We watched and did nothing as the world collapsed around us in an economic crisis the likes of which have not been seen since the 1930s. First the housing industry shut down: no one was buying or building homes. Residential developers had no clients – no home buyers. Their assets included large tracts of land, big ideas, and lots of potential profit. But all these were now fallow with taxes and mounting debt. They were bankrupt. By extension the dependents of residential developers, those contractors, sub-contractors, architects, and engineers, were the second to experience belt-tightening, then collapse. Commercial and industrial developers were sucked into this vortex of economic decline as fear dried up money sources and buyers. Projects either never began or stood silent, unfinished like skeletons weathering the elements. No work; no jobs.
We watched in the beginning as gas prices skyrocketed and the car industry was hit. At four dollars a gallon, people couldn’t afford new cars, or to even drive the gas guzzlers they had bought the year before. So the car manufacturing industry collapsed and thousands of workers were put on the street: workers whose loyalty was repaid with two days notice of termination. By extension, the dependent businesses – the dealers, showrooms, and used car lots – closed down. These businesses had been the backbone of many communities, having underwritten their town’s little league teams, soup kitchens, and church outreach programs. Later gas prices were to plummet to a buck-sixty a gallon. Probably a gesture by the oil companies to save the car industry and their own sales; but it was too late for the dependents. Their closure was final.
We watched as friends were laid off. Their struggle was difficult to watch, so we didn’t. We turned away from their needs to offer a prayer of thanksgiving that it wasn’t us, that we still had jobs, an income, and an uninterrupted lifestyle. We could be sympathetic but did we understand? We didn’t. So we went on with our lives.
Then, it was our turn. First we lost one job. He was an architect: skilled, educated, licensed, and experienced. Told on a Thursday, out of work on Friday. No notice, no processing time, no two weeks, just here today-gone tomorrow. The military calls this tactic “shock and awe” where you stun your opponent then overwhelm them. This was sensory overload, stunned beyond response. You walk away from the announcement stunned and confused. You get in the car, but can’t remember the way home. You pull off the road to try to think, but you can’t. You call your spouse – dead silence. Then two minds become one. How were we going to pay the bills? Keep the roof over our heads? Take care of our dependents? How? How? How?
We had watched. We had been aware of what was happening around us. We knew it could happen to us. But we had done nothing.
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Mom: Shakespeare
Shakespeare August 18, 2008
The old woman came in quietly on the arm of her daughter. She wore beige capris, a white button-down and sturdy moccasins. Her hair was curly and thinning at the forehead and temples. Her eyes were the most distinctive of all: They were the eyes of the un-dead, seeing but not caring. There was no response as I greeted her and motioned to a chair. She stood still until her daughter moved her toward the chair. I asked the old woman how she was. She just looked through me. I looked at the daughter and asked her to tell me again what had happened that brought them to my office.
She began.
The daughter had arrived home from work two days ago to find Mother sitting in the swivel chair in her office, distracted and repeating a phrase as though she were a stuck record – “A horse.” In fact, Mother was pulling on a piece of thread and swiveling slowly back and forth repeating “a horse” while staring out the window. She didn’t respond to the daughter’s greeting. Daughter tried to get Mother’s attention by swiveling the chair around and away from her focus on the window. But to no avail, Mother just swiveled it back and stared out the window. The daughter feared some kind of stroke. She called EMS and Mother was transported to the hospital. Mother’s response was to cooperate, but she spoke not a word. She responded in a stiff, almost unnoticing manner. She hadn’t had a stroke. No problem could be diagnosed, so she was released from the hospital. The attending physician had recommended a psychologist for an evaluation and the daughter called, i.e. the appointment we were now having.
Mother didn’t respond to my questions. “A horse.” She sat stiff, looking out the window and whispered “a horse.” So I interviewed the daughter. Her mother was a writer with three books to her credit – romance novels by literary classification, but not young romance. They were romances for the elderly. According to her daughter these novels were not Fabio-Harlequin romances but funny, down-to-earth stories of love among the elderly. It was a fairly undeveloped field as most readers think romance belongs to the young. Mother’s main characters were elderly, sexual, hungry, and viable; loving life in ways not available to the young. I have to admit Mother’s topic made me a little uncomfortable as a picture of my own grandmother came into mind. I pushed it out: The idea of my gran naked, sexual, and on the prowl. Mother made a living with this topic. However, the daughter said that recently Mother had stopped typing. Her computer was on but the white screen remained blank. Twice Mother forgot to plug in the power cord and the daughter had come home, only to spend the evening re-booting the machine.
“A horse.” Mother had turned her head to look at the wall. The only things there were theatre posters and licenses.
I asked the daughter questions that might have indicated a possibility of Alzheimer’s. But the daughter seemed to believe that Mother’s condition was too sudden. I asked about any other recent events in Mother’s life. The daughter had to think. Nothing suddenly she said, but some things that had caused a change in Mother’s lifestyle. I asked what. Mother’s husband, daughter’s dad, was still alive, but suffered from cancer and arthritis. He recently went through chemo which had been unsuccessful and his body was now advancing toward death, with a lot of pain and need. The bills were mounting for his care. The daughter lived with them to help take care of Daddy and Mother and she had been a help, but the daughter had a son who recently came for a visit. He did drugs and to pay for his habit stole from his grandmother. The pearl and sapphire brooch her husband had given her on their 25th anniversary was gone. The loss was never discussed out loud. The son, grandson, disappeared. Then, Mother had gone to the bank for a loan to help with the mounting expenses. She was a long time customer of this bank; they only gave her a thousand dollar loan. Only enough to make the late payments on the medical equipment she had rented to care for her husband. But she had been robbed coming out of the grocery store. The thousand was gone, along with the few groceries she had managed to purchase.
