Ma’am

Posted on August 29, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

Every woman over the age of 30 remembers the first time a hot young guy rang up her sale, handed her the receipt and package and said “thank you, ma’am.”  It’s a brutal ego crushing moment in a young woman’s life.  No more a wink and a smile.  Just a polite you-remind-me-of-my-mother-do-you-need-help-carrying-this-to-your-car thank you and goodbye. Hope you make it home to your rocking chair before you fall asleep.  Ma’am.

It was a year or so ago that I had another rude awakening.  I was headed into an office store.  I approached the door at the same time as a woman about my age – “say” 34.  It was clear that if we kept up the same pace we would arrive at the door at the same time.  It was an automatic door, no need for her to open it for me.  Instead, she stopped and waved her hand for me to go first.  It wasn’t that courteous motion that chilled me to my bones, it was the look on her face.  It was clear from the sweet smile and somewhat deferential nod of her head that she was acting in this respectful way because I was older, and she was well taught to respect her elders.   Bummer for me, huh?  I had to recalculate the proximity of our ages and realized, nope, not 34 on this end.

I’ve always been concerned about my appearance.  I think it’s because I was such a scrawny little thing when I was small, and by middle school I had a “prominent” nose and a pair of glasses that did not make me first on the list of girls that boys had crushes on and yes, that was important to me.   I went by nicknames such as “The Board” and even my good friends would draw pictures of my nose on the frosted bus windows.  Well, I showed them eventually, by senior year in high school I was most decidedly not a board, and my nose, I like to think, has a patrician quality to it.  Mom also told me when I got old it would make me look younger, that women with tiny noses end up looking squished and wrinkly.  If she’s any example, I would say that’s true. 

Recently I reconnected with an old high school buddy and before we met in person (after 30 some years) he said “Now, don’t be worried about how you LOOK.”  This spoken with the knowing tone of a man who raised three daughters and probably spent much time waiting for the bathroom.  You’d think he’d know that my response would be what it was.   I only laughed and said “too late!”  I was already trying to figure out what to wear that would make me look like the girl least likely to have changed in 30 years.

My Mom always makes me feel better.  She was trailing behind me one day and said “You know, Mary, you don’t look fat.  You just look like a lotta woman!  Well proportioned…”  Ya gotta love that, really.  I know Al does, as he just won’t stop bringing ice cream into the house.

But lately, it’s getting rougher to look into the mirror.  Had a chat with an old friend about this and she agreed, and she’s five years younger and a very accomplished physical therapist, but always prides herself on being young at heart.  I admitted I didn’t like it at all and she agreed.  I have never dreaded actually getting old, but I want to look young forever.  In my own words: “Too late!”  I’ve turned a corner between getting away with being five years younger and just melting into tip number 5 for women over 50 “don’t let your makeup settle in to your wrinkles.”

It’s been very acute lately.  Fortunately the cosmos has been helping me out just this past week.  First,  I see a recent news article about Beth Weems Pirtle, a 74 year old woman who won the senior division of the American Dreams Pageant.  I have several thoughts on that.  Number one is you go girl!  Number two is my God I hope I get over this vanity business before I’m 74.  At the same time I’m looking at her eye makeup and wondering if she got her eyeliner tatooed on so she doesn’t have to mess with it anymore.  It was somewhat comforting to know that I have a deep spiritual core and that this will pass with a little time and effort.  I am glad I wasn’t a total beauty queen, but just attractive enough – it must really be a chore to watch the societal norm of beautfy fade away into your mirror.  Don’t even get me started on these toddler pageants.

