On The Being Of Women

I've been chewing on this subject for over a week.  A bit of personal distance, for objectivity's sake, was required.  I simply did not have it.  It's probably more of a compound subject: women supporting women AND friendship.  Though they are not mutually exclusive, one can exist without the other.

In the course of relaying sensitive information to a friend I don't see very often regarding her child, I felt the need to disclose uncomfortable feelings I'd had in regards to what I felt were her perceptions of my parenting and of me in general.  There was a substantial amount of background involved, and there was a need to be extremely clear and precise, so I sent her a lengthy e-mail.  In the past, we've communicated quite well in this manner.  (As it was a complicated matter, I've simplified for privacy and the sake of space on this blog.)  I wondered if I had done anything to cause her to feel irritated with me.  She works full-time; I'm a stay-at-home mom.  In the past year, the tone of her comments and conversations seemed to suggest I had it easier than her.  Was there a grain, or more, of truth to any of this?  Was I sensing correctly?  

And, as time went on, I sensed that she felt I was giving more energy to my brother and sister than to my children or husband; in her mind, my siblings with dubious backgrounds are getting what they deserve and are lost causes.  Though I don't force my viewpoint concerning my brother who spent half of his life in prison or my sister who suffered a post-partum psychotic episode and drowned my niece and nephew, the people I keep close understand my commitment even if they don't share the perspective.  So, while I have no problem with her divergent opinions, the idea that I wasn't giving enough focused attention to my children was sticking in my craw.  Though I tried to brush the tremors of concern I was feeling off to the side, I couldn't rid myself of the discomfit.  I'd reached a point where I had to unload the burden and clear the table of our friendship.  It all felt too secretive in the holding -- the table was pretty darned crowded.

For three days, I received no reply.  Then, a text one afternoon saying she was not ignoring me but between work, talking with her child, and going about her regular busy-ness, she didn't have time for an adequate response.  That I could believe.  I waited.

Finally, her return volley across the bow arrived in my MSN inbox.  Overall, it was an exceptional e-mail; I let her know as much.  She covered the drama behind the news I'd had to share.  She reminded me that many people disagree with the parental decisions of others though they support them as parents overall.  (I agree, totally.)  And then she proceeded to unload her issues with the typical frankness which marks her personality.

First, she acknowledged that I worked very hard to maintain my household.  She also wanted me to acknowledge right back that she had far less free time to do things like baking, exercising, entertaining friends, gardening, etc.  "There is huge difference in the life of a stay at home mother and working mother. I do think you are a valuable, caring, giving and wonderful person. I know the Lord is proud of all you do. You have been through a bunch of touch times and tragedy in your life but you still have a positive attitude." 

I felt dismissed in that moment.  Her statement reminded me of the time my basically absentee father last saw me at my brother's college graduation over thirteen years ago.  While he seemed quite entranced with John's academic accomplishments at Cal-Poly and spent hours conversing with him, the few minutes he gave me consisted of noting my kids were healthy and good-looking and stating I was a good mother.  That hurt.  I knew my decision to ditch college had miffed my dad, but I didn't realize how low on the totem pole my stay-at-home status placed me.  My friend's words had the same effect though it was not her intent.  It hit my sensitive bullseye regarding the intellectual and life sacrifices I made to remain at home instead of striking out in the big world of outside work.  Early on in my marriage, I worked while my husband also worked his way up through entry-level jobs.  When he reached a certain breadwinning capability, we decided that it was important for one of us to remain at home with our three children.  It was a conscious decision which we were willing to support financially as necessary.

But I took a giant step back and absorbed the panoramic view.  I'm very fortunate to lead the life that I do.  It has allowed me to help my children over and through a few substantial roadblocks; it has gifted me with the time to help others in my community, extended family, and church as needed; it provided me with the emotional space to heal from my childhood and develop strong roots upon a rebuilt foundation.  There are times when I experience guilt over this life I've been given.  But my friends remind me that I didn't just luck into it.  Thank God for them.  It is unfortunate that these lifestyles create fissures between women.  There are pros and cons, stresses and conditions, to both ways of life.  Neither should be snubbed or judged.

Then, she said that she didn't bother to make any friends because she had no space in her life for them.  It was work all day during the week, followed by time centered around her child, husband, and house.  That was it.  I must have read those lines several times over.  I ran a mental finger down the list of working friends I knew.  Especially those with children under the age of eighteen.  Did they stick strictly to the homefront?  Were they friendless?  Did they accept that working precluded any outside acquaintances?  The answer to each question was, "No." 
 