Mother was now staring at one particular poster on the office wall. “A horse?” she said.
I looked at the daughter, “A horse?” I asked.
The daughter shrugged her shoulders.
“A horse.” Mother repeated, getting out of the chair slowly, her focus on the one poster. It was a poster of a play that I had enjoyed in my student days, a Shakespeare play – Richard III, about a king who possibly killed his brother and two nephews – rightful kings of England - to gain the throne for himself and started a civil war.
The office was deafeningly silent. I looked up at the poster, then back at the old woman and her words suddenly made sense. She was telling us all the time what the problem was in those fateful words: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.”
The old woman came in quietly on the arm of her daughter. She wore beige capris, a white button-down and sturdy moccasins. Her hair was curly and thinning at the forehead and temples. Her eyes were the most distinctive of all: They were the eyes of the un-dead, seeing but not caring. There was no response as I greeted her and motioned to a chair. She stood still until her daughter moved her toward the chair. I asked the old woman how she was. She just looked through me. I looked at the daughter and asked her to tell me again what had happened that brought them to my office.
She began.
The daughter had arrived home from work two days ago to find Mother sitting in the swivel chair in her office, distracted and repeating a phrase as though she were a stuck record – “A horse.” In fact, Mother was pulling on a piece of thread and swiveling slowly back and forth repeating “a horse” while staring out the window. She didn’t respond to the daughter’s greeting. Daughter tried to get Mother’s attention by swiveling the chair around and away from her focus on the window. But to no avail, Mother just swiveled it back and stared out the window. The daughter feared some kind of stroke. She called EMS and Mother was transported to the hospital. Mother’s response was to cooperate, but she spoke not a word. She responded in a stiff, almost unnoticing manner. She hadn’t had a stroke. No problem could be diagnosed, so she was released from the hospital. The attending physician had recommended a psychologist for an evaluation and the daughter called, i.e. the appointment we were now having.
Mother didn’t respond to my questions. “A horse.” She sat stiff, looking out the window and whispered “a horse.” So I interviewed the daughter. Her mother was a writer with three books to her credit – romance novels by literary classification, but not young romance. They were romances for the elderly. According to her daughter these novels were not Fabio-Harlequin romances but funny, down-to-earth stories of love among the elderly. It was a fairly undeveloped field as most readers think romance belongs to the young. Mother’s main characters were elderly, sexual, hungry, and viable; loving life in ways not available to the young. I have to admit Mother’s topic made me a little uncomfortable as a picture of my own grandmother came into mind. I pushed it out: The idea of my gran naked, sexual, and on the prowl. Mother made a living with this topic. However, the daughter said that recently Mother had stopped typing. Her computer was on but the white screen remained blank. Twice Mother forgot to plug in the power cord and the daughter had come home, only to spend the evening re-booting the machine.
“A horse.” Mother had turned her head to look at the wall. The only things there were theatre posters and licenses.
I asked the daughter questions that might have indicated a possibility of Alzheimer’s. But the daughter seemed to believe that Mother’s condition was too sudden. I asked about any other recent events in Mother’s life. The daughter had to think. Nothing suddenly she said, but some things that had caused a change in Mother’s lifestyle. I asked what. Mother’s husband, daughter’s dad, was still alive, but suffered from cancer and arthritis. He recently went through chemo which had been unsuccessful and his body was now advancing toward death, with a lot of pain and need. The bills were mounting for his care. The daughter lived with them to help take care of Daddy and Mother and she had been a help, but the daughter had a son who recently came for a visit. He did drugs and to pay for his habit stole from his grandmother. The pearl and sapphire brooch her husband had given her on their 25th anniversary was gone. The loss was never discussed out loud. The son, grandson, disappeared. Then, Mother had gone to the bank for a loan to help with the mounting expenses. She was a long time customer of this bank; they only gave her a thousand dollar loan. Only enough to make the late payments on the medical equipment she had rented to care for her husband. But she had been robbed coming out of the grocery store. The thousand was gone, along with the few groceries she had managed to purchase.
Mother was now staring at one particular poster on the office wall. “A horse?” she said.
I looked at the daughter, “A horse?” I asked.
The daughter shrugged her shoulders.
“A horse.” Mother repeated, getting out of the chair slowly, her focus on the one poster. It was a poster of a play that I had enjoyed in my student days, a Shakespeare play – Richard III, about a king who possibly killed his brother and two nephews – rightful kings of England - to gain the throne for himself and started a civil war.
The office was deafeningly silent. I looked up at the poster, then back at the old woman and her words suddenly made sense. She was telling us all the time what the problem was in those fateful words: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.”
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Mom: Bucket List
His wife died while he was in class giving a lecture.
“The ramifications of the Lord Admiral’s decision to go forward with the plan for the Gallipoli campaign were to create a crisis of confidence in the leadership of the Lord Admiral and his cronies who directed all naval campaigns. The public-darling’s political career was stalled until the 1940s when memory and world peace was lost in a holocaust of horror, disillusionment, and death.”