Next thing you know, I get an email from my sister’s spouse, who rarely forwards anything to me, but who is a devout man.  He must have heard my gnashing of teeth across the miles.  It was just a nice email about beauty, from out of the blue:

 

You know, I have worked with the geriatric set my whole career.  I have never ever considered their physical beauty, only their countenance.  From them I have gained wisdom beyond what any book could provide me about how to handle aging, illness and death itself.  I have learned that a woman who remains beautiful even at 80 can just as easily be a racist.  That man still handsome at 85 can be a total jerk to his family.  I have learned that smiling eyes and a good sense of humor make anyone’s face light up.  You’d think I’d get this message and quit looking in the mirror, wouldn’t you?  After all, I can still smile with the best of ’em, and that was always my ace in the beauty hole, so I hear.

The final thing that happened just today was the Sunday comic today, For Better of For Worse, by Lynn Johnston.   Lynn did it again, spoke to my heart.  There is Elly, the mom, looking in the mirror, bemoaning her wrinkles, stating exactly what I’ve been thinking all week:  

My boys are all grown up now, but I’ll still hold that thought.  I wish it didn’t matter.  I wish I didn’t care.  I like to think that I don’t have to move my beauty from my face to my heart.  I like to think it’s been there all along.   On the other hand, I work with a lot of ladies who still wear their makeup every day.  The doctors in the hospitals call it the “positive makeup sign” – no matter how ill or old some women are, when a glam girl starts putting on her makeup again they know she’s turned a corner. 

As for me, I always can stir up a giggle when one of my little old ladies apologizes because she has to put her lipstick on before we walk in the hallway. I know just what she’s saying.  I simply pull out my lipstick tube from my scrubs pocket, hold it up and say:

 “Hey, I understand. They’ll have to pry the lipstick out of my cold dead hands!”

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BOHU circa 1994 Guardian Angel Two

Posted on August 28, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

This blurb will introduce a few stories coming up here.  I have been avoiding my BOHU (Beyond Our Human Understanding) stories because I fear that some of you will just think I am totally insane.  However, I am tired of holding them in and will just tell them now, one after another, until they are done.  Others will pop up later I’m sure, but these are the ones I have told orally over and over, as if I can’t believe they are true.  But they are.  Call them coincidences – but what is a coincidence other than a co+incident.  Things happening simultaneously in time.  What strikes me is the the spiritual nature of these experiences.  It’s not a coincidence like meeting someone at a store at the same time to buy lettuce or something.  So think what you like.  Glean meaning or no meaning as you wish.  I personally don’t know what to think about any of it, really.  Here we go…

It was reading Eat Pray Love that made me decide I needed to be brave and tell these experiences.  Liz Gilbert is quite open about talking to herself/God/Mystery/whatever and getting answers, solid answers.  Skeptics just think we’re mentally ill, I suppose, but those of us who listen, really listen, know that’s just not true. 

One night during what I guess I should just dub now as My Difficult Years, Al was asleep next to me and I was quietly sobbing next to him, my face turned towards the wall.  I was sobbing so hard I was not shaking or moving, my body in one big wooden position, my face squeezed shut as I cried.  I was angry, tired of being unhappy, tired of crying, tired of feeling like a shithead because I was so blessed with a patient and loving husband and three smart healthy children and couldn’t seem to appreciate it, but always wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else.   I angrily mouthed these words:

“EVERBODY TALKS ABOUT GUARDIAN ANGELS.  WELL WHERE THE FUCK IS MINE?“

Skeptics, you may leave the room, or read on if you dare.  Instantly my body relaxed, my face opened up, my tears stopped, and if I had a recording tape I would swear you would have heard the answer as a deep and palpable calm swept over me like a soft downy comforter: “I’m right here…”  The voice might as well have added “silly one” to that line because that was the tone of voice.  I did feel totally silly, and embarrassed that I had so little faith for so long.

