GARY - Wordless

Excerpts from a Letter:

Glor, Friday- August 21, 2009

Hey. Four & a half days & counting. Last night was a disheartening night for me. I am a prisoner of my own mind, more than anything else, really. I want out.

I want to come up with profound words, revolutionary ways to express the battle raging inside of me. it seems that, between time, the system, and my mind, those words are gone.

A lot of my life I've spent being robbed because so many unfair, unjust things leave me angry & I don't get past them. It makes for a miserable existence.

This state & its 'justice system' is ridiculous to the point of unbelievable. All over the news, every day, they talk of how Cali is broke, in debt, and cuts are being made everywhere, education, medical, social services & 40,000 inmates must be released.

Yet, to be in jail, going through court, you'd never know it. Young men & women being herded through, sent to prison, or out to the streets with no hope, so they can come right back.

Crystal Methamphetamine is an absolute epidemic. It's insane. Where's it all coming from? It's ruined at least a whole generation. Young people have no hopes or dreams beyond those involving the pipe.

America. Land of the slave, home of the hopeless.

There are actually times that I wish you could see me, hear me. My little bud, Anthony, is 21 in October & has a young girl at home, 6 weeks pregnant. They write each other every day. Last night I had to apologize to him for not being the greatest of examples. (another story)

Earlier I went & sat by his bunk & saw he was upset. I asked, & he said "I just want to go home." He has a bunch of photos of her on the bunk over him, & he started crying after I asked if he wanted me to pray with him. I read to him Isaiah Ch. 61 & Psalm 22, & shared with him some personal thoughts on suffering, etc.

Every night I go & talk with him & read/pray as he lies in bed. He's on the bottom, & these triple bunks are 12" off the floor. I sit next to him on the ground. It makes me think of the time I never got with Zach [his nephew; my son; upon his first prison release, Gary saw Zachary around 10-months of age; they are regular pen-pals, telling one another like it is] or any of my own kids.

These are the times I'm good for something. Most people I've dealt with on a regular basis in my life I either can't trust, they don't trust me, try to devalue me as less than a person, lie to me, etc. Anytime I feel a real connection, I value it highly. For there's always ever-present reminders of the judgement of society at large.

Man, I had the worst migraine from Friday all the way to Sunday. It was miserable. . . I still feel like crap. I got some kind of sinus infection, too. My neck gland thingies are all swollen & tender too. My night sweats are back too.

Only one more day, & then court. Hopefully everyone is there. We shall see. They got me stretched pretty tight already. As impossible as it seems, I'm pretty sure I've lost more weight. [Gary has Hep A, B, C -- not uncommon for long-term prison inmates; he also lost his spleen in a hit-and-run accident as a teenager; his immune system is constantly at odds with his body and surroundings; he also contracted Valley Fever in an area where a high incidence of cases occurred in prisons located near newly dug and developed areas; the county jail does not provide medical care for these illnesses; this is probably the main reason for his severe weight loss since October] Haven't been able to eat for a few days. Throat sore & nausea from the headache. I feel like some kind of walking illness/carrier.

But, I'm okay. I love you all, I miss you all, & I pray for you all. Hi to everyone & thanks to all the people praying for/supporting me.

God Bless, Love Me

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

These last, past, fast 10 months have been an extended gestational period of pains, fears, and worries. The rest of my brother's life being determined by a system which took most of his life from him. He turns 35 this year; roughly 15 of those years saw him behind prison walls or jail doors. Before that, foster homes and juvenile detention centers, the homes of well-meaning family members not capable of actually seeing him for who he was instead of for what he was doing. Years of flying under the psychological radar while existing higher than a kite left him laying in his own mess, undiagnosed, misinterpreted, abused, kicked to the curb by society and the court system.

Now, with this rare development in his case, with a DA and a judge unsure as to how to move forward with paperwork and procedures, we have a chance for reclamation and redemption. I've held onto that boy, my brother, really a man, to keep him from falling into the abyss within. I believed he would one day saunter along the streets of this America, free, unfettered, his long unhurried strides taking him anywhere and nowhere - his only particular destination that of gratitude and appreciation for every small thing.

He will soon leave the CDCR, California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. Never again must I address an envelope with J-21474 . . . Gary's own mark-of-the-beast. As it has been determined that he was 'not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity' or 'NGRI,' he will be remanded into the custody of the state psychiatric hospital system. Though we are trading one system for another, I believe there will be an enormously vast difference between the two institutions. Gary will have his chance at freedom AFTER receiving the care he needs to adjust to his mental illness. People who look him in the eye will actually teach him the skills he needs to reintegrate with real society so that he is not on sensory overload 24/7

There are no words. No words by Gary. No words by me. Nothing fits. Not even when forced, pushed, poked, prodded, and squeezed. This decision is in a class where it reigns as solo. In a universe where balance meets up with fairness and truth and decides to join the team. My heart sings. My body is tired. My mind is slippery with the prospects yet before him, before each of us. I can not think to use my fine words.

So . . . I won't. The heart song will suffice. "Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, he's free at last."

Bunny Hopping

I think I may have discovered a lingering - not lingerie - prejudice within my soul-searching, people-loving, Christ-seeking self. I say 'linger' because it first blipped onto my radar over two years ago, bringing me up short as an odd epiphany burst in my brain, scattering previous misconceptions on the matter into the void where hurtles and collides all manner of discarded thought.

For the case of this writing, I am using this variation of the definition for prejudice: an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason. These feelings I have identified are not hateful, nor do they incite me to the point of exacting either physical or verbal harm on another. No, what these feelings stir within certain windowless corridors of my mind is annoyance, on whose heels follows rather quickly awareness.

This mental malingerer first appeared on the scene February 8, 2007. On this day an ex-stripper, ex-Playboy model from Texas - a fitting origin for one who was larger than life on a several different planes - by the name of Anna Nicole Smith died of a drug overdose at the age of 39. (I am 39 this year; it is difficult to imagine death robbing me of the chance to hit my 40's.) During her life, her body and her choices paved the way for her media celebrity without much evidence of her brain actively participating in the fray. After making Playmate of the Year - a pinnacle achievement - and divorcing her high school sweetheart first husband, Anna Nicole married an obscenely wealthy octogenarian oil tycoon while she was yet in her mid-20's. He passed away a few years into their marital bliss -- which is not surprising as she would have been a healthy handful for a robust young man let alone an aged billionaire with lusty tastes. She spent a good many years embroiled in a bitter lawsuit over the estate. From her first marriage she had a son who lost his life to drugs at the young age of 20; she also left behind a 3-year old daughter. Riding the coattails of earlier success stories, Ms. Smith tried her own hand at a reality-based show; she was continually portrayed as a vacuous, doped-up, dumbed-down, boobies-and-blond caricature of a woman. Pathetic in a nutshell. None of this conjured up the makings for a three-dimensional, in-depth, and worth-watching public personality. Not to me, anyhow.

Her death was covered and dissected and regurgitated, along with blow-by-blow analysis of why and where it all went wrong and who was the real father of her baby girl and endless interviews with publicity-seeking 'close friends,' by every news agency on television and online. Each day brought urgent developments, dished out for public consumption by folks like Matt Lauer and Ann Curry of THE TODAY SHOW, whose media talents I felt could and should be much better utilized with real news. I mean yes, it was tragic for anyone to die in that manner at a relatively young age (thank you, very much). It was doubly tragic that she lost her son and now her daughter was left without a mother. But, she chose to live as she did: live by the sword, die by the sword. Surely, somebody of true social importance had passed away, a real movie star, a Pulitzer-prize winner, a scientist, a social activist or major religious figure, heck, even a nobody young woman who chose to keep her clothes on and actually put attentively raising her kids above raising her cup-size for attention?

All perfectly good and witty opinions based on prejudice must come to an end.

It hit me while I was sweeping the kitchen floor, getting under the counters' edges and beneath the fridge. The blank eye of the TV stared at me, indignant at having been switched off by my irritated self after discovering more Anna Nicole coverage on a reputable news station that was decidedly not 'E! News.' Suddenly, POW! -- the freight train hit me. Would my death be more important because I chose not to gyrate around a pole for money while strange men ogled my body? Because I chose to remain fully dressed and out of the glossy pages of porn magazines? Because I chose to value my brain and decisions more than the lure of this world's money and pleasures? Further, was I more important than this ex-Guess model who slipped and fell victim to a prescription drug addiction? To men who treated her like a big juicy slab of prime rib ready to be devoured at their leisure? To a world that watched while she painted herself into a narrow corner and reduced her to celluloid fodder? Somewhere along the line, this mother of two lost her life-navigator-system and fell to wandering aimlessly through a one-dimensional life. If I was judging all of this using the yardstick of my developing-Christian perspective, I had measured Ms. Smith unjustly. I should not have considered her measurements . . . at all.

I cried for her as I should have done when first I heard the news of her death. I cried knowing that even as I prayed for her and those hurt by her passing, I had missed the chance to pray for her while she lived. I prayed for other lovely lonely women who sought attention and fame, or infamy as some cases often turned out, at the high cost of their sexuality, their individuality, their spirituality. I thanked Anna Nicole, posthumously as the case may have been, for opening my eyes to this invaluable lesson.