The woman down the block meets her bevy of gal pals once a week at a local establishment for a few drinks and lots of laughter.  One of my out-of-state friends seems to meet new acquaintances every other week, scoring more buddies than my social butterfly high schoolers; though come to think of it, she WAS a social thing in high school.  Another woman, a working professional long before marriage and motherhood, maintains her stable of friends and has added a few who are connected to her son's life.  Their husbands and children are not suffering.  In fact, I contend that women with ongoing friendships make for happier husbands and children.  Sharing the load with our girlfriends, getting feedback, receiving our strokes, and releasing the emotional hounds onto trusted ears, allows us to lead fuller lives.  They assist us in stepping out of the boundaries our homes and families can often impose on us before we know it has even happened.  We need fresh air to break up the staleness that stress and busy can cause.  Regardless of the time commitment to our connections -- an hour a few times a week by phone or the weekend girl trip to the beach.  It hurt me to to contemplate the isolation my friend was imposing on herself, all the while believing it to be a necessary sacrifice.  I told her as much. 
 
In closing her honest communication with me, she revealed that I often made her feel stupid and inferior in countless areas, including my immediate family and friend relationships, fitness, recycling, housekeeping, intelligence, entertaining, cooking and nutrition, and wardrobe.  I must say I was dumbfounded.  Mainly because I actually go out of my way to ensure people don't think I feel superior.  Never would I put down another woman to feel better about myself.  That action, in and of itself, would cause me to hold myself in the lowest of esteem.   There was a time in our lives, before everything went into mutual hyperdrive, where the two of us walked and talked about every topic under the sun.  Anyone who knows me knows that I fully disclose.  I'm open.  Perhaps more than is deemed appropriate by some.  I get that.  So, I was shocked to realize that this poor woman had developed this perception of me in relation to her.  "It is really hard to explain . . .  you probably don’t mean to do it on purpose but sometimes you make me feel worthless. I am not even sure how this can change. Maybe it is just me."
 
Her final line is the key.  The misconceptions that she held concerning my regular everyday self were originating from within herself.  I realize this is not always the case, but for many of us it is.  In the areas where we are lacking or unable to meet goals we've set, there's a sensitivity which causes us to react  in a negative manner with other women.  What we misconstrue as failures, weaknesses, or absences in our character or affect, cause us to key in on the perceived success in which we think others are reveling.  Ordinary comments take on extraordinary meaning.  Small cracks of insecurity broaden into chasms of regret and envy.  Before you know it, two perfectly good and striving women, both solid to the core, are awash in a sea of misunderstanding which leads to underlying, unnamed, toxic tension.  We simply can't afford to have this continue.  The buck needs to stop here before we pass it on to our daughters.
 
We must be willing to lay it out there for examination.  As did my friend and myself in the course of several heartfelt e-mails.  Usually, it pales when removed from the doubtful darkness and placed in the litmus of light.  We need one another.  Only a woman can truly comprehend what another woman is going through.  And men, who also require the company of other men, would prefer we discuss certain female issues with a fellow female.  Period.  No pun intended.
 
Whether a deep bond is formed or not, where one or more women are gathered there should exist an atmosphere of support and respect for the lives we all lead.  It's called the sisterhood for a reason, ladies.  Let us walk purposefully, all the while listening clearly, and responding with circumspection.  It works.

On Happy Endings

As I've stated before now, my youngest brother and I are working together on book about our relationship while he was incarcerated for most of the past 17 years of his 35 years of life.  Presently, he lives under the care of the state of California at a psychiatric facility in Napa.  Between us is a definitive body of very open letters which chronicles the complex journey of our sibling friendship.  Our purpose is two-fold.  We hope to open the eyes of those who are unaware of this sub-section of American life; we wish to provide support and reassurance to other families caught in this almost impossible position on both sides of the barbed wire fence.

This is my virgin attempt at writing what will be my first of many books, unless one counts the numerous penned pages of material I basically copied from various other texts for my definitive expose on rocks back in the third grade. Around the scintillating chapter on quartz, I developed writer’s block – mica schist was an emotionally draining subject! Sadly, the world will never know my perspective on the world of all things metamorphic and igneous as my first draft ended up in the round file.

I’m learning that the initial idea of a book is a grand enough concept at its core. But once one actually starts the process, the pages may lead the writer in an entirely different direction. The contemplated book in the brain, seeded in the spirit, emerging from the heart, may in fact resemble very little the completed body of work. I don’t even possess one completed chapter, much less a focused outline, and I can see that.

For me, this has been especially true because the subject matter is very close to me. The subject matter involves me. It is ongoing. The end has yet to be determined and may, in fact, never be determined. Or it may arrive at an unattractive pre-determined dead end alley at a location unknown to me. There is no contract with a happiness clause; no product guarantee with a return policy if expectation and hope are not met with the desired outcome.

Because of these facts, I must contemplate the idea of a happy ending. Those two words paired together like the perfect couple, used in reference to a book or a movie or even for a high schooler, have never set well with me. Happily ever after is as close to mythical as a unicorn. It is an unfair expectation to foist on most readers. An insult, even, to the serious contemplative reader. The idea of ‘happy’ must be examined and found wanting.