Things definitely improved after that, no question.  I love remembering that experience because the sense of calm was so very much like I describe it – like I was being covered by love, from toes up to my head, like being tucked in by my guardian angel’s love…

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BOHU circa 1994 Guardian Angel One

Posted on August 28, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

This blurb will introduce a few stories coming up here.  I have been avoiding my BOHU (Beyond Our Human Understanding) stories because I fear that some of you will just think I am totally insane.  However, I am tired of holding them in and will just tell them now, one after another, until they are done.  Others will pop up later I’m sure, but these are the ones I have told orally over and over, as if I can’t believe they are true.  But they are.  Call them coincidences – but what is a coincidence other than a co+incident.  Things happening simultaneously in time.  What strikes me is the the spiritual nature of these experiences.  It’s not a coincidence like meeting someone at a store at the same time to buy lettuce or something.  So think what you like.  Glean meaning or no meaning as you wish.  I personally don’t know what to think about any of it, really.  Here we go…

Let me set the stage: 

1) My Dad had passed away a few years earlier. 

2) This was during my “how did I get here?” stage of marriage and raising children. I had recently had a conversation with Al about how romance had died (three little kids – sound familiar to anyone out there?)  I told him I thought he’d rather spray Round-Up Weed Killer on the hillside than take me out to dinner.

 3) I was building my dollhouse up at Cooper’s Dollhouse Studio in Benicia.  There was a workshop there, I rented a table and would get away from it all and play with my hobby.  There were others there as well and we’d have a great time building and swearing at our mistakes and laughing. 

4)  At the time, I had been listening frequently to one of Mom and Dad’s favorite “albums” in my car – Frank Sinatra’s I Remember Tommy tape.  The songs are romantic, uplifting even when they are songs of unrequited love, because of the mostly swing tempos.  That and Natalie Cole’s Unforgettable tape were my constant companions as I drove around. 

One night I had a dream that was so real I woke up a little shook.  My Dad was one of the first people on earth to buy a pair of sterophonic headphones and he would often sit in the living room chair and listen to music from reel-to-reel tapes with his big bulky headphones on.  In my dream, my Dad was in MY living room here in Lafayette, California, headphones on, contented smile on his face.  I came in, shocked to see him, and asked him “Dad! What are YOU doing here?”  He just took off the headphones, handed them to me, and said “Listen.”  That was the end of the dream.  I woke up feeling like he had been right in the room with me.

Later that day Al called and told me he was taking me out to dinner at a local nice French restaurant.  (Please note:  He did, but not before he parked the car in front of our local historical tavern for a cocktail.  The name of the place?  The Roundup. Hardy har har har…) As a stay at home Mom who had been spending her discretionary money on dollhouse materials, I really didn’t have a thing to wear.  So I ventured into town and parked the car in front of a small clothing shop, turned off the car and went in.  I bought a nice little skirt and blouse, telling the story of my responsive husband, the ladies in the store, like Cinderella’s fairy godmothers, excitedly helping me choose what to wear that night.

After that I planned to head up to Benicia.  When I turned on the car, Frank Sinatra blasted out at me (I never remember to turn the radio down before I get out of the car) this final line from “There Are Such Things:”

“YOU’LL REACH A STAR, BECAUSE THERE ARE SUCH THINGS…”

I laughed to myself and said “ok, Dad, I heard it.  Thanks…”

Off I went up to Benicia.  There was a woman there and as we worked I told her my cute little story.  She was older than I am and we exchanged a few guardian angel stories, and she explained that her husband wasn’t romantic, never was, and that she had just accepted it after all these years. 

What I am about to tell you is true.  I can’t remember their names so I don’t have to change them.  Within half an hour her husband walked into the workshop and handed her a small box,inside was a lovely little bracelet.  She looked at him, confused and said “What did I do?”  then laughing “What did YOU do?”   He just shrugged his shoulders and said, I don’t know, I was just walking by the jewelry store and I saw that and thought of you and that you might like it.  She stammered her thanks and gave him a smooch and off he went on his merry way, the whole time my eyes are popping out of my head.

When he left neither she nor I could say much – we were speechless but we both knew what the other was thinking – it was almost too much to speak of.  What could we even say?  How could either of us ever describe what had just occurred?  What would YOU say?  What I say now is that Dad came down for a little visit, and in his thorough way did not just assume that I would get the message via Frankie boy, but also commandeered an unsuspecting heretofore unromantic husband to drive home the point.  You’ll never convince me otherwise, oh skeptics, that you’ll reach a star, because there are such things.

