Dust motes swirled lazily and a rusty old file drawer shrieked in protest as I pushed it shut with a clang. It was a beautiful late-summer Tuesday afternoon, yet here I stood catching up on overdue office projects instead of lounging outside during lunch. The tiny file room was musty, humid and dim; tucked as it was behind an old, unused staircase. The walls creaked and settled with age, suffused with the antique smell of long-forgotten papers moldering away in cramped, gloomy corners.
I was just turning to leave when I heard a low and furtive buzzing to my left. I glanced toward the sound and noticed a tiny shadow flitting randomly between the yellowed vertical blinds. A bee, drawn to the slivers of brightness drifting through the cracked and narrow window. It bumped and thumped repeatedly against the glass, and I wondered how long it had been there. As I watched, it continued to crawl searchingly across the pane; seemingly quite conscious of where it wanted to go, yet incapable of perceiving the thing that blocked its way.
I walked back to my desk, called a few vendors, attended a flurry of meetings. And for whatever reason, that bee never strayed from my thoughts. Even at home, as I drifted to sleep that night, I pictured it struggling away in muted moonlight, mere millimeters from freedom but firmly trapped in place. What an irony, that such an impenetrable barrier would – from such a close distance – remain wholly, completely unseen.
The next afternoon when I peeked into the file room, the buzzing had ceased entirely and there was no shadowy movement by the window. I sifted my fingers carefully through the blinds, half-expecting a sudden, furious sting. But instead, I spotted a small yellow smudge perched feebly on the sill, wings twitching weakly as I bent to inspect it.
We remained that way for who knows how long, just the bee and me, surrounded by ticking silence. Vaguely, I noted the mingled scents of mildew and moldering paper as I stood and considered. And then I quietly hunted around, finally coming up with an unused file folder and an ancient-looking pencil cup. I bent down, and regarded the bee, and the first thought that came to my mind emerged in a hushed half-whisper: “Will you let me help you?”
And just a few minutes later, I leaned out the back door and lifted the inverted cup. The bee sat uncertainly for a moment, buzzing softly amidst the familiar summer sounds of cicadas and chattering sparrows. And then, just like that, it floated off and up and away.
I thought about the shock of sudden brightness after spending so long in shadow, the invisible wafer-thin power of substance against repetitive effort, the impact of size and perspective. And as I walked back inside, I considered paths unexplored, obstacles unaccounted for, and the mystery of hands unseen.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
kiddieland
Normally in life, childhood kind of melts away in stages, like ice cream on a summer afternoon. Little by little, playgrounds and birthday parties lead to homework and summer jobs; which gradually give way to lawncare and daycare and taxes and business travel until one day, we look up and wonder where the time could have possibly gone. But once in awhile, something happens that sends an entire era crashing down definitively. For me, one of those somethings was the recent demolition of Kiddieland.
To all the pint-sized people who grew up in my neck of the woods, Kiddieland was our personal version of Club Med: a crayon-colored, candy-scented nirvana set to merry-go-round music, populated by acres of carnival rides built expressly for kids. We could hardly believe it – spinning teacups and Ferris wheels, bumper cars and rock-o-planes as far as the eye could see, all with specially scaled-down seats that couldn’t even fit the average parental rear end. There was a midway made up of swaggering clowns and men on stilts waving licorice and lollipops and pink cotton candy; and up and down its length lolled fat, smiling stuffed animals alongside friendly barkers who shouted that for only 25 cents and the right amount of skill, you could win a real live goldfish in a bowl. Yet as if all this weren’t enough, there were also the buddy rides, which permitted a parent to ride along with you. My favorite of these was the centerpiece of the park itself: an imposing white wooden roller coaster named The Little Dipper. The Dipper – as it was known for short – let us four-to-nine-year-olds scream our little kid heads off, while the protective arm of mom or dad stayed securely draped across our shoulders from the first drop to the final dizzying helix.
I can still remember sitting buckled into the backseat of our family sedan, red canvas Keds stuck straight out in front of me, craning my neck to see those flying circus flags begin to peak over the horizon. It’s funny how we adults require mantras that remind us repeatedly to live in the moment. I’m not sure when this becomes necessary. Because back in the day, as soon as I spied those flags, my entire existence was overtaken by the same giddy thought looping over and over and over: We’re going to Kiddieland!
Some time after his death, I found an old photo of me and my father as we crested the very top of the Dipper’s first hill. There I was in my old brown striped jacket, front teeth missing and mouth open wide in a silent shriek of elated anticipation. And there was my dad with his arm tight around me, sitting tall in his familiar white Hanes tee shirt, trying not to grin and failing miserably. The photo was weathered and yellowed, dusty and creased. The hill was a great deal smaller than it had ever seemed at the time. But my memory of simple trust and joy in that captured moment, as we sat poised together at the very top of the world, remains as bright and substantial as yesterday.
I couldn’t attend the demolition. After all, I’m a grown-up now with a job to hold down, a family to care for, bills to pay. But deep down, I know there’s more to it than that. Because in truth, I just couldn’t muster the courage to watch someone take my dear old friend off life support. And because that little girl, in the years since those flags proudly flew, has grown so troublingly subdued.
I’m afraid, you see, that my old friend might not have recognized me. And I’d rather we remember each other just the way we used to be.
To all the pint-sized people who grew up in my neck of the woods, Kiddieland was our personal version of Club Med: a crayon-colored, candy-scented nirvana set to merry-go-round music, populated by acres of carnival rides built expressly for kids. We could hardly believe it – spinning teacups and Ferris wheels, bumper cars and rock-o-planes as far as the eye could see, all with specially scaled-down seats that couldn’t even fit the average parental rear end. There was a midway made up of swaggering clowns and men on stilts waving licorice and lollipops and pink cotton candy; and up and down its length lolled fat, smiling stuffed animals alongside friendly barkers who shouted that for only 25 cents and the right amount of skill, you could win a real live goldfish in a bowl. Yet as if all this weren’t enough, there were also the buddy rides, which permitted a parent to ride along with you. My favorite of these was the centerpiece of the park itself: an imposing white wooden roller coaster named The Little Dipper. The Dipper – as it was known for short – let us four-to-nine-year-olds scream our little kid heads off, while the protective arm of mom or dad stayed securely draped across our shoulders from the first drop to the final dizzying helix.