Except, the lesson was not learned. Not fully anyway. On Tuesday of this past week, I experienced another jolt. While in the kitchen (what is it with the kitchen and epiphany?) preparing a fantastic fish taco feast for dinner, my ears picked up the high-pitched strains of a girlish giggle. It sounded like this girl was repeatedly flubbing marriage vows. I asked what my daughter was watching on the living room TV set. She informed me it was a wedding show. Kendra Wilkinson, another ex-Playboy bunny, reality-show blond bomber, ex-live-in-girlfriend-to-nasty-ol’-Hugh-Hefner, was marrying Hank Baskett, a fine-looking hottie (Sarah’s description) of an NFL player for the Eagles. I rolled my eyes, still chopping the red cabbage, and tried to endure the next few minutes. But, after hearing Kendra gush about how her life had been transformed by this man’s undying love and devotion to her every need, while the sun’s reflection glinted off the whirring blades of the paparazzi-filled hovering helicopter overhead, and the crowd oohed and aahed from the transformed lawn of the Playboy mansion, I lost it. “Uh, yeah, right. Okay-y-y-y, then-n. . . “ Sarah, quick to discern the vast quantities of unspoken sentiment inherent in that statement, shot right back, “Mom. Just because she posed naked and is on a show you don’t like does not mean she is not a person. She is allowed to have feelings. Just like you,” she drew a breath, “and I thought you said Christians are not supposed to judge people. That is up to God!”

Well, I was proud of my daughter in that moment. No, not for defending a bunny I hoped my cat would never drag onto our back porch. No, not for exposing herself to empty programming which wasted perfectly good gray matter . . . and, yes, the chances were high that she enjoyed getting in that dig about my faith as she was not venturing with any apparent interest into that arena of belief herself. But, her core statement she spoke with conviction. All people mattered. All people were supposed to matter. Just as with Anna Nicole, I had formed - without much thought, little reason, and biased knowledge - an unfavorable opinion of this woman which kept me from allowing her any validity. I had more compassion for addicts, wife-beaters, and murderers. How was that possible? Because I detested the pornography industry and knew the pain, loss, and warped perspectives it engendered in so many, and because these two people seemed to go willingly into that dark night, I downgraded their human status. I fell prey to the media-hype, didn't do my own thinking, and thus became a bit one-dimensional myself in that area.

While I won't be picking up a Playboy magazine any time soon, I will remind myself that the women inside those slick pages are also somebody's daughter, mother, sister, aunt, friend, and the cornerstone of my faith says they, too, were created out of divine love and are worthy of my prayers.

GARY - Pop Tarts and Summer Sausage

*This post is quite rough, written as it was between the hours of midnight and 1AM after I had decided to get to bed early. My eagerness over this blog and my excitement over my brother's impending transition out of the California Department of Corrections and 'Rehabilitation' have driven me too far from practicality. I'm attempting to squeeze in my exercise, cooking, kids, appointments, Facebook, shopping, cleaning, laundry, you name it, plus add that extra chunk-o-time for this. I simply must land on a schedule of sorts whereby I strike when the iron is hot, but, then set it aside for a time, returning to finish the job on another day. We shall see. This needs work but the idea is down.*


Though the procedures have changed over the many years of Gary's incarceration in the fine California State Prison system, the basics remained the same. He penned a list, checking it twice, and mailed it to big sister; big sister would review the list, check her pocketbook, fund raise from family members if necessary, and cull what she could reasonably collect. In the later years, he perused a catalogue of items, ranging from food to toiletries to underwear, painstakingly copied the name, item number, cost, weight, and sent the wish list my way, hoping for whatever I could fulfill via online ordering. Before the catalogues and computers arrived on the scene, the list was scratched from his head and from the meager larders of other inmates. Upon receipt, I would shop the aisles, keeping track of ounces and pound, allowing for the box and scales error margin at the post office. Of the two, shopping for the box in person was a pleasurable and tactile experience. I felt more connected to Gary knowing that he would soon touch each item I had touched. The website method, however, was generally easier and shipped out in a timely manner.

The lists varied. There were usually a few regulars. Foods he craved to fill nutritional voids, snack voids, emotional and entertainment voids. Prison life is, and was, notoriously void, overall. Dietary voids were part and par for the course - all of it rough. Meat and real dairy were scarce behind those walls, thus I could count on such items as:

2 - Heidelberg Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-014
2 - Beef Summer Sausage 8 oz. $2.39 3021-013
1 - Cheese Ritz 18 oz. $4.19 14002-018
(this was the closest he would come to cheese on this package; the site's stores were depleted of processed cheese food)
1 - Peanut Butter, Jif 30.50 oz $4.99 3111-523
1 - Dennisons Chili 17 oz. $2.19 3111-856
2 - Cup o' Soup, Beef 3.5 oz. $0.59 3111-550

Often, he hoped to relieve his sweet tooth with such lovelies as:

1 - Sour Gummi Worms 6.5 oz. $1.49 3111-110
3 - Red Vines 3.0 oz. $0.70 3111-074
1 - Chewy Chips Ahoy 18 oz. $4.19 14002-016 (oh,how he wanted these)
1 - Pop Tarts, Frosted 16 oz. $2.99 3111-523

And, when the salt chaser followed the sweet, he longed for:

1 - Pringles, Regular 9 oz. $1.99 3111-252
1 - Flamin' Cheetos 15 oz. $2.49 6027-027

If I could swing it, he suggested supplements he thought might help him either keep from losing more weight, as he tended to inexplicably drop pounds at odd times over the years, probably his liver, and to possibly help him bulk up and get healthy. We, both Gary and I, now realize that he will never 'bulk up.' A tall and thin guy, whenever Gary puts on any kind of poundage, it all goes straight to his belly in the form of an almost perfectly round pot belly, something which belongs more on those pet Vietnamese pigs than on a man:

1 - Century Multi-Vitamin, 130 tabs 6 oz. $8.99 16950-001 pg. 103
2 - Serious Mass, Choc. 12 lb. $39.99 each 3065-221 pg.100
(These expensive supplement items I was unable to ever purchase. Just dreaming, he was.)

With clothing, if it was t-shirts or tube socks or shower shoes, I checked them off and tossed them in, either literally or virtually. Shoes, however, were a continual challenge as each facility had a specific set of guidelines and rules for clothing, especially the larger items, from color to cost. Very strict. It behooved me to proceed with caution when on the prowl for footwear. The advent of website ordering went a very long way in easing the stress of this particular segment of the process. Oh, how I once agonized over my choices, worried the watchful eyes of the intake guards would find a discrepancy and deny Gary this tiny pleasure in his hard life.

1 - Skechers 5114, White B-Ball $49.97 Size 9 pg. 58

Finally, in the entertainment category, his need and passion for music came to a head. He owned a guitar which was bought for him courtesy of a family pooling of money for a holiday or birthday. Thus, music tabs, strings for his instrument of choice, and magazines with slick covers showing hard rockers and jazzy fellows made his cut. I regularly tried to accommodate these sections of the order form, knowing it was an outlet, an escape, a self-soother.

1 - Adamas Strings, Nylon (Black tr.) 1 oz. $6.47 pg. 91

Once a business quarter, Gary and the many men with whom he lived under loveless skies, behind concrete walls, within steel bars and sharp wire, eagerly awaited the small slice of life coming their way from the outside. Upon taking receipt, grown men ripped into the contents of their boxes with the eagerness of kids in summer camp, ferreting out their favorites - coffee, honey, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, even shampoo - and lined up their feasts by the day. Gary, Mr. Social Director on his good days, planned group meals with several other men, sharing Ramen flavored with hot sauces and crumbled crackers with chunks of summer sausage floating in the broth, all heated on stingers, AKA small personal-sized hot plates. Perhaps licorice and Skittles for dessert. They enjoyed the feast before the famine. They devoured the love represented by the meager contents, repeating the cycle four times a year. As Gary was loathe to see a fellow inmate, bereft of outside lifelines, who never fell into the receiving line, there was a great deal of sharing of his provisions. Thus, his supplies did not often last past the first month.

It has been almost a full year of no packages with Gary out of prison. I don't really miss them. Or the stressful process with its niggling anxieties and worries. While awaiting his fate in jail now, he now does his own grocery shopping. Though his weight remains in steady decline mode, I shoot him a cashiers check each week courtesy of the nest egg gifted to him by friends and supporters in my family and church and pool of friends before his October release. He manages it, spending and saving, and yes, sharing. It is what I can do as he faces the positive prospect of not only feeding his belly under far better circumstances, but feeding his soul and his mind with a diet far richer in nutrients than the one he has endured for almost half of his life. (Ironically, we are hoping for hospital food! Now you know, live through a few years of prison fare and even hospital vittles are enticing.) Jello, anyone?

Chartreuse

Her fingers trail softly along the wet leaves yet burdened with morning dew, each drop mirroring back to her the unfurling beauty of a new day. She seems, somehow, to commune, a silent interchange flowing from leaf to finger and back again. The early sunlight, just beginning to spill over the horizon behind her, breaks along the curve of her profile, a corona of warm peach and lemon hues. She is ethereal here in her element, wandering with purpose, inspecting each tree and each flowering plant, intuiting their needs, eager to provide for them. Small exclamations of pleasure escape her lips as she chances upon a newly opened zinnia bloom here, a ripening yellow pear tomato there, her joy undiminished by the fact that she made similar discoveries the day before. And the day before that. Every green and living thing she chances upon at any given moment presents as fresh to her, a reason to rejoice at the daily opening of her eyes and mind. From the garden flows the who and what, even the why, of her hidden self - the self often partially obscured by interruptions of a life not at peace with the ebb and flow of photosynthesis abounding around her now stooped and curious form.