He used big words, spoke in complex sentences, and implied a huge disaster. But he droned, making it hard to take notes and harder still to maintain one’s attention. I’m sure there was excitement at one time in the information he was sharing, but it wasn’t there that day and hadn’t been there all semester.
The arrival of the departmental chair was a welcomed relief to the vocal monotony. I had already begun watching the clock on the wall where time seemed to have stood still. Another professor followed the departmental chair into the room. I recognized both – one taught the African history classes, the other the Latin American classes.
The chair stood in the doorway. My teacher looked up from his notes, noted the direction of the class’s attention and looked over at the doorway. The chair apologized to the class for the interruption, then asked my teacher if he might have a word with him and pointed into the hallway. I watched the little conference. The noise in the classroom was typical of student attention – rustling papers, closing books, whispers. The little conference took a turn as my teacher slumped against the wall and put a hand to his forehead. The second professor – the one that taught Latin American history - entered the classroom and dismissed us.
We gathered up our things and dropped our weekly assignment on the table next to the podium. The Latin American teacher was writing on the board that class was cancelled and to watch for an e-mail regarding the next class and assignment. We filed out of the room, past my professor who now appeared frail. I was one of the last one to exit the room; and as I exited the three professors entered the room. I walked up the stairs and out of the building, around the front, passing the windows that looked down into my classroom. My professor stood there alone, a piece of paper in his hands. He looked at it, tore it up and threw it on the floor. He went to the podium and collected his notes, walked through the pieces of paper and exited the room. Moments later he passed by, not seeing me.
I went back into the classroom and picked up the eight pieces of paper and put them back together. It was a little slip of a paper that had been folded and folded. It had been torn from one of those tiny top wired notepads and showed age. It was dated 10 years earlier and it certainly looked 10 years weathered. It was a list; a list of things to do and see. There was written ‘clean out garage,’ ‘visit Magnolia Gardens,’ ‘find her sister,’ ‘make will,’ ‘visit Washington DC’….and so forth. Twenty items, all but one had been crossed off.
My class was cancelled the next week, but my professor was back in the podium the following. No life in him, but lecturing again.
“A bipolar world is a world of exact opposites in which no sides agree except to prevent the other from expanding. And while they never directly touch each other in violence, they do touch each other through other countries like Korea and Vietnam. It is…” He droned on and I found myself watching the clock – thirty minutes more - big words, complex sentences and another huge disaster.
Students tell teachers when the end of class is approaching and today was no different. My teacher heard the rustling, looked up, and concluded with a rapid line about trade sanctions and our next assignment. I waited to be last to leave. I cleared my throat and my teacher looked up.
“Yes?” he said.
“Professor.” I stood near my desk. I pulled the now-taped piece of paper from my bag and handed it to him. His face turned an angry red and his brow knitted in question. I said, “I saw…” and pointed to the paper. “This list?” I handed it to him.
He looked at it and said, “Well, what about it?”
“I noticed it’s unfinished.” I said.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Harper, Carolyn Harper. I sit front seat, there.” I pointed to my book bag still on my desk.
“Well, Miss Harper. I can’t see what business this is of yours?” And he flicked a finger at the paper in his hand.
“Professor. Your list… it has one more thing on it to do.” I cleared my throat and started again. “John, I’m her sister.”
“The ramifications of the Lord Admiral’s decision to go forward with the plan for the Gallipoli campaign were to create a crisis of confidence in the leadership of the Lord Admiral and his cronies who directed all naval campaigns. The public-darling’s political career was stalled until the 1940s when memory and world peace was lost in a holocaust of horror, disillusionment, and death.”
He used big words, spoke in complex sentences, and implied a huge disaster. But he droned, making it hard to take notes and harder still to maintain one’s attention. I’m sure there was excitement at one time in the information he was sharing, but it wasn’t there that day and hadn’t been there all semester.
The arrival of the departmental chair was a welcomed relief to the vocal monotony. I had already begun watching the clock on the wall where time seemed to have stood still. Another professor followed the departmental chair into the room. I recognized both – one taught the African history classes, the other the Latin American classes.
The chair stood in the doorway. My teacher looked up from his notes, noted the direction of the class’s attention and looked over at the doorway. The chair apologized to the class for the interruption, then asked my teacher if he might have a word with him and pointed into the hallway. I watched the little conference. The noise in the classroom was typical of student attention – rustling papers, closing books, whispers. The little conference took a turn as my teacher slumped against the wall and put a hand to his forehead. The second professor – the one that taught Latin American history - entered the classroom and dismissed us.
We gathered up our things and dropped our weekly assignment on the table next to the podium. The Latin American teacher was writing on the board that class was cancelled and to watch for an e-mail regarding the next class and assignment. We filed out of the room, past my professor who now appeared frail. I was one of the last one to exit the room; and as I exited the three professors entered the room. I walked up the stairs and out of the building, around the front, passing the windows that looked down into my classroom. My professor stood there alone, a piece of paper in his hands. He looked at it, tore it up and threw it on the floor. He went to the podium and collected his notes, walked through the pieces of paper and exited the room. Moments later he passed by, not seeing me.