I can still remember sitting buckled into the backseat of our family sedan, red canvas Keds stuck straight out in front of me, craning my neck to see those flying circus flags begin to peak over the horizon. It’s funny how we adults require mantras that remind us repeatedly to live in the moment. I’m not sure when this becomes necessary. Because back in the day, as soon as I spied those flags, my entire existence was overtaken by the same giddy thought looping over and over and over: We’re going to Kiddieland!
Some time after his death, I found an old photo of me and my father as we crested the very top of the Dipper’s first hill. There I was in my old brown striped jacket, front teeth missing and mouth open wide in a silent shriek of elated anticipation. And there was my dad with his arm tight around me, sitting tall in his familiar white Hanes tee shirt, trying not to grin and failing miserably. The photo was weathered and yellowed, dusty and creased. The hill was a great deal smaller than it had ever seemed at the time. But my memory of simple trust and joy in that captured moment, as we sat poised together at the very top of the world, remains as bright and substantial as yesterday.
I couldn’t attend the demolition. After all, I’m a grown-up now with a job to hold down, a family to care for, bills to pay. But deep down, I know there’s more to it than that. Because in truth, I just couldn’t muster the courage to watch someone take my dear old friend off life support. And because that little girl, in the years since those flags proudly flew, has grown so troublingly subdued.
I’m afraid, you see, that my old friend might not have recognized me. And I’d rather we remember each other just the way we used to be.
Friday, April 30, 2010
on the way home
“I always thought of myself as a house. I was always what I lived in. It didn't need to be big. It didn't even need to be beautiful. It just needed to be mine.”
~ George Monroe, Life as a House
Recently, my husband and I received an interesting lesson in the power of shifting perspectives.
What happened was, we put our house on the market and we almost bought another. Actually, the first property fell through; but then we found a second house we liked. Both shared so many features nearly every homeowner dreams about: gorgeous wraparound staircase, huge master suite, big backyard, extra bedrooms. So we surprised ourselves just a little when we ended up opting to stay in our two-bedroom condo.
It’s not that our humble little abode has everything we’ve always wanted. In fact, by certain legitimate standards it’s somewhat short on space, and there’s no backyard for our dogs. But as we waded through the process of trying to sell, it gradually occurred to us that for now, the house is simply ... enough. The place I’d noncommittally referred to as “my husband’s townhome” when we first got married has somehow become a reassuring refuge for us all. And for the time being, that’s more than sufficient.
I wondered how we’d come to this realization. I think it had to do with the time spent trying to sell to some anonymous stranger. We cleaned all the closets. We scrubbed all the floors. We positioned scented candles in the bedrooms. We did laundry and dishes, and polished the faucets, and vacuumed the carpets each day. And then we began to make our list of all the things that made it special. The list grew, and it grew, and it grew. And in the end, we simply sold ourselves.
Some years ago, a missionary from my church spent time with the people of Africa. He brought back startling pictures of houses built with hardened clay blocks atop crumbling rubble foundations. The floors were dirt, the doors were cardboard and the roofs were made of straw. He stayed with extended families of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, all of whom slept and ate and lived in a single room. And yet in nearly every photograph, those people were inexplicably peaceful, even occasionally laughing. Despite their poverty, in the face of constant hunger and hardship, they had somehow mastered the art of simple gratitude for each new day. And here we sit, one of the wealthiest nations on the planet, with rates of depression and suicide that constantly top the charts.
The night after we’d taken down the realtor sign, I brought home a DVD. My husband popped a bowl of popcorn and we sat together on the couch and watched. The dogs assumed their usual posts – Maizy in my husband’s lap; Grant on the sofa gazing out his window, the self-appointed family scout with his well-gnawed bone between his paws. It was a cozy, comfortable evening, unexciting by almost anyone’s standards. Springtime leaves were just beginning to blossom on the trees out back, and the little French door to our deck stood open. We’d had our dinner, the dishes were done, the breeze wafted quietly through the room, and we were all together.
That’s when we knew we were home.
~ George Monroe, Life as a House
Recently, my husband and I received an interesting lesson in the power of shifting perspectives.
What happened was, we put our house on the market and we almost bought another. Actually, the first property fell through; but then we found a second house we liked. Both shared so many features nearly every homeowner dreams about: gorgeous wraparound staircase, huge master suite, big backyard, extra bedrooms. So we surprised ourselves just a little when we ended up opting to stay in our two-bedroom condo.
It’s not that our humble little abode has everything we’ve always wanted. In fact, by certain legitimate standards it’s somewhat short on space, and there’s no backyard for our dogs. But as we waded through the process of trying to sell, it gradually occurred to us that for now, the house is simply ... enough. The place I’d noncommittally referred to as “my husband’s townhome” when we first got married has somehow become a reassuring refuge for us all. And for the time being, that’s more than sufficient.
I wondered how we’d come to this realization. I think it had to do with the time spent trying to sell to some anonymous stranger. We cleaned all the closets. We scrubbed all the floors. We positioned scented candles in the bedrooms. We did laundry and dishes, and polished the faucets, and vacuumed the carpets each day. And then we began to make our list of all the things that made it special. The list grew, and it grew, and it grew. And in the end, we simply sold ourselves.
Some years ago, a missionary from my church spent time with the people of Africa. He brought back startling pictures of houses built with hardened clay blocks atop crumbling rubble foundations. The floors were dirt, the doors were cardboard and the roofs were made of straw. He stayed with extended families of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, all of whom slept and ate and lived in a single room. And yet in nearly every photograph, those people were inexplicably peaceful, even occasionally laughing. Despite their poverty, in the face of constant hunger and hardship, they had somehow mastered the art of simple gratitude for each new day. And here we sit, one of the wealthiest nations on the planet, with rates of depression and suicide that constantly top the charts.
The night after we’d taken down the realtor sign, I brought home a DVD. My husband popped a bowl of popcorn and we sat together on the couch and watched. The dogs assumed their usual posts – Maizy in my husband’s lap; Grant on the sofa gazing out his window, the self-appointed family scout with his well-gnawed bone between his paws. It was a cozy, comfortable evening, unexciting by almost anyone’s standards. Springtime leaves were just beginning to blossom on the trees out back, and the little French door to our deck stood open. We’d had our dinner, the dishes were done, the breeze wafted quietly through the room, and we were all together.
That’s when we knew we were home.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
reflections
Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Canadian geese lifting off, reflected in measured pairs of two by two by two. I stand in the dormant grass with my hands in my pockets, and watch them disappear into the fog. I wonder where they’re headed and if it’s a place I’ve ever been.