From the garden she absorbs and accepts the miracle of creation by a God who is at once an artist, a landscaper, an excavator, a Father bestowing the ongoing gift of grace from which flows all the beauty of this world. Here on this plot of well-tended earth, where she snips the aromatic leaves of basil and rosemary, thyme and sage, lavender and parsley (she insists upon Italian parsley, with its broader, flat leaves, less ornamental, she says, but full of deep green flavor so perfect for pairing with pasta or fish or salsa, to name but a few), she manages to absorb an understanding of the truth. For her it is basic, elemental. Her strong blunt fingers dig shallow holes in the rich brown loam she has worked so hard to create with home-ripened compost, double-digging, and plain old-fashioned hard work. She carefully - always this way with her plants, as if it is her first time to set root to soil and something might be missed if she moves too fast - introduces each seedling to its new home, knowing the reward will be worth the entire list of efforts required to arrive at the planting, to perpetuate the planting. To witness her toil is to witness a momentary transformation, a temporary arrival, of a being freed from the bondage of sin and strife, demonstrating the possibilities inherent within the promises of her very real faith.

Seeing her this way, surrounded within this backyard womb of lush pale greens and deep yellows, pinks, purples, and reds, it is a simple desire . . . to wish oneself as the orb-weaver sitting handsomely on its impressive web, still and serene when she lightly strums the outer edge of the silken garden art, pleased, as ever, that the tiny denizens of the insect world find her natural space wholly acceptable. If she requested, ladybugs and fireflies would form two lines, politely choose partners, and execute a polished and sprightly waltz. As much love flows from her and fertilizes each and every square foot upon which she now stands, reciprocal love in equal measures wends its way, surefooted and keen, back to her.

A substantial amount of time passes. Watering cans, gardening gloves, hoses and rakes, stakes and ties, all parade from the tiny storage cottage on the edge of the property to be reunited with their individual duties A breeze, rippling in the tallest branches of the stately elm which presides over the entirety of her generous cultivation, lifts the hairs on the back of her neck where fine beads of moisture have collected. Her face is turned to the sky, now a brilliant azure spreading beyond the eye's perception, and her arms strain with the weight of her bounty. What she has gathered will make its way to the kitchen for use in every type of dish conceivable, both savory and sweet. Sharp knives will slice, chop, and dice. Deep pots will simmer, boil, and steam. Shallow pans will brown, fry, and sear. The oven will bubble and bake. Plates will rejoice to be of useful service and utensils will compete for the praise of a job well done. Mouths will sing and bellies will throw parties. And, as this going-about-her-business unfolds, she will give thanks and praise to her maker for this excess of riches in her life.

CSA

No, you read it right: C-S-A. Not CPA. Not CSI. Or ASPCA. Definitely not NAACP. Nor NBA, PB & J, E & J [that's a brandy]. Nix on IRA and NRA. Simply borrow the third letter of the alphabet and loop it to the rear of the line-up, hook the nineteenth letter, swing it back 'round and nab the first letter. Now, you are in possession of a nearly perfect reliever for stress, anger, frustration, perplexity, and a host of assorted incidents and accidents, to be used as the spirit moves you.

For me, one not overly prone to profanity, not a big fan, however useful it might be - though I'll admit the last several years have been a bloody burr beneath the saddle - the spirit moves sparingly but fittingly. It works. 100% guaranteed or . . . you can feed me pickled chicken feet, one bony toe at a time. The more profanely advanced students out there might consider back-burnering your tried-and-trues and take CSA for a spin around the block. You may want a trade-in . . . no cash-for-clunkers needed!

Before I go on - and I do manage to go on, don't I? - let us journey back thirty-five years or more to the little town of Eklutna, Alaska. Me, my sister and two brothers, Gary yet a toddler, and mom all reside in this picturesque village situated roughly 26 miles northeast of Anchorage. I have fond memories of cats, bicycles, learning how to 'play' with my spit, and one vivid mental picture of the day a shovel made contact with the bridge of my nose and the head wound of all head wounds transformed the icy hole beneath my hands into a gory crimson snowcone. (I swear on my Oreck vacuum cleaner that this incident is the reason I wear glasses!)

Having three children myself, each spaced with almost exacting precision at three years apart (brilliantly planned and executed by my uterus, but since it has not the power of speech, I'M taking the credit), I can extrapolate and postulate as to the challenges a single mom must face with four small children - three of them separated by a mere year and the fourth yet a wee one. Doubtless, we played hard and fought even harder. Knowing Gary as I do, I'll bet he managed to toddle and waddle his way into a few hard-to-reach corners. We would have tried the patience of Condoleeza Rice.

I don't recall explosive outbursts ever erupting from my mother's direction when we were disciplined: she did what she said she would do. What she TOLD us she would do. There was not much in the way of yelling or threats of punishment with multiple one-more-chances which never ended. She did not curse at us or call us unkind names. We had friends whose mom's yelled and screamed and carried on, utilizing in grand manner a colorful array of unmentionables we'd never heard within the walls of our home. Much of it would now be considered, and rightly so, verbal child abuse. But what did we know then?

Mom tells the story of little Johnny Boy (coined by our dear friend, Eldon) back when we lived in Anchorage in an apartment complex for lower income families. Generally speaking, people who find themselves in this living arrangement are not at their character's peak and it manifests in their behavior, often filtering down to their children. Though humorous in the recollecting, there was an element of sadness inherent in the lives of the residents. One little boy in particular rode everywhere on his bicycle, cussing a blue streak which trailed behind him like a banner of foul air as he repeated phrases and terms his own mother levied at him on a regular basis. Of course, we all played with him - kids gravitating toward other kids. And, we all were privy to his extraordinary vocabulary. This was a sore area for mom, but she couldn't very well stuff our ears with cotton. We'd just pick up lip-reading.

As the tale goes, she hears five-year old John - please, please, PLEASE envision the sweetest round face, framed in white-blond hair, two deep dimples, and soft brown eyes that smiled every bit as wide as his constantly grinning mouth, cherubic I tell you, and I refrain from comparing anyone to an angel, but surely Michelangelo would have paid mom a tidy sum to use him as model - muttering something out the second story window of our apartment. He is repeating it over and over. A mantra of sorts. Her curiosity no doubt turns to horror when she draws close enough to actually decipher his utterances. What he is saying in a three-peat to the copious cusser on the bike down below the world of our window sill, this beatific boy, testing the feel and taste of it on his unsullied tongue, is, "F*cky, f*cky, f*cky! . . . F*cky, f*ucky, f*cky!" Just generously giving back what he had received, with no malice or forethought. He is a happy kid, that one, "F*cky, f*cky, f*cky!" Mom educates him on the merits of NOT saying such things. She does not yell. She does not fuss. She most definitely does not CUSS.

Which makes CSA all the more perfect in the role in which it has been cast by me.

There came a day in the house in Eklutna where some mundane occurrence or another, child-initiated, perhaps Gary-initiated, found my mother in a depleted, weak moment, unable to muster a decent description of her feelings at that precise moment. I can imagine the sharp intake of breath. The furrow in her brow with that deep vertical line between the eyes, grasping for her sanity in the midst of this maternal morass. She reaches into the verbal storehouse, groping blindly, and emerges with this, the worst of the worst for her, the most unholy trio of letter-groupings she could muster from her tired soul, "Crap . . . Sh!t . . . A$$!" She surely exhales, surprised by the lift of the shoulders which follows her unexpected foray into the land of expletives. Maybe she looks around the room, down at Gary and whatever mess he has managed, and laughs with equal parts dismay and relief. The moment lifts and is gone.

Gone, that is, until mom repeated this wonderful account to me in my adult years. Never have I laughed so hard. I considered my mother's mouth to be virgin territory, untouched by rough coarse language. It is very telling that the most awful of words for her are considered somewhat tame against their wilder, woollier counterparts. I wanted to memorialize this family tale and incorporate it into my life somehow. I repeated the story, often getting it a tad twisted, mixing John's verbal escapade with mom's, and it amused my limited audience. Then I tucked it lovingly away, awaiting the next opportunity to uncover the humor, sometimes for longer than a year. Until there came my own day, and the usual "oh, brother" or "good golly" (yes, I actually said that on a pretty regular basis) just didn't cut it. Before I could identify the well from which it had sprung, "Crap-Sh!t-A$$!" flowed forth. I was surprised at myself. I peeked to my left and right. I giggled. Around the room and back it rippled, over my feet and between my toes, cooling me, restoring the yin and the yang. And that was that. CSA moments were born.

Quite often, it is the initials we employ. Yes, WE. Me, mom, and when they intuit my outward signs and helpfully fill-in the blanks, my kids. But, I must confess my weakness and reveal the full pronunciation still makes appearances for very limited engagements. I mean, the last time I used it was . . . was . . .well, this morning. Late for an appointment and rushing out the door, shoes barely on my feet, wet hair flapping, I skidded to a halt before the dog food bin. I couldn't possibly forget her morning feeding AGAIN. I inhaled deeply, slinging my eight-plus pound purse behind me while the plow-lines invaded my face. I grabbed the top bin and dropped it to the floor, "Crap!" I yanked the lid off the dog's food container, "Sh!t!" and I scooped a cup of kibble before emptying it in Panda's bowl, "A$$!" I exhaled. Dropped my shoulders. Repositioned my purse. Gave the dog her breakfast . . . and sashayed to my truck and onward. The moment lifted and was gone. And THAT, folks, is the correct way to use C-S-A.