I went back into the classroom and picked up the eight pieces of paper and put them back together. It was a little slip of a paper that had been folded and folded. It had been torn from one of those tiny top wired notepads and showed age. It was dated 10 years earlier and it certainly looked 10 years weathered. It was a list; a list of things to do and see. There was written ‘clean out garage,’ ‘visit Magnolia Gardens,’ ‘find her sister,’ ‘make will,’ ‘visit Washington DC’….and so forth. Twenty items, all but one had been crossed off.
My class was cancelled the next week, but my professor was back in the podium the following. No life in him, but lecturing again.
“A bipolar world is a world of exact opposites in which no sides agree except to prevent the other from expanding. And while they never directly touch each other in violence, they do touch each other through other countries like Korea and Vietnam. It is…” He droned on and I found myself watching the clock – thirty minutes more - big words, complex sentences and another huge disaster.
Students tell teachers when the end of class is approaching and today was no different. My teacher heard the rustling, looked up, and concluded with a rapid line about trade sanctions and our next assignment. I waited to be last to leave. I cleared my throat and my teacher looked up.
“Yes?” he said.
“Professor.” I stood near my desk. I pulled the now-taped piece of paper from my bag and handed it to him. His face turned an angry red and his brow knitted in question. I said, “I saw…” and pointed to the paper. “This list?” I handed it to him.
He looked at it and said, “Well, what about it?”
“I noticed it’s unfinished.” I said.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Harper, Carolyn Harper. I sit front seat, there.” I pointed to my book bag still on my desk.
“Well, Miss Harper. I can’t see what business this is of yours?” And he flicked a finger at the paper in his hand.
“Professor. Your list… it has one more thing on it to do.” I cleared my throat and started again. “John, I’m her sister.”
Monday, July 28, 2008
Mom: Dictionary word
Dictionary Word
I have wanted to start a blog for sometime, but my working knowledge of a computer made any start-up scary and daunting. The expertise I thought one had to have to just operate the machine left me feeling left-behind, old, and alone. Besides if I ever needed anything from the computer or needed my problems fixed I had children and a husband who could tap a few buttons and I was back in operation. Now my children (let me brag: there are four of them; all incredible) are out of the house, off to college, out in the real world and I’m left home. The job that once defined me – the stay-at-home mom job - has been downsized to the occasional telephone call or visit. I am no longer needed to run children to piano lessons or scouts. I no longer have willing dates for the ballet or shopping. My husband is a good sport and attends some cultural events with me but draws the line at shopping and ballet. I have a new girlfriend-in-law (can we way that?); she lives with one of my sons. She joined me and my two daughters this past Christmas when the Russian Ballet came to town and performed the Nutcracker. She loved it, but she (they) are two hundred miles away.
I’ve strayed from my point and that was that I was feeling sorry for myself and needed a new direction, something to get me up in the morning, some friends to talk to.
This blog process did not come easy. I had to educate myself on what a blog was first, so I looked up the word. Wikipedia has a nine page discussion of the word, and it’s written in small print. Wikipedia says that blog comes from the phrase web log and can be a noun or verb. And the word’s only been around since 1997. After surfing cyberspace, I discovered all kinds of users and creators of blogs from big corporations to individuals; and all kinds of reasons to blog. There was one blog written by a woman in Alaska who was showing off her yard. It had commentary and pictures. I didn’t know you could grow flowers in Alaska; I thought it was all cold and white up there – you know, ice and snow and frozen nose hair. She had hits on her site; people were looking at her yard. I didn’t see a comment card to respond, but she had over a thousand hits. That’s a conversation without words.
So I wanted a blog, too. I tried to do this on my own, but it’s the same computer – scary, daunting, and very frustrating. I mentioned all this to my other son who lives twelve hours away. He came up with the site, created it, and advises me on it. We both submit stories to it. And we can comment on it. AND it’s got a “hit” counter on it. So here I am! With a blog! The child has become the parent! I am connected. I have new friends to talk to. And pretty soon, I’m gonna have Skype (is that how it’s spelled?) – you know that camera that sits on the computer. I’ll be able to see my kids when I talk to them! Well, I’m here now: I’m modern and I’m hip. So check us out; leave a comment; talk to me; I’m listening. However, I gotta go just now; gotta look up the word Skype.
I have wanted to start a blog for sometime, but my working knowledge of a computer made any start-up scary and daunting. The expertise I thought one had to have to just operate the machine left me feeling left-behind, old, and alone. Besides if I ever needed anything from the computer or needed my problems fixed I had children and a husband who could tap a few buttons and I was back in operation. Now my children (let me brag: there are four of them; all incredible) are out of the house, off to college, out in the real world and I’m left home. The job that once defined me – the stay-at-home mom job - has been downsized to the occasional telephone call or visit. I am no longer needed to run children to piano lessons or scouts. I no longer have willing dates for the ballet or shopping. My husband is a good sport and attends some cultural events with me but draws the line at shopping and ballet. I have a new girlfriend-in-law (can we way that?); she lives with one of my sons. She joined me and my two daughters this past Christmas when the Russian Ballet came to town and performed the Nutcracker. She loved it, but she (they) are two hundred miles away.
I’ve strayed from my point and that was that I was feeling sorry for myself and needed a new direction, something to get me up in the morning, some friends to talk to.