I think about friendship and love; childhood and adulthood; and how the seasons of life aren’t nearly as different as they seem. Children, for instance, grow into adults who –- deep down -– really just want someone to kiss them goodnight, hold their hand, make them laugh, reassure them in the dark. Someone to turn to the world and say, simply yet reverently, “this is the one.”
Geese ascend, reflected in the pond, two by two by two. I think about the news I just received from an old dear friend, news that someone she cares about is leaving town. Her voice is measured and even as she mentions his decision was apparently abrupt and unavoidable; that he’ll be half a country away in just a couple of days. Poised in the air between us, like a waiting breath suspended, half-formed hopes seem to hover and dissipate. I think of migratory birds seeking somewhere safe to land. Her tone remains neutral when she remarks that this someone dropped off a parting gift.
A gift? I say. What sort of gift?
Geese in flight, gliding in a perfect letter “V,” defying gravity. Every movement so precise, synchronized, flowing, like a graceful ballroom dance. How do creatures such as this –- creatures who will walk, even stand, directly in front of a moving car –- achieve such effortless airborne unity? So many times, I remember looking into a cherished loved one’s eyes. Seeing only myself reflected there, isolated and uncertain. Realizing that a lifting off has occurred, but not in the same direction.
A mirror, she says. He brought over one of his mirrors. He said it reminded him of me.
Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Geese angle upward, disappearing into the distance, two by two by two. Prompted by some unspoken accord, some tacit yet shared understanding, to explore destinations I can only begin to imagine. I stand in the dormant grass while an impassive silver lake reflects the shifting clouds, the changing seasons, and landscapes left behind.
I think about friendship and love; childhood and adulthood; and how the seasons of life aren’t nearly as different as they seem. Children, for instance, grow into adults who –- deep down -– really just want someone to kiss them goodnight, hold their hand, make them laugh, reassure them in the dark. Someone to turn to the world and say, simply yet reverently, “this is the one.”
Geese ascend, reflected in the pond, two by two by two. I think about the news I just received from an old dear friend, news that someone she cares about is leaving town. Her voice is measured and even as she mentions his decision was apparently abrupt and unavoidable; that he’ll be half a country away in just a couple of days. Poised in the air between us, like a waiting breath suspended, half-formed hopes seem to hover and dissipate. I think of migratory birds seeking somewhere safe to land. Her tone remains neutral when she remarks that this someone dropped off a parting gift.
A gift? I say. What sort of gift?
Geese in flight, gliding in a perfect letter “V,” defying gravity. Every movement so precise, synchronized, flowing, like a graceful ballroom dance. How do creatures such as this –- creatures who will walk, even stand, directly in front of a moving car –- achieve such effortless airborne unity? So many times, I remember looking into a cherished loved one’s eyes. Seeing only myself reflected there, isolated and uncertain. Realizing that a lifting off has occurred, but not in the same direction.
A mirror, she says. He brought over one of his mirrors. He said it reminded him of me.
Gray sky, open field, white mist, dark water. Geese angle upward, disappearing into the distance, two by two by two. Prompted by some unspoken accord, some tacit yet shared understanding, to explore destinations I can only begin to imagine. I stand in the dormant grass while an impassive silver lake reflects the shifting clouds, the changing seasons, and landscapes left behind.
Friday, March 5, 2010
wanderings (an homage)
Life is sometimes what you wander into.
~ Joe Bednar
Got into the car this morning and fired up my trusty iPod. Just like that, up comes the title track off Steely Dan’s third studio album, Pretzel Logic. The tour supporting this album was once termed the “tour of disillusionment.” I forget who coined the phrase; and I’m not sure if he or she was referring to the audience –- who were somewhat befuddled by the more complex nature of this new material –- or to the band itself. Probably both. Either way, lukewarm tour reception prompted Walter Becker and Donald Fagen to retreat into the studio and abandon live touring for decades.
I would love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show
Yes I'd love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show ...
Something I read recently stirred up nostalgia for my old college days -- when, ironically, I was into lots of classic rock tunes like this one. The “something” was a very poignant, thought-provoking blog post by Joe, an old college friend of my husband’s. The memory that it conjured up was that of my own freshman year on a different campus. Specifically, the day –- no, the actual moment –- I suddenly felt at home ... at college, in school, in my own skin. I was walking toward my dorm at dusk, backpack slung over one shoulder, hand in my pocket, crossing the business quad. Everything about that instant stands out vividly: the angle of the light, the scent of the pine trees, the sweater I was wearing. I had the simple thought, this is going to be okay. It just clicked comfortably into my head, the way a phonograph needle settles into the groove of a familiar old 45. My life stretched out before me like a bright white six-lane highway.
I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time
I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time ...
In his blog, Joe describes a college friendship that was, and then it wasn’t, before eventually coming around again. He alludes to the fears and plans of his own teenage self; the companions that came alongside him for the first leg of the trip; the unexpected and occasionally unwelcome turns that occurred down the road. Many of us might recognize in his description a person we ourselves haven’t seen in the mirror for some time: a hesitant, hopeful, headstrong version of the grown-up skin we somehow wandered into; an increasingly pragmatic, pensive traveler who’s navigated that ever-narrowing highway across the years and into the jurisdiction of the lives we lead today.
And what would happen if we introduced those two selves right here and now? How much would they still have to talk about, to compare, to admire in one another? And would they still share that buoyant conviction that things were going to be okay?
“Friends,” observed Stephen King in Stand By Me, “can come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant.” So it is, I find. And maybe, in the end, the real ones are meant to do more than help us navigate our own detours and disillusionments. Maybe they’re meant to bear witness; to preserve continuity; to help us stay true to the best and brightest and most worthwhile parts of the person we are and the person we’d once hoped to be. Even when those days are gone forever; over a long time ago.
Oh yeah.
All that is gold does not glitter,
not all those who wander are lost;
the old that is strong does not wither,
deep roots are not reached by the frost.
~ J.R.R. Tolkien
~ Joe Bednar
Got into the car this morning and fired up my trusty iPod. Just like that, up comes the title track off Steely Dan’s third studio album, Pretzel Logic. The tour supporting this album was once termed the “tour of disillusionment.” I forget who coined the phrase; and I’m not sure if he or she was referring to the audience –- who were somewhat befuddled by the more complex nature of this new material –- or to the band itself. Probably both. Either way, lukewarm tour reception prompted Walter Becker and Donald Fagen to retreat into the studio and abandon live touring for decades.
I would love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show
Yes I'd love to tour the southland, in a traveling minstrel show ...