GARY - 'Be Cool' And Other Sound Advice From The Edge

I'm eager to share more of my baby brother by means of the pile of letters from him that I keep in my care. He's highly quotable and smart as the proverbial whip. His writing moves me to tears, to laughter, to wonder and thought. If more than a decade in prison has taught him anything, it is that the lessons of this life are as simple as we've been led to believe.

Besides penning multitudes of missives to me, he regularly dashes off ditties to his nephew and nieces, not to mention his mom. Our mom. With little time on this night as I'm short on sleep lately and long on tired, I culled through a short stack and came up with a mini-compilation of gems that are worth reading a few dozen times and committing to memory. His words to my children are often short and simple, especially in their younger years, but they are heartfelt and utterly intended for the edification of their lives. He loves them, extensions of me, a blood-part of him, afffectionately and with great passion for their futures.

Friday, October 26, 2007

From a letter to Zachary: "Dude, you gotta be cool with your moms. Do what she tells you, don't be a smart-ass and talk back to her. Not cool. You never know what's gonna happen in life. Don't do stuff you'll feel bad about later."

Sunday, September 28, 2008

From a letter to Zachary: "Hey doggy. What's up? . . . I heard you got suspended. Pretty stupid reason, but it happens. {He 'pantsed' a friend in the hall at school - as a prank as opposed to humiliation.} Just think about what you're doing before you do it, and who's gonna be looking."

Saturday, June 9, 2007

From a letter to Sarah: "Hi honey. What's up? Got your letter. No more school! Whoo Hoo! Sweet . . . Kissing your ex-boyfriend sounds like a good way to take the 'ex' out. Hmmm . . ."

Saturday, August 4, 2007

From a letter to Sarah: "Hi sweetie. How's things? Got your letter. Loved it. Love all of your letters. You're a natural-born writer. You communicate real well on paper. . . Remember to ALWAYS treat yourself with respect & don't accept less from others . . . guys . . . You're growing up now, so be the best person you can grow into being. Surround yourself with good people."

Saturday, August 4, 2007

From a letter to Ashley: "Hi there. How are you? Hangin' in there? I'm glad to hear Alicia & her baby are okay now. {teen friend} Just be glad it isn't you honey. That's a tough road to go down for a young girl. . . Don't worry about school. You'll do fine. Do your work, stay out of trouble, and graduate. You're a big girl, & you have a family to love & support you. You can do all kinds of cool stuff with your life."

No day listed, April 20, 2008

From a letter to Ashley: "Hey kiddo. 'S'up? How's my girl? You're growing up too damn fast, is what you're doin'. {she was prepared to graduate in a month} I hope that, since you are getting to be a grownup type, you learn to be influenced by the best kind of people out there. Choose your friends wisely and carefully. . . Your mom is one of the best people I know. Not just as [your] mom or [my] sis. Help me out, help her out, & be patient with everything. . . I hope I don't have to get in trouble bustin' heads protecting you."

Thursday, July 31, 2003

From a letter to me: "Hey Glor, what's up? . . . Sometimes I wish I had a typewriter . . . Writing by hand loses its comfort after ten years or so. Especially after doing it every day for a few years. . . Stress sucks. Too bad your whole vacation wasn't more relaxing. . . You can't ever move to California! We're {he was married at the time} getting out of this crap-hole as soon as humanly possible. This whole state is shot out. . . Take care of you. Take it easy, every now & then. Life ain't a race. Take quality over quantity, huh? I love you sis. Hugs for everyone."

Monday, August 10, 2009

From a letter to me: "Hello sis. Another day is here . . . ate like a horse last week {I sent him money to buy extra food as he's underfed and losing weight with the passing of each week}. . . every time I got hungry, I friggin' ate {seems a logical way to approach eating} . . . you're never home - INSERT RASPBERRY HERE {he oft times dials my number more than thrice a day and never gets me} . . . our relationship is the best thing I have in my life sis. It kills me not to be able to present you with a better example of what a brother should be . . . no one else in life has left me with the assurance that it comes with no strings & the desire to help me is heartfelt & makes you happy. . . The tone of your letters is pleasing to me. It seems you're on an upward swing. I hate that there's been so much heaviness to bear in your life these last years. It sucks. . . I'm praying for your friend . . . cancer sucks, in all its many forms & variations. It's so common, yet the touch of it in one's life is overwhelmingly horrendous . . . I miss you very much alot. Muchalot. New word. I've decided to begin my own lexicon & run with it. Why can't I make up my own words? . . . One of these days I'll be out there where you are & I'll work in your yard every day if you want. I will learn to cook YOU meals & desserts for a change. . . . I love you sis. You are good. I will be good one day I hope. Take care of yourself. Be at peace, & know that you are greatly valued by yours truly. Thanks a million, muchalot times, for everything you do, but most of all for who you are. . . Give my love, hugs, kisses, secret-squirrel-handshakes, high-fives, winks, head-nods, bumps, waves, finger-wiggles, toe-taps, & what-not to all."

And with that, I bid you all a secret-squirrel-handshake kind of good-night. Gimme' a high-five with a side of finger-wiggles!

Dreaming In Color

"I have a dream that . . . little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers." -- Martin Luther King Jr.

We're still working on that one, Dr. King. When my little white girl walks down her school halls with a little black boy, it still angers the little black girls, the little white boys, and their mothers and fathers, their uncles and aunties, even their cousins who played with kids of all races growing up. And, did I say 'little?' These kids are in high school. My daughter is a junior.

Though my ethnic origin encompasses American Indian, English, Swedish, and German, I should receive an honorable mention as Hispanic by marriage (that, and I have a fondness for the beauty of the Spanish language); my married name is Valdez. French, Spanish, and Mexican make up my husband's heritage. The people and places of my wandering childhood encompassed a multitude of colors on the human rainbow. Aside from my uncle, who was a constant father-figure in my life over the passage of time, the only stepfather I ever had was a black man. I dated young men regardless of ethnicity - Asian, Black, Hispanic, yes, even Caucasian. Nationality certainly did not determine how well they treated me or how charming their company would be.

I grew up aware of racism throughout history not just via my public education but through the efforts of my mother - who firmly believed in the lessons of the past, and my own thirst for knowledge through reading and questioning. Incarcerating Japanese-American families in camps to avoid a possible uprising simply because Japanese loyal to Japan bombed Pearl Harbor? Ridiculous. I practically broke my brain trying to account for the reasoning behind the mass murder of millions of Jewish people during the Holocaust. Importing human beings to our free country for the purposes of building financial empires on their stripped and 'striped' backs never made sense any way it was viewed. It all boils down to humans demoralizing and exterminating fellow humans.

I grew up aware of racism for other reasons less instructional. My stepfather's shade of black was deep ebony. My mother's shade of white was peaches-and-cream. When they went anywhere together, their contrast stood out, attracted the eye. There were eyes drawn to them in stern disapproval of their union. There were mouths more than willing to voice their disapproval. Even within the sphere of my larger extended family, telling my grandpa - who I loved, admired and respected - was out of the question. Though I struggled to understand the perspectives of such people, understanding never came. I could grasp cultural and religious differences. Those could definitely muddy the waters. How, though did the hue of the protective covering which houses identical musculature, endoskeletons, digestive and respiratory and circulatory systems, inspire such hatred and venom?

I still don't know, Dr. King.

But I do know this. The other night, my daughter rode with a friend in his car to McDonald's.. This friend happens to be a very handsome shade of black. They were spotted by one of her girlfriend's. This girl's mother accompanied her - a mother who forbids her daughter to date African-Americans and severs any friendships she has with friends who do date this male segment of our population. Now, my little white girl is on the mom's list of undesirables. She was red in her indignant anger. Whether dating or simply befriending, the interracial combination of boy and girl sets everyone off. It might be a cousin asking how my daughter could go out with 'one of them,' spitting out the highly offensive N-word as casually and coolly as one might mention 'sock' or 'ice cube'. It might be the disgruntled black girls talking raw about 'white girls stealing their good men'. How about the awkward silence of disapproving extended family members at the Thanksgiving table when a young man visited to break bread with us. Perhaps even the 'concerned' people, parents on both sides of the color-equation included, who opine 'date them and get it out of your system but don't marry them.' The poor examples continue to stack up.

This subject matter is not foreign. My recounting is hardly in-depth or revelatory of anything remotely original. I'm not expressing an inordinate amount of compassion for my daughter's dealings. Difficulty often accompanies life when one operates with the strength of her convictions. Whatever her hardships or difficulties, the unfairness faced by many in her peer group with more obvious evidence of their ethnicity far outrank hers. She chooses to be color-blind. She chooses to befriend who she wants. She chooses to practice right over wrong. We, as her parents, encourage her to think for herself. Our parameters for socializing and dating center around character, actions, and maturity-level. THAT is how WE choose.

What she didn't choose was the pigmentation of her skin at birth. Neither did her friends. But they all must exist in a world where society has decided it is absolutely imperative to attribute a value to that very thing. As long as attitudes persist, those overt and covert, those defying logic and those with seemingly logical explanations - "People make it too hard for blacks and whites to marry and have kids and be emotionally happy." - the vision of blacks and whites and everyone in between, of all ages, joining hands and walking in peace will continue to be just that: the decent dream of a more than decent man.

My daughter and her friends - once those little black, and white, boys and girls of which you spoke decades ago - still have a dream, Dr. King. They'll keep working on it.