And then it must be folded to create a neat origami crane of actual truth. Let not the elusive happy ending become the stumbling block to a solid story, be it fiction or non-fiction. Rather, let there be a satisfactory ending. Or, an ending laden with triumph over disappointment. Or, a conclusion which simply provides solace through an expression of the shared state of humanity which binds us frail human beings together in the interconnected web of mortal life. Because good people die every day. Strong women are felled by sudden strokes or heart attacks. Sensitive men are imprisoned by mental illness. Precious children are raped in civil wars in far-off places, just because. Innocent babies are ripped from the womb by inconvenienced would-be mothers. And bad people often seem to reap rewards in opposition to their actions. Fairness be damned, as I point out to my kids.

It is from this vantage point, thoughtfully pounded home to me tonight during my writers workshop, after a full day with a bevy of intelligent and insightful friends, that I reconnect with the germ of my original concept and begin anew. There is freedom in realizing I am allowed to piece together this complicated quilt of a biography without full knowledge as to its ending. Or the exact nature of that ending. I am free to simply write and be aggravated by that process. And that process alone.

100 Posts

This entry marks 101 entries on this particular blog site! That means the 100th entry slid in without being noticed by this blogger.  But it deserves a small celebration.  A nod of recognition for the written centennial that it is.  Talk shows, sitcoms, and nighttime dramas boast of their centenary significance with special guests or balloons and cake or bold numbers splashed across the screen.

I'm not asking for any of that, though if the cake was filled with lemon curd and dressed in a creamy coconut frosting, I'd be hard pressed to turn it down.  Especially if it was presented by a special guest -- say an out of town relative from California, Colorado, or Wyoming, why, Missouri even springs to mind, oh, and did I mention friends in far flung places like New Mexico with their own HALF centennial fast approaching?   

A perusal of the posts reveals no particular pattern save a passion for writing for the sake of learning, teaching, seeing beauty, feeling pain, conveying hope, digging for truth, and introspectively journeying to inner places for the sake of outward edification for others.  I cover the people in my corner of the ring and the goings-on in their lives: enough variety and range to fill several interesting blogs and more than a few fascinating books.  Here and there I take hold of a current event and attempt to opine.  Sometimes the garden creeps in, often via the pesky Bermuda grass which plagues my landscape.  Even the family pets manage to nuzzle their way into a literary scratch behind the ears.

Overall, I do believe my specialty seems to revolve around focusing on the minute and enlarging through the macro-shot lens of the  keyboard to reveal the useful, and often ignored or unseen, detail.  Perhaps the binding theme might be that 'small things do matter.'  Because in the broader scope of an entire planet, I'm not all that significant except to my self and those who love me . . . and the bill collectors.  To the world at large, I am but a busily scurrying ant amongst millions of other busily scurrying ants.  It's up to me to ensure that the scurrying at least involves a purpose, a direction, a starting and resting and stopping point, before I cease to scurry.

The importance of this blog to me over the past year -- the first words posted on August 9th, 2009, to be exact -- can not be downplayed.  It has kept me going and given me my own personal purpose.  A purpose set aside from the hard work of mothering and other labor-oriented efforts nicking notches in my belt.  Regardless of readership, I'm doing it.  And doing it for me with a desire to have it reach others.  My ego does not mind a gentle stroking now and again, to be honest, but there's nothing inflated or exaggerated in that department.  Think Sally Fields receiving her second Oscar in 1985 for Places In The Heart, sincerely pleased to realize that for doing her job well and good the Academy liked her.  Yes, I'm weak.  I want to be liked and, as an extension, I would be ever so grateful if the gift I hope to develop, the passion with which I try to pursue it, could get a, "Whoop! Whoop!"

But I don't want to be liked by everyone, nor would I ever expect such.  Besides the fact that it's simply not possible to please, interest, help, and befriend the masses, it would be far too exhausting.  And my character would most likely bend like Gumby.  What I have to say if not for everyone.  Probably not even for many.  In today's media climate, I'm not willing to divulge the juicy stories and secrets hungry readers are always prepared to devour in order to fan the flame of my own popularity.  Nor am I willing to manipulate words for salacious effect: I may indeed have earned the title of long-winded blogger, though I prefer 'descriptive and detailed,' but gossipy I am not.  I possess no trendy gimmick or trademark useful in achieving any instant attention or celebrity status.  My affection for language and words prohibits me from taking the abusive liberties with self expression that countless individuals do.  What I do have at my disposal is an earnestness to see wrongs righted, no matter how long that might take.  Faith in the Lord, patience for the long haul, a genuine love for my fellow man, and a willingness to admit when I'm wrong are the tools in my toolbox.  And I didn't find them at The Home Depot.

Thanks for sticking with me over the past year and through the 100 + 1 entries I've logged on this online journal here at blogger.com.  It's been therapy, the practice of my evolving craft, and fun, all rolled into a rather cumbersome but still manageable ball.  And I'm much too reluctant a suburbanite to stop now!  