Something I read recently stirred up nostalgia for my old college days -- when, ironically, I was into lots of classic rock tunes like this one. The “something” was a very poignant, thought-provoking blog post by Joe, an old college friend of my husband’s. The memory that it conjured up was that of my own freshman year on a different campus. Specifically, the day –- no, the actual moment –- I suddenly felt at home ... at college, in school, in my own skin. I was walking toward my dorm at dusk, backpack slung over one shoulder, hand in my pocket, crossing the business quad. Everything about that instant stands out vividly: the angle of the light, the scent of the pine trees, the sweater I was wearing. I had the simple thought, this is going to be okay. It just clicked comfortably into my head, the way a phonograph needle settles into the groove of a familiar old 45. My life stretched out before me like a bright white six-lane highway.
I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time
I have never met Napoleon, but I plan to find the time ...
In his blog, Joe describes a college friendship that was, and then it wasn’t, before eventually coming around again. He alludes to the fears and plans of his own teenage self; the companions that came alongside him for the first leg of the trip; the unexpected and occasionally unwelcome turns that occurred down the road. Many of us might recognize in his description a person we ourselves haven’t seen in the mirror for some time: a hesitant, hopeful, headstrong version of the grown-up skin we somehow wandered into; an increasingly pragmatic, pensive traveler who’s navigated that ever-narrowing highway across the years and into the jurisdiction of the lives we lead today.
And what would happen if we introduced those two selves right here and now? How much would they still have to talk about, to compare, to admire in one another? And would they still share that buoyant conviction that things were going to be okay?
“Friends,” observed Stephen King in Stand By Me, “can come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant.” So it is, I find. And maybe, in the end, the real ones are meant to do more than help us navigate our own detours and disillusionments. Maybe they’re meant to bear witness; to preserve continuity; to help us stay true to the best and brightest and most worthwhile parts of the person we are and the person we’d once hoped to be. Even when those days are gone forever; over a long time ago.
Oh yeah.
All that is gold does not glitter,
not all those who wander are lost;
the old that is strong does not wither,
deep roots are not reached by the frost.
~ J.R.R. Tolkien
Thursday, March 4, 2010
laughing matters
Did you ever try to hold in laughter? I mean, hold it in so hard that your eyes water and it looks like the Egg McMuffin you had for breakfast is disagreeing with you? I find that, as I get older, I don’t laugh nearly as often, as loud, or as long as I once did -- or as I probably should. But in the days of my comparative youth, solemn events sometimes gave me the giggles.
Now okay, I know how atrocious this sounds. I’m ashamed to admit it myself. I want to stress that I’ve never been the kind of person to feel bona fide amusement in serious circumstances; but I’ve come to develop a theory. My theory is that this, uh, tendency was due to what my great-uncle Joe termed “can’t-scratch-your-nose” syndrome. You know what I’m talking about: the conundrum that occurs when –- for whatever reason –- your hands are restrained, or you can’t reach your face, or you’re not allowed to fidget. Perhaps you’re carrying a grand piano; or a big scowling nun is sitting next to you in church; or you’re floating around repairing the NASA space station. Suddenly, you realize you’re unable to scratch your nose. It’s not that you have to scratch your nose – it’s just that you’re abruptly struck with the awareness that –- should your nose begin to tickle, even just slightly –- you would be completely powerless to do anything about it. And so, if you’re like me, you focus on this restriction and your nose starts to itch like mad.
Accordingly, in true “can’t-scratch-your-nose” spirit, the most horrendous laughter-gaffe of my youth occurred when I was a junior in high school. It happened during an awards ceremony for my 96-year-old next-door neighbor. I forget what he was being congratulated for, exactly –- possibly just the ability to sit up unassisted for the duration of the two-hour program –- but that’s not what I want to emphasize. What I want to emphasize is that I was absolutely, 100% composed until someone invited the bagpipers up front to play an interpretive rendition of “Man in Motion” from St. Elmo's Fire (remember, this was the 80s). I also want to emphasize that I began my stern internal pep-talk of STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS immediately, and didn’t feel a single chuckle-churning whatsoever until they were well into the chorus. That’s when I hit the proverbial floor, as in crouching for cover and fleeing in a low, frenzied fashion straight to the restroom.
Now of course, in a more forgiving world my chosen restroom would have been vacant. And of course our world is anything but, and so this one was packed with unsuspecting middle-aged women. Unfortunately, once I was safely sequestered inside the stall, roughly 35psi of previously-suppressed air pressure exploded through my nostrils in a sound that approximated an amplified duck whistle. Within a single beat of time, the restroom became abruptly, utterly silent. So in my desperation to cover this mortifying outburst I flushed the toilet, which made me begin to cackle outright; a sound I, in turn, attempted to muffle with several more rapid-fire toilet flushings. I’m not sure how the casual observer might have interpreted all this whooping and whooshing, but I will say I’ve never heard so many feet shuffling so frantically toward an exit door in my life.
Ah, misty watercolor memories. So is there a moral to this uncomfortable little episode? Well, I suppose you might take it as a pointed reminder that somebody, somewhere, is always having a day worse than yours. As for myself, I guess, it just helps to remember that once, it really was just that easy to conjure up a big, boisterous belly laugh ... no matter how inappropriate the situation. Because –- don’t get me wrong –- laughing out of turn is never a good thing.
But as Uncle Joe would tell you, it’s better than losing your sense of humor altogether.
Now okay, I know how atrocious this sounds. I’m ashamed to admit it myself. I want to stress that I’ve never been the kind of person to feel bona fide amusement in serious circumstances; but I’ve come to develop a theory. My theory is that this, uh, tendency was due to what my great-uncle Joe termed “can’t-scratch-your-nose” syndrome. You know what I’m talking about: the conundrum that occurs when –- for whatever reason –- your hands are restrained, or you can’t reach your face, or you’re not allowed to fidget. Perhaps you’re carrying a grand piano; or a big scowling nun is sitting next to you in church; or you’re floating around repairing the NASA space station. Suddenly, you realize you’re unable to scratch your nose. It’s not that you have to scratch your nose – it’s just that you’re abruptly struck with the awareness that –- should your nose begin to tickle, even just slightly –- you would be completely powerless to do anything about it. And so, if you’re like me, you focus on this restriction and your nose starts to itch like mad.