Getting A Room

There will be no brilliant post on this day. No verbose exposition of thought and experience. No, tonight I'm taking a necessary break from my love affair with this blog and spending needed time in my 20-year love affair. Away from the laptop and the study. Away from the dog and cat. Away from the garden and yard. Away from all three children. Away from you, dear readers . . . ciao for now.

I leave you with a poem previously written:

Sea foam

green pearls bubbling

to champagne tickles

along my toes.

I am pleasured

by the laughter

of this

sea foam green

delight.

My string of

pearls five digits

deep.

Mine to keep

in a minute

space of sandy

time.

All at once

my strand is lost –

stolen back

by the prince

of tides.

I am not displeased.

The sea is happy

To be generous

with its

queenly gifts.

Soon my toes

will again be

crowned.

-gsv

June 2003

*(on the way to the beach)

Julia Takes The Cake Pt. 2

Normally, I'm able to master my nerves when I'm called to center stage. No, I can't help that I sweat like a wildebeest being chased by a pride of lions. (I sang at my best friend's wedding, er, no Julia-reference intended, but was perspiring so profusely beforehand that my husband had to wipe me down. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and followed me to a small back room just off the front of the church stage. I proceeded to reveal the areas in need of dabbing as he went about his appointed rounds. The priest was a bit taken aback when he opened the door to his private quarters and chanced upon me, my bridesmaid gown up around my head, with my husband bent down, absorbing my excess moisture!) But, I suck it up, inhale, focus, and lose myself in the task on the exhale.

My nerves, however, had never met Julia Roberts, Regis and Kelly, and the high-strung, hands-a-constantly-flappin' Michael Gelman - ALL simultaneously! My nerves never had to contend with commercial breaks and time constraints. My nerves . . . well, they just never!

The famous trio, perched on their chairs, positioned just so for the cameras, talked just as they should on a 'talk' show. The subject matter escapes me. I could review the tape but I won't. Eventually, the music swelled and LIVE was off the air. Descending into the audience to mingle with us commoners, they posed for pictures and made polite small talk with various folks. This was the moment to speak. "Julia!" There. It was done. Heads turned, including hers, and my eyes beheld her countenance. Everyone went silent. I noted Gelman in my peripheral view, constant in his holy vigil of the clock, and suddenly realized my rendition was too long. I felt the pressure of his eyes as they bore into the stars of the show. And then I spoke. I'm not clear on exactly what I said. What I do know is that I flubbed my lines in very hasty fashion. Somewhere in there was the grain of the story, mixed, mashed, and messed. I called my husband my son, making it sound as if I birthed my own spouse. I chickened out on the Asian accent which was crucial to the humor. I hesitated over mentioning Lyle Lovett because she was now married to Daniel Moder. I failed to mention the lookalike factor. Though I had reeled off this anecdote countless times to the amusement of every attentive ear, including my church pastor, I fell flat on my face before the very person I'd always hoped to tell.

I watched in horror as her face transformed from friendly smile to confused frown to an expression which told me I'd lost her. My tale stumbled and mumbled to a pitiful end and the words hung in the air for a moment. The merest of painful moments. Then, true to her training, Julia filled the void with a wide-eyed look at my fellow spectators, "I didn't understand a WORD she said. Did you?" The crowd laughed and Regis exclaimed, "Me neither, Julia. Let's kick her OUT of here!" The 'out' carried the emphatic thrust, that well-known and well-loved mid-sentence shout he does so often. A flurry of activity followed as places were taken for the return of the live feed . . . and I was left to bask in the red-cheeked glow of my mortification. A quick glance to my left revealed pity in the eyes of both my husband and our cousin. Their well-meaning attempts to alleviate my humiliation might as well have been stones thrown at a concrete wall. I pasted a smile on my face and spoke around the ball of cotton which seemed to have manifested in my mouth. Julia bade a friendly farewell as her interview wrapped up. She had survived her big challenge of the day, unwittingly at my expense. But, I knew her offhand remark intended no harm, no foul. She merely did her job. From what she says, public appearances are not her favorite activity to begin with. I was one of thousands of strangers who peppered her with requests and stories every day of her public life.

The rest of the taping was a blur. Cousin Jody parlayed a couple of shout-outs to Kelly and Regis into great exchanges, ribbing him about his use of 'roids (cortico-steroid injections for pain) and praising her for sporting 'big guns' (her arms rock, r-o-c-k). The big guy even caught my eye and exclaimed, "Oh, don't ask her anything. She's trouble!" When our petite blond hostess declared she could execute more push-ups than most women, I didn't even bother to accept the challenge. I was utterly deflated. A human crepe. Wile E. Coyote after the anvil dropped. My chest without a padded bra. You get the idea.

I spent the remainder of our day with the cousins in NYC trying to be of good cheer. I waded through my regretful 'if-only' scenarios: if only I had merely stated that today was our 20th anniversary and there could be no better present than to see Julia Roberts in the flesh and in the company of Philbin and Rippa. She could have gone on smiling, issued a thanks, and the audience would have 'cue-less-ly' ooohed and aaahed. If only! If only she had sent out an assistant to escort me back to her dressing room so she could properly hear the telling of my charming tale. I'd be rewarded with that whooping laugh she's unleashed on Oprah and David Letterman. If only!

We wandered for hours in the cavernous endless halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We sought and found the popular 'Gray's Papaya' hot dogs, wolfing them down with Regis' blessing (he mentioned them numerous times on TV), before returning to our respective hotels to dress for dinner at 'Tavern on the Green.' By then, my mood and objectivity had settled considerably. Learning that Cousin Matt had wanted to pop America's Sweetheart for embarrassing me went a long way toward improving my attitude. Not that I wanted him to accost a movie star on my behalf, but what a sweet convoluted thought. Our conversation and outstanding wine selection made for a superb close to an odd big-day in the big city; the food was just average, especially for the premium cost. But, that was in keeping with the tone of the day, too.

Later that night - interpreted in New York as 2AM - as I released my tensions and sank into the best hotel mattress, heck, the best mattress, with which I've ever had the pleasure to acquaint myself, we rehashed our experiences. It was much easier to reveal how awful I felt over the Julia fiasco in the darkness of our suite. My husband for one-fifth of a century, my loving man, my baby, pulled me to his chest and murmured against my hair, "I felt so sorry for you when she said that. It made me feel terrible knowing you were hurting over it. I know it was important, and IT IS a good story, a really good story. Just remember, you had the attention of one of the biggest stars on the planet. She looked at you and listened to you. Who cares if it didn't come out as planned," he hugged me tightly and I could actually HEAR him smile, "Not many people can say that. It's a story, either way. You talked to Julia Roberts."

And, you know what? He's right. I did.

Maybe another rare, providential, planetary-alignment-type occurrence will crash onto my path and once again lead me to intersect with Julia in the future. You can bet I'll tell her the entire story . . . because it is a really good story.

Julia Takes The Cake Pt. 1

I stood there, surrounded by mounds of flavored icings paying homage to traditional and classic sweet treats, the warm comfort of baking an alluring presence, unable to savor the moment. For a month, my fantasies of New York included at least one visit to a famous bakery for a cupcake adventure! Now, cupcakes, bedecked in yummy goodness, practically shouted my name as I congregated with our little group in front of the glass display counter at the 'Magnolia Bakery' on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We were mere blocks from the ABC studio where earlier the flavor of my day had gone decidedly sour. My husband selected two thick peanut butter cookies and asked after my needs. Numb to the matter at hand, not fully aware of where my trudging feet had transported me, I pointed a heavy finger toward a grouping of mini-cheesecakes, willing him to get the pumpkin. Directing his eyes to a spot further down where Red Velvet screamed bloody murder from under a white cap , I sighed, "I guess one of those, too." I won't eat them for hours and by then they'll be warm and soggy. This, however, will NOT deter me; I will thoroughly lick the creamy filling and crust crumbs from my crimson-stained fingers, having recovered my dignity . . . or at least a decent portion of it. But, I've ventured ahead. Let's back up.

My date with destiny ala Julia Roberts began with a hurried but exciting early morning subway ride, moving efficiently from the business district to places up north. Jimmy and I scanned the line waiting outside the studio on 67th and Columbus Avenue for Cousin Jody and her family. We were thrilled to discover they had found their way to the head of the line! Kids 10 and older were allowed. Her teenage son fit the bill, no question; her little girl, though smarter than most 10-year olds I know, was decidedly under age. But, they wanted to try and slip her in. (The staff rep from LIVE was very gracious with us, offering extra tickets if we had more in our party; this was serendipitous as we learned via Facebook that our relatives were also vacationing in the 'City That Never Sleeps.) They hated to break up the family, and their daughter did know how to mind her p's and q's. Plus, the little miss had her business DOWN. She reviewed her litany of credible information, "I'm in 4th grade. I was born in 1999," just in case questions came her way. However, her delightful smile and sparkling energy charmed the two older gentleman screeners and she was through with a flash of teeth and girlish giggles! Somewhat of a stickler for the rules, I nonetheless deferred to their judgment on the matter of a little white lie. (I smuggle my own popcorn and dark chocolate into movies; there are gray areas.) If it went down badly, I'd ask security to go easy on them. After listening to the young one's rendition of her false bio once again, I looked her dad in the eye and asked, "We're going to hell for this, aren't we, Matt?!" Per his usual response to my amusing over-reactions, he just grinned and rolled his eyes.