 

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BOHU circa 1979 Andi and Tony

Posted on August 28, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

This blurb will introduce a few stories coming up here.  I have been avoiding my BOHU (Beyond Our Human Understanding) stories because I fear that some of you will just think I am totally insane.  However, I am tired of holding them in and will just tell them now, one after another, until they are done.  Others will pop up later I’m sure, but these are the ones I have told orally over and over, as if I can’t believe they are true.  But they are.  Call them coincidences – but what is a coincidence other than a co+incident.  Things happening simultaneously in time.  What strikes me is the the spiritual nature of these experiences.  It’s not a coincidence like meeting someone at a store at the same time to buy lettuce or something.  So think what you like.  Glean meaning or no meaning as you wish.  I personally don’t know what to think about any of it, really.  Here we go…

My close friend Andi and I have always had a bit of a “connection” across the miles since we became friends when she arrived at my high school one year.  Later, she went to Notre Dame (boo, hiss) and I went to Marquette (Marquette rocks!)  I always feel ancient when I state this to younger readers: It used to cost MONEY to make long distance phone calls.  LOTS of money.  Calls had to be brief and infrequent.  There was only snail mail, obviously.   So Andi and I never talked on the phone and only rarely wrote letters to each other – maybe every six months or so.  Invariably, our letters “crossed” in the mail.  To translate, children, this means that hers was in transit to me and mine was in transit to her at the same time.  This happened all the time and we always took it as a sign of the strong spiritual nature of our friendship.

Andi eventually married Tony, whom I’ve known since we were first graders.  They were cohabitating in Arizona before they married.  I had returned from New York and was living at home, getting pre-requisites for PT school at the local community colleges.  My parents went to Florida in those years and I lived alone at their house.   One day out of the blue I decided I really wanted to talk to Andi.  It had been awhile.  I was broke, though, and didn’t want to spend the long distance money.  So, instead, I called her mom in the next town over, thought I’d just get the skinny and tell her to say hi to Andi and Tony the next time they talked.

Andi’s brother, Fred, answered the phone.  He told me mom wasn’t home and after a few pleasantries I told him to have Andi’s mom call me.  It was later in the day when I got a return call from Andi’s mom.  She started out by thanking me profusely for having the wisdom to not “say anything to Fred – he doesn’t know yet.”  I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but soon heard the shocking truth – Tony had been in a terrible accident, a city bus and a car got into it, and he had the rotten timing of standing on the street corner at that moment – he was pinned under the bus and eventually lost his leg due to the accident.  He had been in surgery that day not to try to save his leg, but to save his life.

It’s been thirty years and I still remember that day like it was yesterday – looking out the window, out of nowhere having a strong urge to talk to Andi, the phone call, the “coicidence.”  I don’t for a moment disbelieve that my spiritual connection with her was stronger than time and distance…

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Funeral Tensions

Posted on August 26, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

First of all, you must understand that Al’s Mom, Agnes, was an amazing woman.  Al’s Dad died when Al was five years old, of lung cancer.   Ag was left with four children under the age of 12.   Her story is a story of courage, hard work, and only God knows how many tears that no one ever saw.  Each of her offspring – three boys and one girl  – were educated to college level and beyond and are among the finest people I know on this earth. 

I don’t even want to venture how difficult it must have been.  Nowadays “single” moms are everywhere, but in those days she must have felt terribly alone at times.  She was surrounded by supportive people in her parish, the fathers always made sure the boys were included in their circle.  But still.  All I know was she was a strong woman.   I know that she treated each one of her children’s spouses with love and respect, without judgement.  If we were good enough for her children, we were good enough for her.   I could not have asked for a better mother-in-law. 