This blog process did not come easy. I had to educate myself on what a blog was first, so I looked up the word. Wikipedia has a nine page discussion of the word, and it’s written in small print. Wikipedia says that blog comes from the phrase web log and can be a noun or verb. And the word’s only been around since 1997. After surfing cyberspace, I discovered all kinds of users and creators of blogs from big corporations to individuals; and all kinds of reasons to blog. There was one blog written by a woman in Alaska who was showing off her yard. It had commentary and pictures. I didn’t know you could grow flowers in Alaska; I thought it was all cold and white up there – you know, ice and snow and frozen nose hair. She had hits on her site; people were looking at her yard. I didn’t see a comment card to respond, but she had over a thousand hits. That’s a conversation without words.
So I wanted a blog, too. I tried to do this on my own, but it’s the same computer – scary, daunting, and very frustrating. I mentioned all this to my other son who lives twelve hours away. He came up with the site, created it, and advises me on it. We both submit stories to it. And we can comment on it. AND it’s got a “hit” counter on it. So here I am! With a blog! The child has become the parent! I am connected. I have new friends to talk to. And pretty soon, I’m gonna have Skype (is that how it’s spelled?) – you know that camera that sits on the computer. I’ll be able to see my kids when I talk to them! Well, I’m here now: I’m modern and I’m hip. So check us out; leave a comment; talk to me; I’m listening. However, I gotta go just now; gotta look up the word Skype.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Mom: Chap Stick
CHAP STICK
They dressed to go out for a walk around the neighborhood. His doctor told him to get more exercise. Diabetes. The doc warned him of the consequences if ignored: There would be problems with kidneys, heart, swelling, blindness, all of it. But he didn’t hear the part about exercise – a deliberate oversight, until his feet started to swell and ankles disappeared. Not a particularly fastidious man but it was beginning to hurt to walk. So his solution was to bombard his feet with exercise: walking fast, walking slow, while standing he would go up on toes and come down on heels, anything to keep the feet moving. But it wasn’t enough. Then more problems: The stress test came back. His heart rate was fast; pumping way too hard for the slow workout the technicians had put him through at the med-lab. Additional blood tests turned up high levels of cholesterol. He was a heart attack just waiting to happen. He was taking vitamins, aspirins, heart medicine, calcium tablets, and insulin shots; not to mention all the extra meds he took for the side effects to control diarrhea, constipation, and sleeplessness. Then there was the pain killers to help with the pain in his feet.
Good Lord, he told himself, he was only 60. In his second childhood: The kids were gone and the house was empty. Good Lord, he repeated, they could be having sex all over the house now, in any room or closet they wanted. He bent down to tie his sneaker and his spine clicked and his muscles groaned with the task. He left the bedroom while she put on her shoes.
He wandered down the hall and into the dining room. There was that huge dining room table and all those chairs, the scene of many family celebrations. Used and used and used – lots of memories around that thing. It was hard and non-conforming. It stood in front of the sliding glass door which opened into the back yard. The room was full of browns and greens, but in the middle was the deep blue table looking like a pool in the middle of forested nature with the odor of roses coming through the screen door. He rubbed his forehead and walked back down the hallway.
Good Lord, he repeated, his second childhood, and they were dressing to go for a walk for exercise.
He leaned against the bathroom door. His wife was applying chap stick to her lips. The pinkish balm was invisible; her lips were a soft brown. “Why you doin’ that?” he asked nodding to the mirror and chap stick.
“You know why, Silly,” she replied with another swipe across her lips. She looked good to him even after thirty-five years of marriage. Her body showed the evidence of time. He couldn’t pretend she was lithe and agile as she once had been, but she had raised three children, worked fulltime, and was the social director for the family now. Her interests had shifted.
“No, really, why?” he asked.
“The cold. Don’t want them crackin’ and bleedin’. You know this. Why you asking? ” She held out the tube to him. “Want some?”
It smelled like menthol. Like medicine. It smelled like what it was supposed to be. He jolted back; the odor was so strong. So mentholated. “No thanks. You ‘bout ready?” The odor made him feel old, like the old men he used to work with that smelled like Ben-Gay. Old and medicinal odors went together in his head. He wasn’t old; he was in his second childhood.
“Almost,” She replied and leaned up closer to the mirror.
He went back out to the hallway, to the dining room and stared at the table. He remembered a similar scene a couple of weeks past; same question, different answer. He had asked “why you doin’ that?” as another woman applied chap stick to her lips. She stood just over there at the head of the table, a different woman, brown from the sun and strong in his arms.
“For you,” she whispered.
The table was hard. The scent of roses wafted through the sliding glass door. The neighbors dogs barked. A cat rubbed up against the screen door and purred. There was a bombardment of scents and sounds, but he noticed nothing except the smell and taste of that cherry chap stick.
They dressed to go out for a walk around the neighborhood. His doctor told him to get more exercise. Diabetes. The doc warned him of the consequences if ignored: There would be problems with kidneys, heart, swelling, blindness, all of it. But he didn’t hear the part about exercise – a deliberate oversight, until his feet started to swell and ankles disappeared. Not a particularly fastidious man but it was beginning to hurt to walk. So his solution was to bombard his feet with exercise: walking fast, walking slow, while standing he would go up on toes and come down on heels, anything to keep the feet moving. But it wasn’t enough. Then more problems: The stress test came back. His heart rate was fast; pumping way too hard for the slow workout the technicians had put him through at the med-lab. Additional blood tests turned up high levels of cholesterol. He was a heart attack just waiting to happen. He was taking vitamins, aspirins, heart medicine, calcium tablets, and insulin shots; not to mention all the extra meds he took for the side effects to control diarrhea, constipation, and sleeplessness. Then there was the pain killers to help with the pain in his feet.