Accordingly, in true “can’t-scratch-your-nose” spirit, the most horrendous laughter-gaffe of my youth occurred when I was a junior in high school. It happened during an awards ceremony for my 96-year-old next-door neighbor. I forget what he was being congratulated for, exactly –- possibly just the ability to sit up unassisted for the duration of the two-hour program –- but that’s not what I want to emphasize. What I want to emphasize is that I was absolutely, 100% composed until someone invited the bagpipers up front to play an interpretive rendition of “Man in Motion” from St. Elmo's Fire (remember, this was the 80s). I also want to emphasize that I began my stern internal pep-talk of STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS STAY SERIOUS immediately, and didn’t feel a single chuckle-churning whatsoever until they were well into the chorus. That’s when I hit the proverbial floor, as in crouching for cover and fleeing in a low, frenzied fashion straight to the restroom.
Now of course, in a more forgiving world my chosen restroom would have been vacant. And of course our world is anything but, and so this one was packed with unsuspecting middle-aged women. Unfortunately, once I was safely sequestered inside the stall, roughly 35psi of previously-suppressed air pressure exploded through my nostrils in a sound that approximated an amplified duck whistle. Within a single beat of time, the restroom became abruptly, utterly silent. So in my desperation to cover this mortifying outburst I flushed the toilet, which made me begin to cackle outright; a sound I, in turn, attempted to muffle with several more rapid-fire toilet flushings. I’m not sure how the casual observer might have interpreted all this whooping and whooshing, but I will say I’ve never heard so many feet shuffling so frantically toward an exit door in my life.
Ah, misty watercolor memories. So is there a moral to this uncomfortable little episode? Well, I suppose you might take it as a pointed reminder that somebody, somewhere, is always having a day worse than yours. As for myself, I guess, it just helps to remember that once, it really was just that easy to conjure up a big, boisterous belly laugh ... no matter how inappropriate the situation. Because –- don’t get me wrong –- laughing out of turn is never a good thing.
But as Uncle Joe would tell you, it’s better than losing your sense of humor altogether.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
past present
There is a beautiful old French saying that goes something like this:
“The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.”
It sounds much better in French, though I forget who said it exactly. But based upon personal life experience, I’d like to offer this somewhat less eloquent, Americanized variation:
“The entertainment value of the receiving experience can be worth WAY more than the gift, the manner of giving, your car payment, and the national debt combined, depending upon who’s currently President.”
This might sound a lot better in French too, or maybe even Portuguese, but I digress.
My point is this, and perhaps you can relate: I have had some decidedly wacky gift-getting experiences. As I get older, I realize that I’m losing my ability to remember the actual gifts themselves, but the ordeal of receiving remains uncomfortably vivid.
Exhibit A: my mother, who for years worked in the customer service department of a major department store. Combine mom’s employee discount with her God-given ability to sniff out bargains, and you’ve got the recipe for some amazingly good deals. So good, in fact, that our beloved matriarch developed a habit of screaming out the purchase price as the gift was being opened. It was almost like pulling the string on my old Chatty Cathy doll. Rrrrip goes the paper. “TWO DOLLARS!” Rrrrip goes the paper. “A BUCK EIGHTY-NINE!” Bridal showers, memorials, you name it, didn’t matter. No occasion was too solemn for what we eventually termed MMMT, Mom’s Markdown-Motivated Tourette’s. At some point, you’d realize everyone in the room had begun silently calculating your personal discount quotient in their head.
Moving on to my 23rd birthday. It started out as a nice enough occasion: family, cake, double-helpings of Lou Malnati’s pizza. I’m not sure whose idea it was to hire the surprise entertainment, but I do know that’s not where the real problem started. The real problem started when the agency sent my perfectly appropriate G-rated birthday clown to the bachelorette party, and the bachelorette party stripper to me. Things got worse when this individual, a burly fellow named Basil with what can only be described as deeply impaired powers of observation, launched into his act with such unrestrained gusto that he failed to note the preponderance of 5-year-olds in the room. What ensued looked like a tame version of Godzilla vs. Mothra, with clothes flying, kids and parents screaming, food splattering and furniture smashing as every last guest fled the area. There was even the brief threat of blood as my boyfriend at the time, probably more shocked than anyone, actually picked up Basil and tried to deck him in mid-act. But ironically, and fortunately for his face, Basil had at least opted to keep his glasses on.
And then there’s that time-honored practice of re-gifting. Once, when I still lived in my tiny efficiency apartment, a neighbor presented me with a marginally-used canister of blue crystal bath salts. This was intended as a get-well present following surgery. Yes, Harbor Mist – I remember the name and the scent to this day. There were only two real problems:
1) My doctor had prohibited actual bathing for two weeks; and
2) My bathroom was only equipped with a shower stall.
I gazed at my well-meaning friend as she beamed at me over the giant utility container -- the fragrant aroma of Harbor Mist suffusing our nostrils -- struggling to formulate just the right words of gratitude. I envisioned myself running in small circles around my cramped shower enclosure, stitched up like Raggedy Ann, tossing handfuls of Harbor Mist bath salts in the air so they would stick to my damp skin like kitty litter.
Fortunately, the reason for her unusual gift selection soon became fairly obvious as she sneezed mightily, then sneezed again, and again, spraying half the container contents all over the room.
Price of the actual gift: Free, minus the cost of professional carpet cleaning. Memory of the look on both our faces: Priceless. And I guess that part is truly the gift that keeps on giving.
“The manner of giving is worth more than the gift.”
It sounds much better in French, though I forget who said it exactly. But based upon personal life experience, I’d like to offer this somewhat less eloquent, Americanized variation:
“The entertainment value of the receiving experience can be worth WAY more than the gift, the manner of giving, your car payment, and the national debt combined, depending upon who’s currently President.”
This might sound a lot better in French too, or maybe even Portuguese, but I digress.
My point is this, and perhaps you can relate: I have had some decidedly wacky gift-getting experiences. As I get older, I realize that I’m losing my ability to remember the actual gifts themselves, but the ordeal of receiving remains uncomfortably vivid.
Exhibit A: my mother, who for years worked in the customer service department of a major department store. Combine mom’s employee discount with her God-given ability to sniff out bargains, and you’ve got the recipe for some amazingly good deals. So good, in fact, that our beloved matriarch developed a habit of screaming out the purchase price as the gift was being opened. It was almost like pulling the string on my old Chatty Cathy doll. Rrrrip goes the paper. “TWO DOLLARS!” Rrrrip goes the paper. “A BUCK EIGHTY-NINE!” Bridal showers, memorials, you name it, didn’t matter. No occasion was too solemn for what we eventually termed MMMT, Mom’s Markdown-Motivated Tourette’s. At some point, you’d realize everyone in the room had begun silently calculating your personal discount quotient in their head.