Well.  She was unflappable.  My boys could make all sorts of racket, get into all sorts of frays, and she would just laugh.  She taught me that things are just things, that if the boys break something it wasn’t the end of the world.  She had the same non-judgemental attitude about her grandchildren that she had for her inlaws.  I still struggled with their endless tiger cub antics, but she definitely gave me some perspective – before she passed away prematurely and suddenly at age 75.   One minute here.  The next she was gone.  We were 2000 miles away when she went into surgery and she did not survive the mitral valve replacement.  We were still reeling from my Dad’s passing a year earlier, just as suddenly.  One minute here.  The next, gone. 

With heavy, heavy hearts we packed up the boys and headed to St. Louis.  My sons were ages 7 1/2, 4 1/2  and 3.   Another August, another funeral procession to the Midwest for our young family.   Al was the saddest I have ever seen him.  His siblings were the same.  I love them all so much it was devastating to see them in pain, those four who adored their Mother and struggled with her and supported her as she supported them.   Of course we had laughs, as all funerals eventually break the tension by remembering the funny things about a person that could drive you crazy.  I have written in my journal that I always wanted to remember Andy at the wake, going back time and again to touch her, to look at her, his white blond hair like an angel’s under the funeral home spotlights.  When it was time for the last viewing, little Jeff stood there and we heard his tiny three year old voice ask: “Are they going to close the treasure box?”  Indeed, we were saying final goodbyes to a treasure.

It was August in St. Louis, very hot and very humid.  The church was a long drive from the funeral home, the cemetery a long drive from the church.    The little guys were all dressed up in suits and ties, and considering the whirlwind nature of a funeral trip, with their parents in a difficult emotional state, they were doing pretty well.   We had a limo – I believe it was Al and his brother John and I, and the three boys.  I was sitting in the front seat enjoying the “alone time,” so I don’t know exactly what went down. 

Then I heard Joe and Andy get into it in the back.   Andy had learned to defend himself pretty well in a fight with his big brother, but I don’t think he really intended  to give Joe a nosebleed.  I could hear Al and Uncle John breaking it up, and Joe swearing to – shall I say – make sure Andy could personally escort his grandmother into eternity as soon as they got out of the car.

I don’t know if Al and Uncle John didn’t remember being brothers together, because they obviously didn’t have a game plan for when the car stopped, but when I stepped out of the front of the limo this is all I saw: the back door of the limo opened and Al, crouching, stepped out of the car.  Before he could fully straighten up, what appeared to be a cartoon rumble rolled out of the car – a blur of  of red hair, blond hair, arms and legs rotating at alarming speed, neckties and suitcoats flying in all directions.  I could not believe my eyes.  Al and John pulled them off each other as soon as they could, but not before I just started to laugh and shake my head under the hot St. Louis sun.   It was a scene that Ag would have loved.  Had she “been there” she would have laughed and honestly I felt like she was giving me one last message before we laid her to rest.   “Shake it off, Mary, it’s my funeral, and I love them unconditionally.  You should too…”

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Learning to Ski

Posted on August 25, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

 

Despite the fact that I look upon my time in New York as not the best time of my life, there was a harshness about it that did help me later withstand some of life’s trials and tribulations.  The people I hung out with there certainly did not cut me any slack.  I went by the endearing name “Horton.”  No one called me Mary.  This is okay, really, even Al calls me Horton alot.  So much for my idea of myself as a fair maiden.  More like an elephant who never forgets, I guess. 

I had never been skiing before so up we went to Gore Mountain in upstate New York.   I remember looking up at the mountain as we drove up with and feeling a sense of exhiliration and panic.  How would I ever go down that on skis?  I have to laugh looking at the image above that I found.  I’m a hip Tahoe skier now, Gore Mountain looks like a molehill!  When I look at that photo really quickly, however, my stomach remembers the feeling of fear looking up at that mountain, those ski trails just straight down.  Interesting how that feeling can return so many many years later. 