Good Lord, he told himself, he was only 60. In his second childhood: The kids were gone and the house was empty. Good Lord, he repeated, they could be having sex all over the house now, in any room or closet they wanted. He bent down to tie his sneaker and his spine clicked and his muscles groaned with the task. He left the bedroom while she put on her shoes.
He wandered down the hall and into the dining room. There was that huge dining room table and all those chairs, the scene of many family celebrations. Used and used and used – lots of memories around that thing. It was hard and non-conforming. It stood in front of the sliding glass door which opened into the back yard. The room was full of browns and greens, but in the middle was the deep blue table looking like a pool in the middle of forested nature with the odor of roses coming through the screen door. He rubbed his forehead and walked back down the hallway.
Good Lord, he repeated, his second childhood, and they were dressing to go for a walk for exercise.
He leaned against the bathroom door. His wife was applying chap stick to her lips. The pinkish balm was invisible; her lips were a soft brown. “Why you doin’ that?” he asked nodding to the mirror and chap stick.
“You know why, Silly,” she replied with another swipe across her lips. She looked good to him even after thirty-five years of marriage. Her body showed the evidence of time. He couldn’t pretend she was lithe and agile as she once had been, but she had raised three children, worked fulltime, and was the social director for the family now. Her interests had shifted.
“No, really, why?” he asked.
“The cold. Don’t want them crackin’ and bleedin’. You know this. Why you asking? ” She held out the tube to him. “Want some?”
It smelled like menthol. Like medicine. It smelled like what it was supposed to be. He jolted back; the odor was so strong. So mentholated. “No thanks. You ‘bout ready?” The odor made him feel old, like the old men he used to work with that smelled like Ben-Gay. Old and medicinal odors went together in his head. He wasn’t old; he was in his second childhood.
“Almost,” She replied and leaned up closer to the mirror.
He went back out to the hallway, to the dining room and stared at the table. He remembered a similar scene a couple of weeks past; same question, different answer. He had asked “why you doin’ that?” as another woman applied chap stick to her lips. She stood just over there at the head of the table, a different woman, brown from the sun and strong in his arms.
“For you,” she whispered.
The table was hard. The scent of roses wafted through the sliding glass door. The neighbors dogs barked. A cat rubbed up against the screen door and purred. There was a bombardment of scents and sounds, but he noticed nothing except the smell and taste of that cherry chap stick.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Mom: If I ruled the world
If I ruled the free world:
There is so much anger and tension when one is an ordinary citizen. Just trying to survive in a period of rising fuel costs, unemployment, and lower wages is exhausting. Making decisions about where to spend one’s money finds all of us choosing between food and medicine. The struggle to survive and stay ahead of the curve – if only to have a few dollars more for a movie on Friday night – is frustrating. Work that should be rewarding has no rewards when all income is spent by Thursday. So who do we blame?
There is so much anger and tension felt when one is the leader of the free world. It is an inheritance from one struggling president to the next, and I am the next. The internal strife of the country’s citizens, the blame, and the slow movement of the Congressional process are obstacles to any rapid change or clear action I might propose to help alleviate desperate conditions. One of my predecessor, FDR, was a miracle worker, or he simply dazzled Congress into passing so many programs and acts to help the country during the depression of the 1930s. Passage of these programs was often accomplished on his say-so: He presented Congress and the country with a logical plan for success that to question him was almost tantamount to political heresy. By the time he was ready to fund the Manhattan Project (A-bomb) no one doubted his leadership and intent when he asked Congress to trust him and blindly fund a project they knew nothing about.
It is different today: Congress learned a valuable lesson about giving too much power to the President. And since FDR, there have been considerable restraints put on the executive office. So to be leader of the free world doesn’t seem to have the creativity, energy or power that it once had. It has become a government of red-tape, a juggernaut of paper with convoluted channels of processing and personal agendas. So as the leader of the free world with an opposition Congress, I am left to dance the dance with partners whose objective is to slow waltz me into the oblivion of minutiae. So I say “To Hell” with world peace, disarmament, gay marriage amendments, and mining oil in the Arctic: “It’s PB&J day!”
What we need is a break: Every one of us - Americans, Saudis, Israelis, Germans, Congolese, and Chinese – All of us. I propose PB&J day. I propose that on Tuesdays at noon we call off work, go home to our Moms and have them fix us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a glass of milk. And not just any PB&J: It’s got to be soft white bread, and thick peanut butter, and jelly that bleeds through to the outside. The milk has to be icy cold, with little ice crystals floating on top. Then after lunch everyone to bed – naptime! - with cuddly stuffed bears and lemony crisp sheets. Everyone, everywhere. For three hours no business is conducted. There’s no one in the office; no finger on the button anywhere: We’re asleep. There’s no anger, no tension, just a full tummy on sweet PB&J and a nap.
And I propose that this take place on Tuesdays. Why Tuesday? Nobody ever complains on a Tuesday. They complain on Monday that the weekend wasn’t long enough. Wednesdays are hump days with lots of energy as the weekend is in sight. Thursday is the “one-more day” day. And Friday is TGIF day. Then there are two days - Saturday and Sunday - with other jobs, such as the house, kids, a second job or just the continuation of the previous week’s job. We need to rest.
So this Tuesday, PB&J for everyone!!!!!!
