmony with the lone mournful, groaning note escaping from the organ situated stage left.

I try to smile at her.

I fail; a single tear etches a scalding path down my cheek.

She acknowledges its presence with a tremor that rumbles gently across her shoulders, proving the undoing of her composure.

And mine.

* * *

Maybe I'm rushing things.

Trying too hard to find the meaning, the big lesson to be learned from these bitter days and sweet moments.

Whatever the underlying message, if it moved to a downbeat as deftly as it dances around its truth, we could make beautiful music together.

Instead, I strain to listen through the defeaning dissonance, and manage to convince myself there is some comfort to be taken inside the heady embrace of a cacophony of silence.

* * *

I am not myself right now.

I'm having some difficulty remembering what normal is. Long months seem to have vanished since I last had a sense of it. How it looks, or sounds, or even tastes.

How it feels.

I wonder if I'd recognize it after all this time.

I wonder if it would recognize me.

I wonder if normal and I have left each other too far behind.

I wonder if this aberrant state I find myself muddling through has become my new reality.

Redefined by circumstance, redrawn at the whim of other people's choices. Restructured into a jarringly disordered state that I'm neither familiar with nor comfortable in; a disorienting disarray that leaves me cowering in fear one minute, flailing angrily the next.

Is this my new normal?

Not if I can help it.

But then, I am not myself right now.