My friends were all good skiers and I was pretty broke, so lessons were out of the question.  After a non-lesson on the bunny hill, I was escorted up to the top of the mountain.  I managed to make my way down.  It was slow and not very pleasant.   I hung in there, though, and the day which had started out gray and dark turned into the most beautiful possible spring skiing day ever.  We were in t-shirts by the afternoon.  I went home with a face peeling from sunburn, but it was worth it.

What turned the experience around for me was one of the guys, when I wobbled off the chair lift at the top for the fifth time, still nervous,  just looked at me and said “Horton!  Just pretend you’re dancing!”  Now anyone who has seen me dance knows I am not very tense when I dance.  I relax completely and let the music overtake me.  David had keyed in on that and those words were like magic to me.  The next thing I knew I was schussing down the hill with confidence and grace.  Not bad for a beginner.  The best part about learning to ski in New York Adirondack Mountains is that there wasn’t a whole lot of “powder.”  It tends to be very icy.    I learned to dig in my edges and a little ice doesn’t scare me, in fact I thrive on it because it’s how I learned.  I wouldn’t know where to start skiing on powder. Probably fall in and never be seen again.  Which reminds me…

That wasn’t enough for those guys.  They had more to “teach” me.  Another time we went up to the Catskills.  The mountains up there are not as high and therefore the ski runs are very steep.  I was not having a good time, so the next day they announced we would go cross country skiing.  Sounds good to me. 

What I didn’t know at the time is that cross country skis really have to fit well for your height and weight, not that it would have made much of a difference for what happened next. They waxed up some skis, put them on me and we took off from the cabin, so far so good.  The next thing you know they were leading me UP the DOWNHILL ski run on the way to the top of the mountain where they liked to cross country ski.  People were looking at us like we were totally crazed, I was near tears, taking one step forward and two steps back, side stepping up the hill.  The guys were just stomping up the hill like it was nothing.  

We finally got to the top and skied around on the top of the mountain.  It was a crystal clear day and we stopped at a fire tower, climbed up and had a lunch of bread and cheese and wine, of course.  I will repeat, it was a fire tower, so you could see snowy mountains and trees wherever you looked – we truly were looking down at the world around us.  It was virgin snow, too.  Powdery.

I thought up was bad.  After lunch, it was time to go back down.  No, we didn’t go down the alpine run on our cross country skis, but we took off through the woods.  There was no path, no groomed trail, just deep snow.  I kept falling.  My skis would get stuck in snowdrifts.  I was miserable.  I guess they got tired of my whining and waiting for me because the next thing I knew, I found myself watching them cross country down the hill, through the trees, the soft snow spraying as they flew down (I still don’t know how they did that!) – and they were gone.  I was alone in the woods, with only their trail ahead of me to lead the way.

My family knows how much I like to be alone.  Not this time.  Damn I was scared.  I was only 23 years old for heaven’s sake, literally a babe in the woods.  All those wonderful Slavic and Russian fairy tales that planted the seeds of my romantic love of winter came back to haunt me – snapping twigs, falling snow, everything scared the hell out of me.  I called to the guys – they were just gone.

Of course I kept following their path – once I realized I could do nothing but follow their path, I did.   I think I relaxed a bit because although I was cursing them the whole time, I fell less and became less frightened.  When I got to the bottom of the hill, the cabin was right there.  I went inside to wine and food and a hot fire and felt quite the sense of accomplishment.  Not that I didn’t make sure they knew what asses they were, but they just pointed out to me that I had done something I didn’t think I could do and lived through it.  I hated it when the New Yorkers were right.

I still like to cross country – haven’t done it in years, and and when I did I never choose a trail that takes me up an alpine run.  The memory of the lunch, in the fire tower, remains with me and made that experience worth the agony.  That and the fact that experiences like that of course made me grow in bravery, which has served me well.