There is so much anger and tension when one is an ordinary citizen. Just trying to survive in a period of rising fuel costs, unemployment, and lower wages is exhausting. Making decisions about where to spend one’s money finds all of us choosing between food and medicine. The struggle to survive and stay ahead of the curve – if only to have a few dollars more for a movie on Friday night – is frustrating. Work that should be rewarding has no rewards when all income is spent by Thursday. So who do we blame?
There is so much anger and tension felt when one is the leader of the free world. It is an inheritance from one struggling president to the next, and I am the next. The internal strife of the country’s citizens, the blame, and the slow movement of the Congressional process are obstacles to any rapid change or clear action I might propose to help alleviate desperate conditions. One of my predecessor, FDR, was a miracle worker, or he simply dazzled Congress into passing so many programs and acts to help the country during the depression of the 1930s. Passage of these programs was often accomplished on his say-so: He presented Congress and the country with a logical plan for success that to question him was almost tantamount to political heresy. By the time he was ready to fund the Manhattan Project (A-bomb) no one doubted his leadership and intent when he asked Congress to trust him and blindly fund a project they knew nothing about.
It is different today: Congress learned a valuable lesson about giving too much power to the President. And since FDR, there have been considerable restraints put on the executive office. So to be leader of the free world doesn’t seem to have the creativity, energy or power that it once had. It has become a government of red-tape, a juggernaut of paper with convoluted channels of processing and personal agendas. So as the leader of the free world with an opposition Congress, I am left to dance the dance with partners whose objective is to slow waltz me into the oblivion of minutiae. So I say “To Hell” with world peace, disarmament, gay marriage amendments, and mining oil in the Arctic: “It’s PB&J day!”
What we need is a break: Every one of us - Americans, Saudis, Israelis, Germans, Congolese, and Chinese – All of us. I propose PB&J day. I propose that on Tuesdays at noon we call off work, go home to our Moms and have them fix us a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a glass of milk. And not just any PB&J: It’s got to be soft white bread, and thick peanut butter, and jelly that bleeds through to the outside. The milk has to be icy cold, with little ice crystals floating on top. Then after lunch everyone to bed – naptime! - with cuddly stuffed bears and lemony crisp sheets. Everyone, everywhere. For three hours no business is conducted. There’s no one in the office; no finger on the button anywhere: We’re asleep. There’s no anger, no tension, just a full tummy on sweet PB&J and a nap.
And I propose that this take place on Tuesdays. Why Tuesday? Nobody ever complains on a Tuesday. They complain on Monday that the weekend wasn’t long enough. Wednesdays are hump days with lots of energy as the weekend is in sight. Thursday is the “one-more day” day. And Friday is TGIF day. Then there are two days - Saturday and Sunday - with other jobs, such as the house, kids, a second job or just the continuation of the previous week’s job. We need to rest.
So this Tuesday, PB&J for everyone!!!!!!
Monday, July 7, 2008
Mom: Random Phone Number, 7-7-08
The scenario is the same. We, the out of work, out of money and homeless, use city services to do our dailies. We’re scary to the lone users and the desperate dancers in public restrooms, but we have a right to privacy when taking a dump. Public restrooms offer us a measure of decency that is lacking in our lives, a moment of relief from the cold weather, cold people, and cold system that we meet. Public restrooms offer warmth and a moment of clean-ness that we occasionally need in our lives. Public restrooms offer several forms of social services that we can tap into such as phone numbers, addresses, and names of people that can help. Many outreach agencies advertise on these walls using the big expansive public walls around the sinks. Cold, impersonal, helpful. Sometimes.
But, it is what is posted inside the stalls that is more personal and useful. Men’s and women’s restrooms are no different except for the urinals. Both have stalls for the sit-down customer and ample wall space for the budding literati of the city who work through philosophical arguments about the meaning of something in short verse, or philosophical questions about the meaning of life asked by one and answered by another. There are famous quotes from famous movies, often farcical because the can-sitter may need "… the force …" to be with him. There are cat-fights played out on stall walls in which the new Hatfields and McCoys eek out revenge on each other. One cat-fight begins by calling Sara a bitch. With the obligatory rebuttal and escalation, someone else writes "Well, your sister’s a double bitch." Then there is the delineation of Sara’s ancestry back to Sodom and Gomorrah. Then the response, "Well, your sister sucked cock on Clinton at the White House." While enjoying this pants-free moment behind a locked stall door, this modern interpretation of passive-aggressive behavior is nothing but a history lesson in religio-political enlightenment of 20th century insults, and just goes to show that what goes around comes right back around and is recorded on bathroom stalls for the next reader, who, by-the-way, hopes Sara’s phone number has been left behind.
If one is so inclined – and happens to be carrying pencil and paper into the stall with him or her – there are numerous phone numbers to be had. These are the private, individual social services that can only be had from inside stall doors and don’t usually make it to the big wall; evidence of the private nature of this information. Phone numbers usually are accompanied by someone’s name and nothing else. However, many of these numbers come with advice: "For a good time, call Betty, 265-8103," leaving a clue as to the social service provided – a good time. And in that squatting moment the sitter has hope: Warm, personal help. Immediately. Not the slow gears of government and community based welfare, but Betty’s private, personal, smiling good time welfare. "Betty" is the cameo literature of stall-walls: It is the short biopic created in the reader’s mind on the small amount of information provided, and suddenly there is a storyline playing out in the stall. There is the "Betty" sigh – Ah-h-h, Betty - that launches pleasant memories that occupy us through the dump.