One to One

"I'm just a nobody trying to help everybody."  - Lawrence McRae, founder of the McRae Prostate Cancer Awareness Foundation, an everyday gentleman who took it upon himself to use his Social Security check to educate his fellow older black men on the dangers of prostate cancer in their community back in 2000.  He was recently featured on the 'Today Show' on NBC.

We are a nation which admires those who extend themselves . . . only we don't see how we, too, can be those we admire.

On the one hand, we are bombarded with stories of people who 'make a difference' in the news and on TV programs.  Movies are made which hail the efforts of individuals who step forward, take a chance, and do what others are afraid to do.  Those who read the Bible are instructed that to God, the creator of an entire universe and beyond, each individual is counted and important to Him.  We see and hear and absorb all of this into our hearts and minds, applauding the single-mindedness and willingness to bear burdens for another, or for others, and we often discuss the men and women behind the scenes.

But do we believe these actions to be so extraordinary and beyond the pale that only certain special beings are capable of carrying them out?  Are we romanticizing the idea of sticking it out and helping the one, taking on additional life weight, to the point that we only recognize who needs such help on the other side, after someone else has filled the void?  Have we sanitized the real faces with their real and often messy lives to fit a narrow definition of who is worthy of a leg up and who isn't?  Or, are we afraid to involve ourselves too intimately with others, fearing repercussions, subconsciously more concerned with protecting ourselves than extending ourselves?

Everyone is having a tough time.  I don't know one person who, despite their best efforts or charming personality or financial stability or cadre of friends, isn't facing a challenge of some sort in at least one significant facet of their lives.  Granted, there are those with incredible ongoing hard luck stories that never seem to dry up, and those who are painfully whacked upside the head out of the blue.  A few defy the standard parameters of empathy and understanding.  Many are small in comparison to others but still manage to hurt because of where that person is in life.  We've all got something.  Sometimes a whole lotta something.

So, if we're waiting for our something to hop a bus and head for another state, it could be a lifetime of waiting.  If we're waiting to be all better before we reach out a hand and allow another to hold on for dear life, they may just slip beneath the waters.  If we're waiting to feel more courageous about telling someone the truth or sharing information they need to know, the words may dry up and die on our lips.  Character waits for no man.  Or woman.  It's either there and one accesses it, or it's absent and one glosses over it.  We either stand for something, or stand aside.  I think you get what I'm saying.

For the most part, I am a support group of one to a man who spent roughly 17 years of his life incarcerated in a state surrounded by family.  A lot of family.  Many of them Christ-loving Christian folk.  Good solid people leading busy full lives.  And he's seen nary a one outside a few special visits by his brother on occasion.  It's not that a few other family and friends have not visited or written or accepted calls over the years.  They have.  And my mom is in a whole other class of support.  She's a mom.  But on a regular basis, with a consistency that reminds him he's still alive and counted and yet a human being, it's me.  I'm okay with that.  My love and dedication to him is fierce.  Strong.  Vital.  However, I'm only one little gal.  A guy could use a positive male influence.  A sounding board for guy talk.  A man willing to hold him accountable and encourage him in brotherly love.  He could use casual conversation with anyone other than a sister who knows every single thing about him and then some.  People ask me to pass on well wishes.  They cheer me on in my efforts.  They marvel at our timeline and closeness through the painful passing of time.  Those who knew him often wax a bit poetic about how very likable and funny he was and is.  But they stop just short of actually getting involved.

To a point, I understand.  He's a ward of the state.  First as a prisoner.  Now, an ex-convict turned psychiatric patient.  It's messy, foreign, difficult to draw the boundary lines.  To contemplate his life gives one pause, elicits compassion, but to enter his life reveals his wounds and warts.  Much too uncomfortable.  But lines could be drawn.  A promise made to call once a week and talk for half an hour.  Parameters which state "I'm here as a friend, but I can't send you money or stuff."  He did not kill or rape.  He's not a sociopath.  No one was personally targeted and hurt in any major purposeful sense.  He's been remorseful and apologetic.  He's trying to get better.  And, he needs to see non-judgement and forgiveness in action through everyday regular Joes and Josephines.

What pushes the knife a bit deeper for me is that my brother is one man out of tens of thousands of men, and women, in our correctional and mental health state systems.  Having me in his life elevates him heads and shoulders above a majority of his peers; he has not been totally abandoned by the world which will one day have to reabsorb him into its ranks.  His journey WITH support, with prayer and faith and hope, has been quite often excruciating, but he's still better off than most.  That kills me.  Without my belief in the Lord, I would probably have drowned in my sorrow, overwhelmed by the loss to humanity.

Because the prisoners and mentally ill citizens of this country, and, indeed, around the world, do not cease to be human because of their condition.  They are not all irrevocably lost to a better life.  But they must be made to believe they are not being further punished in freedom by their society for a debt they paid while incarcerated or institutionalized.  It is not our job to further punish them or ostracize them.  Each of us could educate ourselves a touch more on the issues and extend ourselves a touch more to the one.  There's nothing so special and unique about me that can't be tapped within by almost any other person.  I'm as flawed and tired and up and down and challenged as the next guy or gal.       