Moving on to my 23rd birthday. It started out as a nice enough occasion: family, cake, double-helpings of Lou Malnati’s pizza. I’m not sure whose idea it was to hire the surprise entertainment, but I do know that’s not where the real problem started. The real problem started when the agency sent my perfectly appropriate G-rated birthday clown to the bachelorette party, and the bachelorette party stripper to me. Things got worse when this individual, a burly fellow named Basil with what can only be described as deeply impaired powers of observation, launched into his act with such unrestrained gusto that he failed to note the preponderance of 5-year-olds in the room. What ensued looked like a tame version of Godzilla vs. Mothra, with clothes flying, kids and parents screaming, food splattering and furniture smashing as every last guest fled the area. There was even the brief threat of blood as my boyfriend at the time, probably more shocked than anyone, actually picked up Basil and tried to deck him in mid-act. But ironically, and fortunately for his face, Basil had at least opted to keep his glasses on.
And then there’s that time-honored practice of re-gifting. Once, when I still lived in my tiny efficiency apartment, a neighbor presented me with a marginally-used canister of blue crystal bath salts. This was intended as a get-well present following surgery. Yes, Harbor Mist – I remember the name and the scent to this day. There were only two real problems:
1) My doctor had prohibited actual bathing for two weeks; and
2) My bathroom was only equipped with a shower stall.
I gazed at my well-meaning friend as she beamed at me over the giant utility container -- the fragrant aroma of Harbor Mist suffusing our nostrils -- struggling to formulate just the right words of gratitude. I envisioned myself running in small circles around my cramped shower enclosure, stitched up like Raggedy Ann, tossing handfuls of Harbor Mist bath salts in the air so they would stick to my damp skin like kitty litter.
Fortunately, the reason for her unusual gift selection soon became fairly obvious as she sneezed mightily, then sneezed again, and again, spraying half the container contents all over the room.
Price of the actual gift: Free, minus the cost of professional carpet cleaning. Memory of the look on both our faces: Priceless. And I guess that part is truly the gift that keeps on giving.
Friday, January 22, 2010
our own beds
True story: While running some errands the other day, I spot a middle-aged couple casually strolling across the four-lane highway. They’re deep in animated conversation, walking against the signal with oncoming traffic swirling around them.
These two continue chatting away as they amble right in front of my car, which forces me to a complete stop as I approach the right-hand turn lane. Eyebrows suspended, I wait maybe half a beat before tapping the horn and gesturing at the green light dangling 20 feet yonder.
The guy flinches as if I’d pulled up and beeped in his bathroom, then shares a couple creative gestures of his own. Next he starts hollering something about the sidewalks being blocked with snow, and where else are they supposed to walk. Okay, can’t argue there. Except that he’s making this perfectly valid point while standing smack in front of my idling two-ton CRV -- which still has the green, mind you -- with honking vehicles hurtling just inches from his waving arms. His companion finally runs back and drags him to the curb.
True story: Three powerful Pacific storms pound California with heavy rain and snow in January, forcing hundreds of evacuations; flooding major interstates; unleashing lightning strikes on two commercial jets; and spawning multiple killer tornadoes.
Despite urgent pleas from authorities, some residents simply refuse to heed evacuation orders. One couple puts their faith in a 2-foot-high wall of sandbags surrounding their home.
“Look at our house,” says the wife. “We’re well-fortified here. If any rain or mud or anything comes down, it’ll be blocked by our barricades and we’re stocked with food and water.” Police deputies ask the couple to sign actual forms stating they’ve been advised of the danger. They also warn them against pleading for rescue later, recounting the post-Katrina chaos of New Orleans.
Despite these painstaking efforts, officials report only about a 40 percent compliance rate by residents throughout the region. “We’re not going through all this because your carpet is going to get wet,” laments one exasperated sheriff. “We’re doing it because your flipping life is at stake, and other lives will be jeopardized trying to save you later.”
True story: Jet-setting White House party crashers the Salahis invoke their Fifth Amendment right repeatedly during a preliminary House hearing; so many times, in fact, that one aggravated committee member finally asks whether the couple is actually in the room. The couple’s lawyer reiterates his clients’ belief that they were entitled to be at the dinner, neglecting to mention the reality TV cameras that have followed them around for months.
Defending our right to our position is a big deal in this country. I guess that’s what being “free” is all about. But does anybody else feel like we increasingly invoke principle at the expense of common sense? Does it even matter anymore what gets compromised, or who becomes inconvenienced – even incapacitated – so long as we get what we want? Do we stop to think about the bigger impact … which, all too often, comes back to haunt us as well? Case in point: today’s headline about growing disenchantment with the ongoing economic stimulus effort, positioned right next to a headline about homeowners continuing to walk away from outsized mortgages.
My great-aunt Florence used to have a saying: “If God didn’t want us to use our brains, he would have stuffed our heads with ricotta cheese.” I’m starting to wonder if maybe he didn’t, and so he did. Buy hey, you know, I guess that's just not my problem.
These two continue chatting away as they amble right in front of my car, which forces me to a complete stop as I approach the right-hand turn lane. Eyebrows suspended, I wait maybe half a beat before tapping the horn and gesturing at the green light dangling 20 feet yonder.
The guy flinches as if I’d pulled up and beeped in his bathroom, then shares a couple creative gestures of his own. Next he starts hollering something about the sidewalks being blocked with snow, and where else are they supposed to walk. Okay, can’t argue there. Except that he’s making this perfectly valid point while standing smack in front of my idling two-ton CRV -- which still has the green, mind you -- with honking vehicles hurtling just inches from his waving arms. His companion finally runs back and drags him to the curb.
True story: Three powerful Pacific storms pound California with heavy rain and snow in January, forcing hundreds of evacuations; flooding major interstates; unleashing lightning strikes on two commercial jets; and spawning multiple killer tornadoes.
Despite urgent pleas from authorities, some residents simply refuse to heed evacuation orders. One couple puts their faith in a 2-foot-high wall of sandbags surrounding their home.
“Look at our house,” says the wife. “We’re well-fortified here. If any rain or mud or anything comes down, it’ll be blocked by our barricades and we’re stocked with food and water.” Police deputies ask the couple to sign actual forms stating they’ve been advised of the danger. They also warn them against pleading for rescue later, recounting the post-Katrina chaos of New Orleans.