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Jewel in the Journal

Posted on August 25, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

I was thumbing through my old journals – so much of it just sounds like pure insanity, but that is because once I got past the first book, I was totally honest about writing my deepest feelings and thoughts.   I will have to continue mining them for little diamonds here and there but then burn them, though, so some great-granddaughter doesn’t find them and think “brother, Grandma Mary was a nut case…”

Anyhoo, I came across this quotation from an author of the last century, Morris West:

It costs so much to be a full human being that there are very few who have the love and courage to pay the price.  One has to abandon altogether the search for security and reach out to the risk of living with both arms.  One has to embrace life like a lover. 

Now this is quite true and is often my philosophy, which is why I transcribed it in my journal back in 1994.  However I need to be careful.  I always say that if it weren’t for Al, I’d probably have tried heroin once, just because it’s part of human life and I don’t want to miss a thing.  Obviously there must be some limits or the aforementioned life ceases to exist.   I’ve often felt that I’m like a kite, floating on the wind here, then dipping there, then stopping mid-air just for a moment but not liking that at all, so off I dance again on another gust of wind.  Al, just like the master kite flyer he is, sits on a rock and holds on to the string,  not in a controlling way, but keeping me out of the trees, admiring me as I fly around.  Just tonight he said something so sweet, that I was a “star.” 

I certainly don’t feel like a star.  I’m confused and scared about what I’m going to do when I grow up.     I know that I wrote that quotation long ago because it spoke to me; it reassured me that the questions I was asking back then required courage and risk to even ask, let alone answer.

So now I am older.  There are new questions with answers that are as elusive as when I was younger, and will be replaced with new questions as I continue to age.    Will I still reach out with both arms and embrace life like a lover?  Will I still strive to be a full human being?  Will I abandon security – particularly emotional security?  Will I still be willing to pay the price when I don’t even know what the price is?    

Does a kite fly?

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Now!

Posted on August 24, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

I was sitting at Mass one Sunday in 1993;  I had been having a major crisis of faith in my personal life – I felt like that popular poem Footprints where the guy, seeing only one set of footprints in the sand, asks God “Where were you when I needed you most?”  and God replies “That was when I carried you, moron.” Ok God didn’t say it that way but He had every right to, really.  (Disclaimer: I know God isn’t a man, okay.  Cut me some slack here.)  I was just coming to the end of  my trek through the desert and I read in the church bulletin that teachers were needed for religious ed. My children were still too young for that, but I was feeling the need to do something “brainy” and to get my mind off myself and my angst.  And I heard myself ask that question that we God-fearin’ folk sometimes find ourselves asking: “Is it I, Lord?” 

So, I signed up.  I taught for several years, my favorite being the second graders.  That was a big year, people would get their children signed up so they could make their First Communion that year, often just to make Grandma happy, I discovered.  The class sizes would decrease significantly after second grade.  Anyway, I loved it.  I was good at it.  I made it fun.  My favorite memory of that year was making the Nativity creches.  I collected shoe boxes, painted them brown, and made up a batch of homemade play dough, gathered some strawish stuff from my flower arranging bin and we were good to go.  The kids made their little people and animals and kings and of course baby Jesus.  I recall being overwhelmed after the kids left and all their handiwork was looking back at me in beautiful innocent silence.  It was truly one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.   I don’t know that I would have the patience to teach regular school to that age group – I’d be wanting to make every day “play dough day,” and they’d head to third grade not knowing how to add or subtract or spell. 

One year I taught fourth graders.  There was one boy in the class who was a bit difficult to control.  At that age there was an expectation that we would do more than just play with play dough, although I tried to make it creative as well.  His name was Daniel.  He couldn’t sit still, he didn’t take anything even the least bit seriously.  He had a twin brother who was, of course, his opposite.  Quiet, pleasant, attentive.  I wasn’t too phased by Daniel, having three little boys of my own, however it could be exasperating at times. 