     

Amy Alaska

Anchorage, Alaska.  A brief but intense three-month friendship.  We were fifteen years old.  Two girls brought together by a chance meeting through my then boyfriend and our desire to live outside of difficult family circumstances.  Gloria and Amy.  While I was yet living with my mother, it would be roughly another year before I ran away and figured out a few things for myself, she was already independent of her mom.  Living with her big sister.  Working.  Taking care of herself.   Making her own choices: the over-the-top ones many teens would consider outside the watchful eyes of parents, enough said, and the dicier decisions, like would her money go toward rent or groceries.

I liked everything about Amy, from her freedom to her big rocker hair and her generous use of mascara and eyeliner.  She was the skinny that I wasn't.  She reflected the cool head-banging style of the times.  It was the eighties, so her jewelry was brightly colored in geometric shapes.  Tight acid-wash jeans.  Structured jean jacket.  Amy loved, loved, loved Bon Jovi.  Her boyfriend at the time had the prerequisite layered long rocker dude tresses.  Me and my rather bland wardrobe, complete with low-profile hair and hyper-scrubbed face, made the yin to her yang.  We were physical opposites.  But I longed to express a bit of my wilder side with a little nudge from her.  I actually remember hanging out with her one afternoon after her shift at the downtown Burger King, feeling so much older in my dark kohl-rimmed eyes ringed with a double-coating of mascara.  She'd even divulged her secret for creating the perfect eyelashes -- separation with a safety pin.

At first glance, an outsider might believe her to be tough, jaded, living for herself.  The outsider would be wrong.  Amy's heart was wide open.  Even toward her absent mother who created the situation which caused Amy to leave in the first place.  She was strong.  A girl fending for herself in the big hostile world had to be!  Her sense of responsibility and work ethic were admirable in one so young.  She had a decided soft spot for many of the homeless and troubled people who set up camp in and around her fast food job.  A few cheeseburgers may have made their way into hungry grateful hands.  And she was a great friend.  Swapping dreams, heartaches, and laughs with equal candor and earnestness.  No judgment.  No questions.  Just the promise of good company.

But as was the status of my life at that time, all good things must come to a sudden and swift end.  Two of my younger siblings, Gary and Rebekah, ran away.  The third, John, asked to go to our father's in Washington State.  It was me and mom.  As an adult, I can understand her need to hold on even tighter to the last child under her parental thumb as I wriggled and struggled beneath her.  At the time, I only understood my own need to escape her nomadic life of faith and the unknown.  One day we were there in Anchorage, living in a low-rent apartment with friends, and the next we were gone.  Off to another state.  And into a surprising new chapter which would unfold in stranger ways than I ever thought possible.  But the gist of it for this story: Amy and Gloria were no more.

Fast forward past California and Mexico and Nevada, skip through Washington, pan and scan over Israel, and take a tight shot of me graduating from Livingston High School.  California.  Again.  Two years after finding a way to leave the moshav in the Golan Heights where my brother and I had been sent by our father to again live with our mother.  Except for my BFF for life from Colorado, Laurie Geiser, there were no girlfriends from my wandering past who remained in my life.  In fact, I would ditch a full-ride scholarship to UC Santa Cruz to resume my connection with Laurie and escape pressures from well-meaning family members who understood very little of who and what I was.

Through details sketchy in my memory, Amy and I reconnected for a time through letters.  She was in Arizona.  We caught up.  Swapped stories on the happenings of the years now between us.  She filled me in on our common pals.  I'm sure we promised to remain in touch.  And then our lives, mine first, were taken over by those little things which almost always rule us human beings: babies.

That brings us to the here and now in Middle Tennessee.  One online night two years ago, while perusing MySpace and wondering just what the heck to do with it after posting umpteen pictures and selecting the perfect background, I decided to search for past connections.  Aside from Laurie and her extended family, including the handsome first cousin I married, and my 9th grade high school English teacher, there was nary a handful of names at my disposal.  I thought of Amy,whose last name I could not recollect, and I thought of my ex-boyfriend, John.  His last name was in there.  After asking my husband if it was okay to search, I gave it a try.  In minutes I had his page.  I was curious to know if John was all right.  If he had made it through the crappy trenches of his own life.  We'd all been a rather mixed-up motley crew back then.  It was him who put me in touch with Amy and vice-versa.  He'd found her in a small town by the name of Smyrna.  He wanted to know if I'd heard of it because it was in . . . Tennessee!

Well, Smyrna is a stones throw away from Murfreesboro.  Turn right off of Thompson Lane, head down Broad Street, and cruise on into one of my favorite cool confection stops, Karin's Custard, on the outskirts of, where else?!, Smyrna.  You tell me what the odds are of THAT happening?  Turns out Amy had taken up residence here about eighteen years prior to our mutual discovery of one another.  Our initial marathon phone call revealed that she, too, had a daughter named Ashley.  Her Ashley was  one year behind mine.  Another interesting coincidence.  Further talking over a lengthy lunch, the first of not nearly enough, exposed a long line of similarities in family issues and experiences over the course of our divergent adulthoods.  It was incredible.  It IS incredible.