Despite these painstaking efforts, officials report only about a 40 percent compliance rate by residents throughout the region. “We’re not going through all this because your carpet is going to get wet,” laments one exasperated sheriff. “We’re doing it because your flipping life is at stake, and other lives will be jeopardized trying to save you later.”
True story: Jet-setting White House party crashers the Salahis invoke their Fifth Amendment right repeatedly during a preliminary House hearing; so many times, in fact, that one aggravated committee member finally asks whether the couple is actually in the room. The couple’s lawyer reiterates his clients’ belief that they were entitled to be at the dinner, neglecting to mention the reality TV cameras that have followed them around for months.
Defending our right to our position is a big deal in this country. I guess that’s what being “free” is all about. But does anybody else feel like we increasingly invoke principle at the expense of common sense? Does it even matter anymore what gets compromised, or who becomes inconvenienced – even incapacitated – so long as we get what we want? Do we stop to think about the bigger impact … which, all too often, comes back to haunt us as well? Case in point: today’s headline about growing disenchantment with the ongoing economic stimulus effort, positioned right next to a headline about homeowners continuing to walk away from outsized mortgages.
My great-aunt Florence used to have a saying: “If God didn’t want us to use our brains, he would have stuffed our heads with ricotta cheese.” I’m starting to wonder if maybe he didn’t, and so he did. Buy hey, you know, I guess that's just not my problem.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
vital signs
“They’re right: I have lost something. I'm not exactly sure what it is; but I know I didn't always feel this... sedated.”
~ Lester Burnham, in American Beauty
Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club? I guess you’d call it a coming-of-age story about an unremarkable everyman who feels compromised, confused and disconnected from his life; and about where those feelings lead him.
The film’s director once gave an interview which, in my opinion, summed things up very nicely: “We humans are designed to be hunters, and we find ourselves in a society of shopping and consumerism. There's nothing to kill anymore -- nothing to conquer or overcome in our daily reality. We’re not even really necessary to a lot of what's going on. It's already been built; it just needs to run now.” What results, I suppose, is perhaps the ultimate form of emasculation … and the hands-on-violence-seeking members of Fight Club explore one way to recapture that connection.
It surprised me to find I was most affected by an earlier part of the film’s setup, wherein the protagonist (if that’s what you’d call him) attends a disjointed series of support group meetings to encounter individuals “with real problems.” And even though the film spends limited time with these people, to me that’s where the bona fide fighting occurs. A more quietly desperate kind of fighting, maybe, but no less brutal and bloody than the battles depicted later in the film.
I’m not sure if I’d have noticed this distinction even a decade ago. But in the intervening years, I’ve had the gift –- oddly uncomfortable term, but yes, the gift -- of climbing into the ring with people who have not been granted the luxury of disconnection. Maybe, like me, they existed for a time in that predictable, sanitized sameness that many come to occupy –- commuting back and forth to work, watching TV, folding laundry, wondering what’s for dinner. And then one day, maybe without any warning at all, they were jolted to the realization that they live on a fault line.
For some, that fault line might be an addiction; for others, a loss; for still others, a threatening health condition. But no matter how you label that fault line, there’s one consistent truth: It forces its inhabitants to redefine everything they know. They become exceedingly, even excruciatingly aware of a certain ... volatility. And those who summon the courage to exist in that space, those who muster the resolve to push back, are irrevocably, electrically awake.
You have to look very closely. Because outwardly, this awakening often fails to resemble the kind of thing a caffeine-charged society might expect. It may show itself as nothing more than an awareness of moments, a tone of quiet thoughtfulness, even a tendency toward stillness. But inside, the gloves are off as an old reality shatters, pretext evaporates, pride and vanity clatter to the ground like some gilded shield discarded.
The rest of society –- the ones Fight Club was meant to reach, I imagine -– often consider these people fragile, broken, weak. Interesting. Because I’ve noticed that as they struggle and thrash to get up, and get up, and get up, they frequently manage to lift others with them.
"When I was little, my cousin had a pregnant dog, just a mutt, who was due to have her puppies in about a week. She was out in the yard one day and got in the way of the lawnmower, and her two hind legs got cut off. The vet said, "I can sew her up, or you can put her to sleep if you want, but the puppies are okay. She'll be able to deliver the puppies."
My cousin said to keep her alive.
So the vet sewed her backside and over the next week the dog learned to walk. She didn't spend any time worrying, she just learned to take two steps in front and flip up her backside, then take two steps and flip up her backside again. She gave birth to six little puppies, all in perfect health. And when they learned to walk, they all walked just like her."
~ Gilda Radner (1946 – 1989)
~ Lester Burnham, in American Beauty
Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club? I guess you’d call it a coming-of-age story about an unremarkable everyman who feels compromised, confused and disconnected from his life; and about where those feelings lead him.
The film’s director once gave an interview which, in my opinion, summed things up very nicely: “We humans are designed to be hunters, and we find ourselves in a society of shopping and consumerism. There's nothing to kill anymore -- nothing to conquer or overcome in our daily reality. We’re not even really necessary to a lot of what's going on. It's already been built; it just needs to run now.” What results, I suppose, is perhaps the ultimate form of emasculation … and the hands-on-violence-seeking members of Fight Club explore one way to recapture that connection.
It surprised me to find I was most affected by an earlier part of the film’s setup, wherein the protagonist (if that’s what you’d call him) attends a disjointed series of support group meetings to encounter individuals “with real problems.” And even though the film spends limited time with these people, to me that’s where the bona fide fighting occurs. A more quietly desperate kind of fighting, maybe, but no less brutal and bloody than the battles depicted later in the film.
I’m not sure if I’d have noticed this distinction even a decade ago. But in the intervening years, I’ve had the gift –- oddly uncomfortable term, but yes, the gift -- of climbing into the ring with people who have not been granted the luxury of disconnection. Maybe, like me, they existed for a time in that predictable, sanitized sameness that many come to occupy –- commuting back and forth to work, watching TV, folding laundry, wondering what’s for dinner. And then one day, maybe without any warning at all, they were jolted to the realization that they live on a fault line.
For some, that fault line might be an addiction; for others, a loss; for still others, a threatening health condition. But no matter how you label that fault line, there’s one consistent truth: It forces its inhabitants to redefine everything they know. They become exceedingly, even excruciatingly aware of a certain ... volatility. And those who summon the courage to exist in that space, those who muster the resolve to push back, are irrevocably, electrically awake.