My carefully chosen wardrobe option - a guileless June Cleaver-type dress, with buttons up the front and a narrow turned-down collar, which skimmed my waist and flared fully to mid-calf, done in tiny white polka dots scattered over a background of navy blue, just missing the pearls and modest heels - betrayed my nerves as a deeper shade of blue took hold in my armpits. Lovely. Thank the Lord we wouldn't be clapping with our hands overhead! I did a mental scan of my own story to tell - the amusing one which was sure to elicit that famous throaty laugh from the super-special guest o' the day. I felt a twinge of uncertainty, unsure how best to convey our oft-mentioned resemblance without coming across as conceited or somewhat stalkerish. (It SHOULD be a word!) There was no way around it; the birth-story would fall flat without a touch of background.

We made it into the studio - first catching a glimpse of Leann Rimes, almost too thin in her slinky green mini-dress - and hurried to our seats. Though the camera boom interrupted our line-of-sight, our location put us close to the action. The lawyers and producers ran their spiel; the almost entirely adult audience practiced clapping (yes-s-s we did!); the music cued; and, the king and queen of morning television swept into the studio. Regis was every bit the venerable gentleman as expected. Kelly was even smaller than she appeared on television. My not-so-very-tall and quite lean 13-year old son might have a few pounds on her. They executed their co-banter, cracking jokes, chatting up the St. Patty's Parade, bringing down 'the wheel' and calling one lucky viewer for the question and prize segment, and finally paused for the commercial break before the first guest. Heck, let's be truthful, before the ONLY guest in my book! (My husband, excited as he was for me, was ready for Ms. Rimes. He's a fan. It was amazing how that particular episode, on our 20th anniversary day, managed to round up the two guests each of us would love to catch sight of - though it turned out Leann came not to sing but to promote a Hallmark Channel romance movie!)

And then . . it was time. Gelman, Regis' go-to guy and executive producer of the program, not to mention the butt of a good many amusing stories, whipped us - the live audience - into a frenzy, signaling the all-important double-clap. The man cracks a long whip with his yoga-trained body. Back on the air. The all-important intro signified that their famous guest had entered the building as the camera panned stage left. Finally, without so much as a spotlight, Julia made her premier entrance on the most famous of all morning shows, all coltish legs, highlighted hair, and bedazzling teeth. Clever girl, she wore a dark pants suit over a cream-colored shell, set off by bronze heels which seemed sculpted to her feet (she chose them in honor of Kelly - the true shoe maven) She waved to us, arms raised high. No dark stains to report. There was absolutely no need to cue the crowd to double clap!

Julia Must Wait

Julia will have to wait.

I'm dog-tired. If ever you've seen a dog after a long hard walk or a brisk romp in the park, you know what I'm saying. The way they seek the cool spot on the tile floor and plop down, stretching limb to limb, fr-o-ont to ba-a-ck, and pass out. My grandpup tries to become one with the floor, arching her neck in a lean line, her bat-ears flopped back over her head. She twitches spasmodically, whimpering and barking as the star in her puppy dreams - doubtless chasing orange cats and snapping at winged insects daring enough to buzz her 80-pound tower-of-power self. Her breathing is a series of snuffles, snorts, and sighs. Funny. Jimmy says when I slumber under the influence of an intensely exhausted state that I, too, twitch and snuffle . . . only he has the audacity to call it snoring.

Gary rang me tonight. His hearing is this Thursday morning at 8:15AM. We took awhile to establish a rhythm in our conversation, me too tired to instantly focus, him distracted by the erratic racing of his mind. By the time the 14-minute warning blared in our ear, "You have ONE MINUTE remaining in this call!" we were in high-gear, only to be abruptly cut-off before we were ready for the disconnect. I heard him shout that he was calling again; I tried to yell back that I couldn't answer another call tonight. He didn't hear me. Tried back twice. It is closing in on 11PM here; everyone is in their beds, save for me. Gary does not always think of such things. This is not his world. Yet. Though I knew he was fine, refraining from pushing the TALK button, two times in a row, was still painful. He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk with me. But, I accepted one call on Sunday, the call today, and there will be another on Thursday. Sad to say, I must be aware of the money. It angers me to have our relationship boiled down to dollar signs.

If any of you have easy access to your siblings, take the time to sit on your back porch with them and enjoy the simple presence of being. I carry an image in my head of me and Gary, chatting and laughing about absolutely nothing and everything, convalescing in our rockers while sipping on ice-cold micro-brewed beers straight out of the bottle. (Not the best thing for his liver, but it lends itself well to a mental picture.) Even long-distance, through concrete and glass and wire, he's a keeper of a brother. In a letter from him that I read today, he told me he hopes to one day prepare special meals and desserts for me from scratch with oodles of love, the same way I do for everyone else. My descriptions of food and family dinners and parties are a source of great pleasure for him. He's lost a great deal of weight in the past 9 months. He is hungry much of the time. I'm losing no significant weight. If I was to gain the amount of weight Gary lost within a 9-month span, it would indicate that I was about to deliver a whale of a child! I eat whenever I want. Sometimes, I'm not even close to hungry.

My head is heavy and my eyes refuse to do other than droop. I discovered I'm able to type fairly well while half-asleep. However, I feel mildly nauseous from the ibuporofen and my writing is less than stellar. This entry may be a bit of a bust, but i did manage to 'pen' a few thoughts on a variety of topics, ranging from dogs to Brother Gary. Midnight is around the corner; I don't want to collide on this night.

We'll see Julia again. I promise.

Gloria and Julia

Disney made her famous in a movie about a hooker with a heart for Richard Gere and a mighty mane of hair. Oh, the irony! Playing a sweetly tragic figure amidst an all-star cast of strong Southern belles garnered her first Oscar buzz. She began a love affair with American audiences, revealing her vulnerability and charm - and that throbbing vein which appears in her forehead during moments of extreme emotional duress - in a series of romantic comedies. But, she would fight her way past a murderously abusive husband, beyond great pizza and a waitress gig back East, through a notorious crowd of John Grisham bad guys, over Peter Pan's head, and land smack-dab into a water-filled Wonderbra before nabbing the golden dude and triumphantly raising him high overhead, her trademark grin and hearty guffaw traveling 'round the world in the blink of the television's eye. It was a night to remember. And, I do, proud as I was of her. (I actually clipped the photo of her win from the newspaper the next morning and taped it into my address book. I see it just about every day . . . there's quite a few cards and letters leaving this house with my handwriting on the envelope.) You know her. Most of you love her. Of course, it could be none other than Miss Julia Roberts.

Now, I'm not a rabid fan. Not an obsessed stalker of all things bright and wonderfully Julia. I do, however, find her entertaining, enchanting, and enjoyable. Put her on a magazine cover; chances are good it'll end up in my living room Advertise her newest film; I will buy a ticket. She won me over with that girlish smile; those teeth not Hollywood perfect but perfect for her full mouth, her expressive eyes, her wonderfully wavy tresses. From the beginning, her lanky grace gave me permission to feel comfortable even as I admired her slim figure. There was that faintest trace of awkward hovering at the edges of her beauty, something which said, "I know you think I'm pretty, but I've got flaws just like anyone else." It made her all the more endearing.

Fast forward to the present. This Georgia peach shines in her roles of wife and mother to three, including twins. Appearances on 'Oprah' and multiple other TV interview forums not withstanding, she continues to give off a slight vibe of discomfort with the process, preferring to remain at home with her family, her sunflowers, her knitting of myriad items for friends and relatives. She has homes in New Mexico and New York. Running keeps her fit. The movie roles she chooses stretch her beyond the four walls of the 'America's sweetheart' box. And, she can more than afford to be selective. Her interests have matured with experience as one would hope of any sensible and interesting adult role model in the spotlight. Recycling, concern for wildlife and people worldwide, and energy conservation are all high on her list of values she desires to pursue and pass down to her children. All admirable and resume worthy characteristics. In fact, I could create a fine resume if ever she found herself in need. (I won't wait for that knock at my door.)

But, really, my connection to Miss Roberts extends in an altogether different direction. For reasons which to this day yet elude me, people have looked into my face and found a bit of the familiar there . . . specifically, a bit of Julia. This movement sprouted wings with the release of 'Steel Magnolias.' It took flight when 'Pretty Woman' hit the big screen, BIG TIME. I even cut my long hair somewhere in between but the comparisons continued. Of course, there was never any offense taken. How could I not enjoy the mistaken, er, identity? I often conjectured that there was some element of my behavior, a facial tick or physical quirk, which triggered whatever connection people formed between me and the woman who dated bratty Benjamin for a splendid moment in time. (Is he not a superb example of the human adult male species?) That had to be it because our features, taken individually, bear no uncanny resemblances. Though I possess brown eyes not unattractive in their own right, and my dazzling array of perfect-for-my-pucker teeth does more good than harm, I'm simply not, nor have I ever been, a reasonable facsimile thereof!

I must confess that this sameness game, this kinship of the familiar, has been rather amusing at odd moments. The very best example played out while I was in hard labor with my third child, Zachary. My husband, of Hispanic origins, compact and broad-shouldered with a good layer of muscle, dark hair and deep brown eyes, was my constant companion as the time drew ever near for the birthing portion of our program. Two maternity nurses staffed the department; they just about beck-and-called me to death. There was a memorable moment whereby a second urine sample was requested right about the time my contractions ceased to be pleasant reminders of the miracle of child birth and became annoyingly intense reasons to call the whole thing off or let daddy take the wheel. This duplicate was needed to replace the first specimen, the one collected when I could actually walk and pee without accidentally releasing additional items from my nether regions. Why? It spilled. When I think spill, I think milk, juice, tap water. How does one knock over a capped container holding the contents of my bladder? But, I digress.