Today we met and dined at the only Indian food joint in town, The Clay Pit, and broke naan together.  Her daughter, fresh from an overnight return trip via Wisconsin, tagged along.  She is a lovely girl.  Amy has done more than good there.  Now, we know one another's kids as she met mine earlier on.  We continue to forge new avenues in our renewed friendship through easy-flowing hours of talk, talk, and more talk.  Next Monday, we have a date with Julia Roberts at the local movie theater.  Yet another commonality between us since we were both compared to JR back in our separate days.  (We've long since developed our own unique looks, indepenent of the draining comparisons to glamorous movie stars!)  Oh, and Julia gave an interview once, early in her career, where she joked about the dangers involved in her habit of using a safety pin to separate her eyelashes in between coats of mascara.  Hah!  Cue The Twilight Zone music.

That's the story folks.  How a three-month stint twenty five years ago turned into the neighbor practically next door.  I knew Tennessee was good for something.

This Is My Son

I touch hair, thick, dark, downy new.
This is my infant son.
This is his rather large nose which seems so right on his wrinkled face.
I joke that it caught in the womb and delayed his passage into the world.
His father cries unabashedly, a rarity, because there is no third cleft.
Instead, a protuberance heralding his only boy.
So unexpected but joyously welcomed in the wake of 'wishful hoping.'
We got what we wanted.
This day is a pleasure.

I touch hair, thick, dark, full of curls.
This is my toddler son.
These are the sturdy legs which cut short a safe baby existence for a wanderer.
I laugh at how he never crawled but went from a stilted bug to an upright walker.
His father crows proudly, many times over, that his boy took off at ten months.
Perhaps he will be a football player.
His sisters are thrilled to chase and be chased by their little brother.
We have what we wanted.
This stage is such fun.

I touch hair, thick, dark, damp at the neck.
This is my young son.
These are the tears which fall like an endless salty rain when he learns his cousins died.
I weep along with him as the safety of his childhood mantle cracks at his feet.
His father holds back, for the moment, concerned at the possible emotional cost.
It is okay for his small boy to fall apart.
All of us will be right there to tenderly put him back together.
We never wanted such tragedy.
This chapter is endless.

I touch hair, thick, dark, long and wavy.
This is my adolescent son.
These are his expressive brown eyes which alternate good humor and frustration.
I worry over him as we pray and read together under the cover of each gifted night.
His father hugs and kisses, always there, glad to be a part of this time.
How he so loves his good boy.
Our little band is moving along in the aftermath.
We need to want again.
This is rebuilding.

I touch hair, thick, dark, closely cropped.
This is my teenage son.
This is one of the suddenly enormous feet which finally eclipsed mine as the longest.
I roll my eyes at his propensity to argue every little nothing with his similar mother.
His father knows the angst, they are men, that drives his boy to mayhem.
But his antics are not okay.
The growing third child loudly pronounces his presence.
We want him to learn silence.
These years are wild.

I touch hair, thick, dark, product enhanced.
This is my college son.
These are the well-shaped ears which hear the significant beating of his own pounding drum.
I hold my breath against the lapping waves of concern holding my anxious heart hostage.
His father reminds the boy, he knows, about drinking and girls and grades.
Trips for games come soon.
Who knows if student loans will bear fruit in this one?
We need him to want this.
This time is costly.

I touch hair, thick, dark, in place.
This is my married son.
This is the broad expanse of masculine shoulders which will comfort his partner in life.
I toast to the transfer of power and personality that signal the end of my main job.
His father understands, all too well, the burden his boy will now shoulder.
Did he prepare him enough?
The reception delivers every promised drop of celebration.
He got what he wanted.
This day is bittersweet.

I reach for hair, thick, dark, but it is not there.
This is my long-distance son.
These are the heavy duty miles between us which separate the physical and the emotional.
I sigh under the sure knowledge that his busy life demands him to be there and present.
His father accepts it, what else can he do, missing the boy who is now all man.
Technology and trips sustain them.
At least he doesn't blame us entirely in the raising for his faults.
We had what we wanted.
This here is our now.

Renewing My Commitment To No

You ever had one of those moments where you said YES to something and about five minutes later you realized you should have said NO? But, of course, you didn't reverse the decision. Maybe you felt obligated to the person. Maybe you thought no one else would step up for the need. Maybe you took pity on the situation and its principal players.

Or maybe you need to JUST SAY NO! Seriously. Let's practice it here. no. No. NO. NO! Got it? Get it? Goo-o-o-d. Now, repeat it back to me with enthusiasm. Like you mean it. As if you believe you possess the inalienable right to lob such a response back upon the asker. Maybe if you practice this mantra enough times . . .