We, the out of work, out of money and homeless thank the city for its services. The public restroom does its job, as an institution dedicated to cleanliness, providing refuge, and privacy and entertainment. The public restroom takes care of our physical needs; the stall walls take care of the rest. Movin’ on.
This author’s favorite cameo is about AIDS and appears in men’s rooms throughout Cincinnati:
"Get tested. Your life is in your hands."
*******************
There has been some discussion in my house over the above use of the phrase "cameo literature." It is considered bad form to legitimize a crime and give it credence when in reality it is graffiti, vandalism, and slogan-ism, none of which is true literature. However, I would argue that before building graffiti became a legitimate urban art form, pursued and protected by art connoisseurs and city councils, it was a crime. Cameo literature is the bit part a name or phrase plays in the individual’s life and can have as profound an effect as Kurt Vonnegut or AIDS does if the cameo’s information is acted upon. Or it can have as small an effect as to last only a moment like ice cream, as a warm pleasant memory. In the long run, this cameo appearance can re-write a person’s life story, can send that life on a tangent of explored (or unexplored) adventures therefore making one’s life story a biography and legitimate literature whether written down or not.
But, it is what is posted inside the stalls that is more personal and useful. Men’s and women’s restrooms are no different except for the urinals. Both have stalls for the sit-down customer and ample wall space for the budding literati of the city who work through philosophical arguments about the meaning of something in short verse, or philosophical questions about the meaning of life asked by one and answered by another. There are famous quotes from famous movies, often farcical because the can-sitter may need "… the force …" to be with him. There are cat-fights played out on stall walls in which the new Hatfields and McCoys eek out revenge on each other. One cat-fight begins by calling Sara a bitch. With the obligatory rebuttal and escalation, someone else writes "Well, your sister’s a double bitch." Then there is the delineation of Sara’s ancestry back to Sodom and Gomorrah. Then the response, "Well, your sister sucked cock on Clinton at the White House." While enjoying this pants-free moment behind a locked stall door, this modern interpretation of passive-aggressive behavior is nothing but a history lesson in religio-political enlightenment of 20th century insults, and just goes to show that what goes around comes right back around and is recorded on bathroom stalls for the next reader, who, by-the-way, hopes Sara’s phone number has been left behind.
If one is so inclined – and happens to be carrying pencil and paper into the stall with him or her – there are numerous phone numbers to be had. These are the private, individual social services that can only be had from inside stall doors and don’t usually make it to the big wall; evidence of the private nature of this information. Phone numbers usually are accompanied by someone’s name and nothing else. However, many of these numbers come with advice: "For a good time, call Betty, 265-8103," leaving a clue as to the social service provided – a good time. And in that squatting moment the sitter has hope: Warm, personal help. Immediately. Not the slow gears of government and community based welfare, but Betty’s private, personal, smiling good time welfare. "Betty" is the cameo literature of stall-walls: It is the short biopic created in the reader’s mind on the small amount of information provided, and suddenly there is a storyline playing out in the stall. There is the "Betty" sigh – Ah-h-h, Betty - that launches pleasant memories that occupy us through the dump.
We, the out of work, out of money and homeless thank the city for its services. The public restroom does its job, as an institution dedicated to cleanliness, providing refuge, and privacy and entertainment. The public restroom takes care of our physical needs; the stall walls take care of the rest. Movin’ on.
This author’s favorite cameo is about AIDS and appears in men’s rooms throughout Cincinnati:
"Get tested. Your life is in your hands."
*******************
There has been some discussion in my house over the above use of the phrase "cameo literature." It is considered bad form to legitimize a crime and give it credence when in reality it is graffiti, vandalism, and slogan-ism, none of which is true literature. However, I would argue that before building graffiti became a legitimate urban art form, pursued and protected by art connoisseurs and city councils, it was a crime. Cameo literature is the bit part a name or phrase plays in the individual’s life and can have as profound an effect as Kurt Vonnegut or AIDS does if the cameo’s information is acted upon. Or it can have as small an effect as to last only a moment like ice cream, as a warm pleasant memory. In the long run, this cameo appearance can re-write a person’s life story, can send that life on a tangent of explored (or unexplored) adventures therefore making one’s life story a biography and legitimate literature whether written down or not.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Mom's Post: Virus (6-30-08)
TOPIC: Virus
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I have been working on this word since you gave it to me last week. I hate this word; it always spells problems. I tried to define the word, sympathize with the word, even eulogize the word, but nothing. Fear comes with the word: illness, disability, and death are synonymous with the word. Did you know there were hundreds of thousands of death from the flu virus in World War I? More American warriors were brought low or died from this virus than from battlefield casualties. If the Germans had had some immunity to the virus then the outcome of the war could have been different: We might be enjoying our German measles and sauerkraut.
Anyway, my response to the selection:
Virus
Invasive, deadly, conqueror
Supplanter, plagiarist, polluter, aggrandizer
Lover, daemon, creator
Virus.
I was trying to practice haikus, but found I had the wrong format and really was very ignorant as to what a haiku was. So the following is my tribute to the 3-line 5-7-5 syllabled haiku.
Virus
Corrosive demon
Deadly lover of all life
Destroyer of health
Avatar.
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