One nurse in particular was gifted with more personality in her diminutive form than was probably reasonable. Our very own dynamo, ready to work and get it done - and all with a smile and a good word. Several good words. Words that we often did not quite understand as she was of Asian origin and spoke with a strong accent in rapid bursts. She darted in and out of our birthing room, checking my progress (is that what we call it now?) via multiple pairs of latex gloves - the loud SNAP as they went on and off her hands a sudden distraction in the midst of my focus and visualization (you try to picture the constricting band of pressure and pain bearing down on your uterus as a wave over which you are floating as you systematically release tension in each digit and extremity). Twice, she entered the room looking a bit perplexed as she gazed intently at the both of us before leaving just as quickly. The third time, she swept in, breathless, victory evident upon her broad friendly face. Pointing at me - the me who is sweating profusely and deep-breathing through a rather aggressive squeeze of my midsection - she exclaimed, "I know! I know!," she paused to inhale, "You-u, Julia W-o-berts," she turned and aimed the same self-assured finger at Jimmy, "but he no Lyle Lovett!" We looked at her, stunned, unsure how this could be happening, right here and right now, as she beamed at us, pleased at solving the puzzle which had so obviously plagued her, and turned on her size 5 crepe-soled shoes to hightail it out of there. That was almost fourteen years ago. I can't recall the exact time our son entered the world (to be fair, the welcome shock of delivering a boy overwhelmed my senses - my husband had spent the entire pregnancy gamely trying NOT to wish for a man child, knowing three was our cut-off point, tubal ligation here I come) but the J.R. story remains crystal clear. In retrospect, what's so terrible about resembling a glamorous movie star while bearing down?

Now, suppose I told you I actually went toe-to-toe with Julia Roberts? Just suppose my husband and I took a trip for our 20th anniversary to New York City in March of this year. Further, suppose my daily write-in request for seats to an already capacity-crowd taping of 'Live With Regis & Kelly' paid off with a surprise call from a rep at the studio who promised us seats on March 18th, the day of our anniversary. Supposition reaches a critical point when I ask you to suspend your disbelief as I present you with a scenario whereby my sweet spouse calls one afternoon before our trip to inform me I will never guess who is making her first ever appearance before King Regis on March 18th with us in the audience. Talk about your six degrees of separation! Happy Anniversary to me!

What transpired next is a tale of extreme excitement and willful woe. And, it, along with you, must wait for the next installation. Until then, may your car corner on a dime and you laugh until you pee your pants!

Brown

She was a peculiar girl. Not funny peculiar but strange peculiar. I've had colleagues on both sides of the equation, so I feel my discernment is spot on here. However, decide for yourself after becoming familiar. I think it best to begin with her physical appearance and work our way inward. It is the appropriate direction for this introduction, I promise.

Though her face presents a fascinating visual study - we will get to that - it was her hair which, shall we say, stood out. Quite literally. The color: just brown - an unassuming brown with no discernible highlights of red or blond. The texture: coarse and thick. Nothing extraordinary thus far. Highly forgettable over all until you consider the manner in which she displayed her 'crowning glory,' shall we say. Two raised and curving braids on either side of her head, originating from the bottom of a tight part running down the back of her head and worked close to the scalp, traveled a winding maze of a path from rear to front before suddenly halting at the apex of her high forehead. There the ends of the plaits rose in the air a good six inches, each one curved in the middle forming a space which brought to mind a parenthetical holding tank for possible thought-escapees. Often, I half expected to see her unspoken words pop up in the blank oval perched so oddly atop her head.

Moving down just a bit, I arrive at her face as promised. The individual elements comprising her features lacked any distinction as far as classic proportions go. No patrician nose or elegant brow or angular cheekbones. Her lips were neither too thin nor were they too full. Though I've previously set forth the condition of her forehead, its height was not out of place. Everything panned out as fairly average. Having said that, these pieces formed an arresting whole yet to be adequately captured by my vocabulary. Perhaps if I better understood the art of Picasso and Van Gogh and Gaugin, I could draw upon their images for comparison. Perhaps. You would not label her homely or comely. Really, you simply would not label her at all.

I have yet to describe her eyes. They seemed to exist separately from her face though they did, indeed, do their part to aid in the defiance of an adequate description. Again, the color brown is useful here for my purposes as they were brown but decidedly moreso. Their brown was the earth underfoot. Their brown was a faded autumn leaf. Their brown was as mother nature intended the most basic and elemental shade to appear. To be held in their gaze was to be held in esteem by all creation as they exuded timeless age, history, revelation. I was never quite comfortable in her gaze and yet I sought it, time and time again. Whatever disquiet I felt, a silent deep part of me responded to the promise of a mystery soon to be revealed. All of that from a pair of eyes before ever I truly understood who, and what, she was. Peculiar, yes?

Comments On My Comments, Anyone?

One week under my belt. Which is loads better than 'over my belt' as this seems to imply there might be flesh-spillage occurring at my waistline. Not the imagery I wish to invoke in your fertile minds. I AM living in Murfreesboro, Tennessee - the home of MTSU. Though the official version is 'Middle Tennessee State University,' I've heard many a reference to an alternate moniker - 'Muffin-Top State University.' Tennessee managed to finagle a cameo role in an edition of National Geographic magazine which dealt with obesity in the United States . . . there was a list or two and we were NOT included in the 'Top 10 Fittest States in America.' But I digress.

As I was writing before I so rudely interrupted myself, there are seven posts in my blog. That is one minor hurdle cleared. It is time to add another element to the endeavor. Build on to the disciplinary process. And, for this I need the input of any reader out there willing to comment before heading back to Facebook or Twitter. 'Kay? Thanks!

I'm thinking the blog could use structure. Nothing too rigid. Perhaps an outline which would stimulate my thought process and challenge me to exercise more of my creative writing skills. For me, pounding out a few hundred words on a moment that caught my attention is hardly a challenge . . . making the time is the challenge. But, I've shown myself there are enough hours in the day if I choose to make it so. (I see myself tumbling down the long grassy slope much like the hero in 'The Princess Bride,' yelling out to my life standing at the top of the hill, "A-a-a-s yo-u-u wi-i-ish-h!") I need to clear a second hurdle.

Writing a specific piece for a specific purpose is a tad more difficult. Knowing I may not be moved by my subject presents a need for more than talent and eagerness. Gotta have discipline and direction. Focus, sensei. Wax on and wax off. Here is where you, dear reader, enter the building.

I see each day of the week having a particular function: day one as freestyle opinion-piece; day two as Gary in some way; day three as topic suggested by one of my readers; and thus and so.
This is where I need your assistance. Besides needing a list of suggested topics - you can suggest ANYTHING, person, place, thing, known or unfamiliar to me, to you, and I will select from the offerings - there are four more days left in the week! As brain fog is yet hovering about me as thick and heavy as a fall morning on the San Francisco Bay, my ideas are unable to see their way to the outside world.

That's it in a hatbox, folks. Help me. I look forward to your most treasured and tantalizing input. Feel the freedom to make me laugh, cry, catch my breath, cuss you out . . . feel f-r-e-e.

Nada

I got nothing.

Nothing but a fat, freestyle, PMS fall from grace. I detest these days. I suddenly can't think my way out of a paper bag. Worse, I'm not quite sure if I recall exactly what a paper bag is. (Though to my credit, I don't use paper bags. Makes it easier to forget.) I'm snappier than a snapping turtle. More irritated than an infected dog bite. It feels as if my brain traded places with a bowling ball and a perpetual fog has rolled in, invading all spaces where clear and rational thought once reigned. I'm afraid to hear myself speak. I wish I didn't have to hear myself think. In my household, feel free to multiply those feelings by five.

There is good news today. My Canadian pals and one-time Colorado neighbors, Nathan and Shannon, announced the birth of their first child. That gave me my first real smile of the day. Wait, that would be my ONLY smile of the day. I broke bread in the form of a late lunch with Ashley, my young adult child. Yes, that means she had herself a free lunch. Brother Gary called last night; his court hearing went well. He returns Thursday next for news of a possible resolution. His lawyer still believes that the chances are favorable for avoiding a trial and finding placement in a state mental hospital for treatment. It was the first time in the process where he actually felt that the people put there to help him, to watch out for him, to mete out a conscientious justice, were doing just that. Oh, and I've actually lost a couple of pounds.

But back to the nothingness.

For two weeks, I've eagerly anticipated today's hair appointment. The haircut turned out so 'just-what-I-wanted-but-better-than-I-imagined' sassy, that I was sure I'd be dazzled by an adventurous romp of color. Especially with my pictures in hand and my description so spot-on and meticulous. Brown with chunky streaks of blond around the face with a few thrown in underneath and in the back. Like a soft-serve swirl cone. No brassiness, no reds, no trendy racetrack lines running from top to bottom all around the crown. I'll take a natural, earthy brown with a side of creamy blond thrown in. Thank you.