. . . I'll catch on!

Yesterday afternoon, while surreptitiously trying to absorb multiple drops of perspiration against the brown satin side of my strapless bridesmaid gown in the middle of a full-on vow renewal ceremony (I kept referring to it as a 'vowel renewal'), I reminded myself of how very useful the word NO actually is. As these drops made their way down the entire length of my inner arm and collected at my elbow, I reiterated to my inner service-oriented self that I should learn to use NO at least as much with others as I use it with my kids.

Roughly two and a half months ago I was cold-called by a woman at my church who I barely know. Her mother was recuperating from a rough stay in the hospital; one of several she has endured in the past year or so. I believe it's congestive heart failure or something equally serious. So, this woman, let's call her Jan, tells me how she is having a vow-renewal ceremony because her mom was unable to be at her wedding 7 years ago; and, she, Jan, weighed over 200 pounds at the time. She regales me with tales of people unable to be in the ceremony, and then she pops the question: would I take the place of a gal who had to bow out? Without thinking that perhaps if I asked my husband, or phoned a friend, or polled the audience, I might have received advice to the contrary, I blurted out, "Yes." I felt sorry for her mom. And, really, how big a deal was it to simply stand next to Jan at the front of the church while she and her husband repromised themselves to one another?

Almost immediately she replied, "Oh, good. You can pick up your dress at 'David's Bridal.' My bridesmaids get a discount. You only have to pay $100." On the other end of the phone, I balk -- bridesmaids? -- but stand my ground. Big, HUGE mistake! That $100 dress ended up costing me, and thus my family, $220 by the time I added the sash, a last-minute alteration to the bust because there was no size 6 available, and a special strapless bra to create a wee bit of dimension where none actually exists. Granted -- confession time -- I put off fitting the gown and purchasing it until last minute because I thought, er, maybe hoped, Jan would realize this was all a bit much and cancel. Foolish thinking does NOT remedy a comedy of errors.

In the meantime, though the date was scribbled on my calendar for July 18th, I promptly forgot how quickly that would arrive. And, I neglected to contemplate how it would affect my big trip out West to see my brothers. Between the family road trip to and from Wyoming, and bringing my mother-in-law back with us for the entire summer, and all the sundry business of kids at home and the like, I procrastinated just enough (again wondering if the event might be cancelled, called due to rain or heat or lack of funds or some equally acceptable reason) that my plane ticket ended up costing me double the miles I'd planned on redeeming.

See how those ripples on the pond expand?

Fast forward to July 17th. I'm fresh off the plane after 18 days in California. The double-dip bride's phone number is defunct; I don't know what tailor she used. Facebook comes to my rescue and a brave seamstress, friend to my pastor's wife, tackles the last-minute job. I'm going to pay her well for her troubles! I finagled an appointment, again through a reliable friend, with an expert colorist to begin the restoration of my platinum blonde locks to brown so as not to appear to peacockish at the ceremony. She's not cheap. I leave her a generous tip.

Two hours later, Jan calls to say the 'wedding' must be postponed as her husband had last-minute oral surgery and they are low on money. The date is moved to August 1st -- two weeks away. We're still in the race.  Sigh-h. On the plus side, the seamstress will be very pleased to make a bit of money: she did a fantastic job. I recommend her. And, the Tres Amigos which appeared out of nowhere on my bottom lip, three nasty enormous oozing cold sores, would have time to heal.

Screech! Back up to late June. I've already missed the bridal shower that her ill mother planned for Jan; I was in Wyoming. Attendance was low. By now, I realize there are individuals who feel this entire endeavor is a bit unconventional in a negative way. Not appropriate by societal standards regarding such things as vow renewal ceremonies. Maybe a bit advantageous. Not well thought out. This had not occured to me. Now, it is the Sunday before my big adventure out-of-state. Jan approaches me to follow-up on another cold-call: that had been a query about going on Saturday night before the nuptials, the day after I returned home, to cook at her house because she decided to prepare all of the food. Fried chicken. My instincts did kick in here. I told her no over the phone. But I would make a dish of some kind to go with it. She could let me know. Well, she let me know.

"Gloria, Gloria . . . " she pursued me out the door, "I decided what you could make." There is a slight pause, so slight I feel I may be mistaken, "Fried chicken and potato salad." Deadpan delivery in her very loud, slightly strange voice. I stutter-stepped but handled it, "No, NO, I can't make fried chicken," for possibly 50 people on my own dime in a state of jet- and emotional-lag, "but I can make baked mac n' cheese and potato salad." She feigned surprise at my unwillingness to fry the chicken, gushing that I was such a good cook, then informed me that she hated mac n' cheese, and stated potato salad would be fine, but with Miracle Whip and relish. No onions. That's how she likes it. I agreed. I planned to make that one and ask my mom to whip up a medium batch of her special mayo recipe for the 'other side.' (Mom delivered her beautiful bowl of Southern comfort hours before I was informed of the cancellation; my husband and I ate it every day, twice a day, until it was gone. We only like her recipe.)