One day near Pentecost we were talking about the Holy Spirit.  This may sound a bit contradictory, but after the lesson I asked the children to draw a picture of the Holy Spirit in action.  Most of them drew pictures of the Bible story, the Holy Spirit coming to the Apostles via tongues of fire.  Some of them drew Bible characters being nice to each other.  But Daniel – ah Daniel.  He got busy drawing a war scene – the Persian Gulf War was in full swing.  He drew tanks, he drew planes, he drew soldiers.  Instead of bombs, though, the planes and soldiers and tanks were delivering candy to the children in his scene.  One of the little girls berated him: “Daniel.  That’s not the Holy Spirit.  You’re supposed to be drawing a picture of the Holy Spirit.”

Daniel put his crayons down in a very deliberate manner and sighed the sigh of a child way beyond his years.  I still get a little misty when I remember his answer, which he stated with a bit of impatience at the ignorance of his classmate: “The Holy Spirit wasn’t just back in the time of Jesus.  The Holy Spirit is NOW!”  Duh.  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

 I will always remember him.  I always hoped he was doing well – it’s not an easy world for a boy who pushes the envelope and especially one with that kind of depth of spirit at such a young age.  I only saw Daniel once after that year.  He was fishing at the Lafayette Reservoir.  As a fisherwoman myself I was happy to see that he fishes, as I know that the Holy Spirit digs hangin’ out in fishing boats for some reason.    I didn’t greet him – it was a few years later and I guess I didn’t think he’d remember me.  I wonder how he is now, if the Holy Spirit continues to guide him and if he still listens – if anyone ever needed the guidance of the Holy Spirit it would be him.   At least I know he got it – and actually he had it even before I “taught it.”

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Cinderella Syndrome

Posted on August 24, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

That’s what I call this awful first day back at work after vacation, when the carriage turns into a pumpkin, the glass slippers turn into work shoes, the dancing ends, the slogging begins.

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Gopher It

Posted on August 23, 2010 by favoritephilosopher

I can’t believe it!  It’s about a hundred degrees out here, so I was surprised to see my rosebush swaying in the breeze.  Wait a second…there’s no breeze, it’s a hundred degrees and not a breath of air!  I ran out and sure enough, the rosebush was on its side, the cutest little furry little gopher dude you ever saw poking out of the hole looking surprised.  In an instant he was gone.   It really is a good thing they are so cute.  I really would like to pet one, they look so soft.  There are no roots left on the bush.  It’s dead, I’ve been this route before, no sense trying to save it now.  It took me about 18 years to finally get a deer fence up in the back yard so I could have a rose garden and now this! 

I quickly put the last of the chili powder concoction down the hole after the little fella while I muttered profanities under my breath.  I was reading a forum awhile back and a poster was quite disgusted at the other posters who talked in evil terms about the many ways one could destroy a  gopher – why would we be so hostile to a living creature who just wants to share the earth with us?  Why be so hateful?  Everyone pretty much ignored this poster but one kind soul gently suggested that when your vegetable garden disappears in one fell swoop even the most evolved nature lover gets a little testy.  That was back in the spring and I think I hear that poster, out in her backyard, swinging a shovel with one hand, a lit gopher bomb in the other, her hair falling disheveled around her face, a wild look in her eyes, muttering something along the lines of “go ahead, make my day, where are you, you little…”

What kills me is that it was my procrastination that caused this latest casualty.  I knew I needed more chili powder stuff because there was evidence of the adorable little rodents when we returned from Oregon, but I figured I’d get it tomorrow.  This happens to me a lot in the garden department – in the springtime I always have a sixth sense that it’s time to spray a little deer repellant but I put it off until tomorrow and sure enough, all the buds on the rose tree in the front yard will be stripped bare in one long night of deer debauchery.

Fall always comes around just in time before I give up and spray Round Up on the whole damn garden and replace it with gravel and flamingo whirlygigs.  Hope springs eternal in the rainy California winters.

Posted in Animal Lover, The Joys of Home Ownership | Leave a comment