I've also agonized over this fate with coiffure destiny. I'm hair illiterate. I don't generally DO hair. Usually, it is one all-over coloring job. Semi-permanent. Out of a box or at 6-month salon intervals. For years, my husband performed the honors until it grew too long, until I shaved it, until the grays became more prolific. I wash it. Wear it wavy. Pop it under a cap when I walk. Hang it in a ponytail. Push it back with bobby pins or barrettes. Every now and again, I surrender to the hair straightener at the behest of one of my daughters. Handing over a large sum of money for color and highlights and a tip (gotta tip a good job), even as a splurge, even with the encouraging consent of my husband - "You need it. It makes you feel better. Do it." - causes me to blanch inwardly. Am I that selfish? That vain? That wasteful? Shouldn't I save the cash toward that laptop I would so use the dickens out of? Once I start, I'll have to keep it going. My hair will be damaged. Blah, blah, blah. Somebody shut me up. Ugh-g-g-h-h-h.

After two hours plus of foil and brush, dryer-timings and rinsing, spraying and styling, the unveiling was highlighted by the radiant smile of my hair gal. She was pleased. Tickled at the outcome. And, to her credit and talent, it did, er, does, look good. It just didn't fit the dream, the build-up, the woman in the picture's portrayal, of the whole swirl-cone color combo I was expecting with such eager anticipation. It was somebody's perfect look, just not mine. I struggled not to appear crestfallen. I told her this would be our starting point. In the future, we would make changes as I figured out what I preferred and didn't prefer. But, here's the thing: I know exactly what I prefer. It is on pages 90-97 of MORE Magazine, the April 2009 issue with Olympic swimmer, Dana Torres, on the cover.

(This would be the OTHER thing: for two weeks, this uber-sweet little woman has tirelessly worked on a huge church garage sale event. Squeezing it in between her job and kids and husband. She will be home tonight with several other church friends, making hundreds of beautifully wrapped homemade egg rolls to be fried on-site tomorrow. Doubtless, it will be another in a string of late nights for her. Did I mention she has to be up by 5AM? Did I further mention she waxed my eyebrows for free and they look so pretty; it was my first time and she only pulled an itty-bitty piece of skin from my brow bone. I am NOT going to void my bladder in her Cheerios today, thank you very much!)

I'll tell her next week. When the fog clears. When I'm able to view my head and not burst into sobs - yes! outright sobs, I tell you, in the bathroom to boot - and the bowling ball has rolled out and my brain has moved back in, I will chat with my neighbor/Bunco pal/hair gal. Otherwise, there will be more of the same. Who knows? By then, I may agree with my girls that it looks pretty darned good. By then, I will have taken on human form and my family can go back to looking me in the eye without fear in their hearts. But right now, I feel like my ice cream cone ran beneath a shower of caramel. In fact, I would eagerly consume a giant swirl cone, several, and not mind a bit if it bore a shroud of caramel! Pray I think clearly enough not to mistakenly cannibalize myself in my present state.

Like I said. I got nothing.

Me and P. Diddy

I mourned in the midst of perhaps one of my most enjoyable summer activities - digging. Picture me, my red-handled shovel, my classic I-POD with the leopard print cover, and a Bermuda- and crabgrass-infested flower bed. I'm situated on the wide expanse of lawn in front of our church; that's the Church at Cross Point located on Dill Lane here in the 'Boro if you'd like to drop in this Sunday. (Let's see: thus far we have Bermuda grass and Christ in the hizzat. Here comes the third in the trinity . . . ) My collection of oddly dispersed fat cells is covered by bright blue Nike shorts; one of Jimmy's perfectly acceptable old Bronco t-shirts tops off the ensemble.

It's my gift to the assembly today - landscaping. Two and a half hours of 92 degrees with mild humidity and the sun bearing down on me in a very direct, full-on August summer manner. The brim of my pink camouflage cap is saturated with sweat which continually drips into my eyes. Cars cruise by, coming and going, some with kids yelling, a few with stereos thumping, most with harried housewives or sedate seniors rolling in and out of their little piece of terra firma. The music on my I-POD is the 'Jesus Songs' list. Did I choose it based on my location? I don't believe so, but we can't fully rule out subconscious influences. Lord knows I possess plenty.

Today I start with reclaiming the border - nonexistent. My progress is measured by a series of jumps and yanks on the shovel. To the casual onlooker, I wonder if I resemble a giant spastic blue-and-orange bunny rabbit. It is monotonous and the edge reveals itself sl-o-w-l-y. Thank the Lord for my Valentine's Day gift of two years ago (I wasn't aware I needed an I-POD until it was bestowed upon me) . . . the music encourages me to move along like any good Christian soldier. I'm glad to accomplish a needed task, to provide a service, to burn a pound's worth of calories. Every so often, I belt out the lyrics as I reacquaint myself with God being good all the time and the Alpha, Omega, Beginning and End, Savior, Messiah, Redeemer and Friend.

My patience eventually pays off - all done. At least with the perimeter. What remains for me as the final notes of the last song ebb is a vista of weeds gone wild. The abnormal and plentiful rains of July created an intricate web of matted vines and runners with no clear beginning or end. UGH! I click on a tune which samples heavily from a classic by 'The Police' - 'Every Breath You Take.' It's P'Diddy, Puff Daddy, Sean Combs, just Diddy - take your pick - singing (is that the right word?) 'I'll Be Missing You' - his tribute to the death of fellow rapper and friend, 'The Notorious B.I.G.' I'm not a fan of either dude though Sean worked it out as Walter Lee Jr. in 'Raisin In The Sun.'

The first handful of knotted roots has barely cleared the deck when the tears hit - unexpected. I feel that familiar punch-in-the-gut of grief. Where moments ago both satisfaction and pleasure over a productive day reigned, a resurgence of sorrow for the losses in my life welled and spilled over, literally, onto the red earth below, my tears mingling with beads of perspiration. There before me were Grace and Gabriel, my young niece and infant nephew, shockingly killed and terribly missed. I saw my youngest brother, Gary and the trail of broken and wasted years fanning out behind him, lost to prison, misunderstanding and misdiagnosis, drugs, an overworked legal system. I thought of what my sister, Rebekah, endured, and endures, so unnecessarily due to one-time ignorance on the part of everyone and misfired chemical processes which betrayed the body of a young woman who desired from her earliest years to be a mother, first and foremost. I allow the triple-header of tornadoes, in both physical and emotional forms, which blasted through my life this past spring and summer, to take shape and assume the mourning position.

This collection of woes coalesces, a tense ball of fury and lament, weaving its way in and around the bass line of the song, gathering strength and then lessening in ferocity, backing down, breaking into smaller and smaller parts, until they once again assimilate into the whole of me. I thank the Lord for His gracious company in the midst of these many hardships. I welcome the lessons despite the cost of the learning. He allows me to be a soothing balm to others who grapple with the unexpected blows and cruel knocks of this hapless world. I know He created this opportunity to stir the well within to keep it from bubbling over as it continues to press deeper into the fertile ground of my heart, running over the debris collected in the dark corners, washing clean the wounds of sadness until the the waters run clear.

The clouds drift across the face of the sun. P'Diddy's ditty fades into another selection a bit more upbeat. The moment passes. I am back in the presence of the living, the present, the here and now. Time to step away from the gardening mess and pick up my daughter from school. Everything, and I do mean everything, will be here, waiting for me, for another opening. They'll be missing me.

Haagen Dazed!

I took a late night trip to the Haagen-Dazs website. Originally, my intent was a spell-check: I regularly draw a blank on the a's and 'zs' combo. But, the mystical number 5 lured me back in and held sway over my cerebellum for a time. There, in language so simple and sincere that it almost caused me physical pain to behold, was a list of only 5 easily-pronounced ingredients. Milk, cream, sugar, eggs, and the unique addition which creates the 7-flavor lineup. I swear I developed brain freeze just in the reading!

Of the newly-birthed septuplets - brown sugar, mint, coffee, vanilla bean, milk chocolate, ginger, and passion fruit - the exotics piqued my palate. The ginger manifests as three forms for fullest flavor. Puree, solid, and in the form of ginger juice. When's the last time anyone ever took a hearty swig of what I expect would be gullet-burning juice of the ginger root? But, cleverly mixed with sugar and cream, dare I say 'gingerly' added, I see only the promise of what the product description so aptly describes as "refreshing, with a slightly warm kick of flavor." I want to be warmly kicked right now!

Then, we have the "creamy tropical combination of tart and sweet." Passion fruit. Not a top contender on my food pyramid requirements list, this South American native is described in Wikipedia as an "aromatic mass of double walled, membranous sacs containing orange-colored, pulpy juice and as many as 250 small, hard, dark brown or black, pitted seeds." I simply adore a delightful description, but this surely won't have shoppers moving en masse toward the bin containing these gems of the plant world. But, the juice is rather tasty in an uncommon way. It would lend its arsenal of unique flavors well to the superb custard base of the 5 product line. Who can say NO to tart and sweet? Certainly not I.

Alas, I regret to report that I won't experience any warm kicking, much less in a tart and sweet combination, as it is the milk and cream which do not invoke anticipation within my tummy . . . unless it be a 'rumbly in my tumbly' that would rumble all the way-y-y through if you get what I'm saying to you! These days, I get my kicks, and licks of the cone, mostly via the written word, either writing or reading. When I do imbibe, the results are usually dis-ass-trous for all within kicking distance. It is a true pity. I would make an enormously competent taste-tester for Haagen-Dazs. Do they offer a wine-tasting approach to ice cream? I could look, spoon, envelop, allow the flavors to DE-velop, and upon melting, expectorate. Rinse. Repeat.

If anyone has connections at the mother plant, see if you can get me through the front door. Even the back door. I'm also willing to tackle sorbet. I see there is a new tangy blueberry-cranberry combination. Delightful! An icy scoop, anyone?