The Sunday before the rescheduled date, Jan's husband tells me how he wanted to create a slideshow but can't figure out how to get pictures of their wedding onto a disc via his phone. He was clicking pictures of pictures, yet in their album pages, with his cell phone. Being the honorable bridesmaid that I am, I volunteered to take them home, scan them, and create a DVD for him. No problem. I do it. Jimmy and I discover how to use our Apple computer's photo program. Very cool. Time consuming.

The Sunday of this ceremonial pursuit, I am once again approached with a desperate need. They lost their wedding music CD. I realize they had planned on using the same one from 2003, but had only begun the quest for it the night before. There was a list of songs and a request to download them -- I used up my meager I-Tunes account funds -- and put them in order on a CD for that very afternoon. During the time we planned to rest a bit, cut veggies for a tray, gather the dress and food, arrange the cut flowers I volunteered from my garden with fern fronds in four large vases, and round up the supplies my daughter would need to do the bride's hair. Yes, Jan asked if I could do her hair. Hair-illiterate me volunteered my daughter. My lovely spouse of 21 years -- all without a renewal ceremony, than you very much -- compiled that disc. Guessing, correctly, on two ballads without artist's name attached. Again, no valid phone number. No way to reach them. He and my son also assisted in the set-up and clean-up of the affair. I love them all the more for it!

I was denied the use of my $15 pale blue sash that I had ironed earlier because the other bridesmaid didn't have one. The other bridesmaid also had a wardrobe malfunction: her dress did not fit, leaving at least a foot wide swathe of worn white girdle showing in the back where the zipper could not join the fabric to its regularly scheduled meeting place at the top. With copper safety pins from the sewing kit I brought along for possible emergencies, I neatly pinned the brown satin edges to the dingy inner garment, feeling rather sorry and amused at the turn of events. The woman, quite full-figured and generously endowed in the bust line, insisted that just a week ago it had fit like a dream. (My little brother, upon hearing this story, erupted, saying that must have been some week! HE said it.) Nothing else could be done. She limped down the aisle -- her leg was broken and still in a bulky contraption -- with as much dignity as she could muster. I followed in old wedge sandals -- couldn't afford shoes -- with my left big toe all bandaged up to hide the fungal infection I had uncovered beneath my nail polish two nights before. The sweating had already begun courtesy of OTC meds I took earlier to combat an oppressive sinus headache; this went well with my muddled medicated brain and ringing ears. We were a classy affair.

Despite a few, by now, trademark Jan-moves during the ceremony -- awkward stretches of several songs as we all stood or sat watching the principal players stare at each other, an interruption of the kiss to demand that the crack baby they are attempting to adopt from a friend who has had two other such children be brought to the stage for the moment -- it was all over rather quickly.  (And, after all, she was just being the bride -- second go-round or not.)   Her mother was present, wheezing and dewy from the heat and exertion on her ailing body. I think she was happy to witness it all. But I could tell she was aching for a nap, too.

We rolled out the food. Three burgeoning disposable aluminum pans of baked beans. Two small same pans of those little weenies wrapped in packaged dough and baked. No fried chicken. And, besides the 10-pound batch of Miracle Whip potato salad my mother-in-law graciously prepared this time around before she returned home to Colorado, there were two other batches of it! Erroneously, I believe they all had onions. Even mine. I forgot! The veggie tray laid out with my daughter's assist -- in the packing, I failed to ask for help, and in my garage it fell to the ground, sending bell peppers and cucumbers onto the little rug in front of the extra fridge, causing me to scream in frustration, but we sprayed and rinsed everything, and reorganized quickly back into a presentable array.

My baked special recipe mac n' cheese was a hit . . . once we were able to free it from the oven. Somehow, the door had been locked, the latch refused to give, and it took a screwdriver and several people with multiple attempts, my son included, to take apart the door, after breaking the handle. That was pure hilarity. One of the highlights of the entire event in my mind. That and the pics the pastor's wife snapped of the before, during, and after. The cake, courtesy of the mom on crack, was not what the bride wanted, but it was tasty. Satisfied my sweet tooth.

Once the tablecloths were thrown away, the clean plastic glasses salvaged, and the flowers transferred from my vases, our Yukon loaded with the cooler and sewing kit and hair products, we made the quick wagon-train trip to Woodbury to drop off my mom's car. And then my handsome man, decked out in his crisp white shirt and blazer, took me out to dinner. No fried chicken. We dined at the new hot dog eatery just down the road from our house. I had the Polish dog; Jimmy ate the Coney dog; Zachary ordered the hot wings with fries but we huffed our way through more of them than he did. Believe me when I say we introduced an element of class to the joint that our son described as "possibly a family-friendly bar?"

All of this was mine for the bargain-basement price of an unassuming Y-E-S.