You have to look very closely. Because outwardly, this awakening often fails to resemble the kind of thing a caffeine-charged society might expect. It may show itself as nothing more than an awareness of moments, a tone of quiet thoughtfulness, even a tendency toward stillness. But inside, the gloves are off as an old reality shatters, pretext evaporates, pride and vanity clatter to the ground like some gilded shield discarded.
The rest of society –- the ones Fight Club was meant to reach, I imagine -– often consider these people fragile, broken, weak. Interesting. Because I’ve noticed that as they struggle and thrash to get up, and get up, and get up, they frequently manage to lift others with them.
"When I was little, my cousin had a pregnant dog, just a mutt, who was due to have her puppies in about a week. She was out in the yard one day and got in the way of the lawnmower, and her two hind legs got cut off. The vet said, "I can sew her up, or you can put her to sleep if you want, but the puppies are okay. She'll be able to deliver the puppies."
My cousin said to keep her alive.
So the vet sewed her backside and over the next week the dog learned to walk. She didn't spend any time worrying, she just learned to take two steps in front and flip up her backside, then take two steps and flip up her backside again. She gave birth to six little puppies, all in perfect health. And when they learned to walk, they all walked just like her."
~ Gilda Radner (1946 – 1989)
Sunday, January 10, 2010
in the cards
Before my grandmother suffered the stroke that would eventually debilitate her, she'd apparently meant to give me something. I learned this weeks after we moved her cross-country from an urgent care ward to a round-the-clock nursing facility, when my mother was going through her belongings. In Grandma's purse was an old mass card wrapped in wrinkled paper. On the paper, written in my grandmother's wispy-thin penmanship, was my first name and the beginnings of a sentence. It's not clear what the sentence was destined to mean; my grandmother was evidently interrupted while she was writing. But it is clear that she wanted me to have the mass card. Looking back, she'd actually mentioned it over the phone once, the very last time I heard her voice.
My grandmother was always the kind of grandmother who loved with such stifling ferocity that, as a child, it instilled actual terror in my heart. When I developed a case of winter bronchitis, she'd be on the phone letting me have it for leaving my coat unzipped at recess. She'd follow that up with advice for such complex vitamin concoctions that we had to get my mother on the line for interpretation. Later, when I'd suffer breakups and dating fiascos in high school, each hapless young man would become the unassuming target of Grandma's wrath -- whether he deserved it or not. "You tell Eddie," wheezed my grandmother, whose asthma was no match for her hair-trigger Italian temper, "that I'd like to know how his mother could manage to raise a SON who apparently has no considerATION whatsoEVER for the upstanding young women the GOOD LORD has put into his UNDESERVING LIFE." Her ire winding rapidly into a frenzied, irrevocable crescendo, Grandma would then typically launch into a string of old-country curse words with such energy and gusto that she'd ultimately break off into a series of rattling coughs, forgetting to hang up the phone altogether. My mouth would continue to hang open for hours afterward.
Over time, age and a string of health challenges managed to mellow my grandmother oh-so-slightly. She still dispensed her hard-won wisdom with feisty candor. She still believed, deep in her heart of hearts, that massive quantities of garlic would alleviate just about anything. But Grandma's overbearing passion gradually softened from the fiery mama-wolverine variety into a fiercely supportive loyalty. Always, her pointed words of encouragement were grounded in her devout Catholic upbringing, emphasizing the importance of faith and the enduring love of God. And somehow, nothing could make me feel more secure and protected than that familiar, wizened old voice.
As I wade through my own challenges today -- some so troubling that I'm virtually paralyzed at the thought of their outcome -- I find myself pining to hear that voice once again. Yet I know its time is expired. Grandma now sits in her wheelchair, her whispers unintelligible, laughing at everything, smiling at nothing, sealed away from the world's trials and triumphs and tears. And as she nods benevolently I clutch that final mass card like a talisman; the one wrapped in that wrinkled, coffee-stained scrap of paper, the one that bears my name. I turn it over and over and look at it, like some obscure baton that's been passed, straining to remember the echo of fiercely reassuring words that will never come again no matter what the future might hold.
The sentence scribbled at the bottom begins "I will always" before trailing off into nowhere.
My grandmother was always the kind of grandmother who loved with such stifling ferocity that, as a child, it instilled actual terror in my heart. When I developed a case of winter bronchitis, she'd be on the phone letting me have it for leaving my coat unzipped at recess. She'd follow that up with advice for such complex vitamin concoctions that we had to get my mother on the line for interpretation. Later, when I'd suffer breakups and dating fiascos in high school, each hapless young man would become the unassuming target of Grandma's wrath -- whether he deserved it or not. "You tell Eddie," wheezed my grandmother, whose asthma was no match for her hair-trigger Italian temper, "that I'd like to know how his mother could manage to raise a SON who apparently has no considerATION whatsoEVER for the upstanding young women the GOOD LORD has put into his UNDESERVING LIFE." Her ire winding rapidly into a frenzied, irrevocable crescendo, Grandma would then typically launch into a string of old-country curse words with such energy and gusto that she'd ultimately break off into a series of rattling coughs, forgetting to hang up the phone altogether. My mouth would continue to hang open for hours afterward.
Over time, age and a string of health challenges managed to mellow my grandmother oh-so-slightly. She still dispensed her hard-won wisdom with feisty candor. She still believed, deep in her heart of hearts, that massive quantities of garlic would alleviate just about anything. But Grandma's overbearing passion gradually softened from the fiery mama-wolverine variety into a fiercely supportive loyalty. Always, her pointed words of encouragement were grounded in her devout Catholic upbringing, emphasizing the importance of faith and the enduring love of God. And somehow, nothing could make me feel more secure and protected than that familiar, wizened old voice.
As I wade through my own challenges today -- some so troubling that I'm virtually paralyzed at the thought of their outcome -- I find myself pining to hear that voice once again. Yet I know its time is expired. Grandma now sits in her wheelchair, her whispers unintelligible, laughing at everything, smiling at nothing, sealed away from the world's trials and triumphs and tears. And as she nods benevolently I clutch that final mass card like a talisman; the one wrapped in that wrinkled, coffee-stained scrap of paper, the one that bears my name. I turn it over and over and look at it, like some obscure baton that's been passed, straining to remember the echo of fiercely reassuring words that will never come again no matter what the future might hold.
The sentence scribbled at the bottom begins "I will always" before trailing off into nowhere.
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