Lost Year

I don’t want to sleep at night.
I lay down and play on my phone- one more round of a senseless game.
One more peek at Facebook.
I’ll nod off and wake with a startle, then push down with my thumb to wake the phone and start all over again.
I don’t want to go to sleep.

I don’t want to wake in the morning.
Quickly press snooze and drift off on some mornings, grabbing seven more suddenly asleep minutes before the clanging buzzer starts again.
On other mornings I quickly open my eyes, pull the covers up, but just stay there.
I don’t want to get out of bed.
If I can just stay there then the day doesn’t start.
Then nothing has happened yet, everything is still a possibility.
No errors.
No issues.
Nothing starts until I get out of bed.

It’s just- that’s not the right way to go about it, is it?

I’m an adult with adult obligations.
There are… things.
Places.
Duties.
Stuff.
The weight of it pulls me under.

I haven’t been able to talk about it.
To write about it.
Can hardly bear to think about it.
But the pull of it all MUST be broken because I can’t stay here anymore.
No more than I can stay in bed forever and pretend everything will wait, will stay the same.

I am not the same person now as I was 12 months ago.
12 months ago I was working for a company that was struggling but seemed as if it would be victorious and turn things around.
It didn’t.
During the height of the initial COVID-19 panic it closed.
Closed in a horrible, terrible, messy, and frightening way.
Angry and frightened people screaming angry and frightening things.
Tears, confusion, panic, pandemic, unemployment.

Two months later I took a leap with a start-up.
Its mission was one in which I believed.
I chose it over the possibility of working with a non-profit in which I still fiercely believe.
I chose it because I believed in the jobs it would bring.
In the way it would operate.
In the promised truth and transparency.
In the way I could use all of my experience and skills to ‘put my fingerprints’ on this new company.
So that it would provide a place for people to work and support their families long after I retired.
I chose it to make a difference.

I, as did many people, worked harder on this than in any other job.
Seven days a week, week after week- up at 5:00 AM and asleep at 1:00 AM.
For days, weeks, months.

While the world was huddling and cocooning.
While people made posts about how BORED they were in quarantine,
While folks moaned about needing to ‘stimulate their mind’- I worked.
Zoomed.
Called.
We used our own computers and phones.
(I STILL use my own phone. Who runs a business with out phones?)
We cleaned buildings ourselves.
Took trash home because there was no garbage service.
Taught ourselves how to conduct virtual learning courses.
Did virtual interviews.
Hired.
Trained.
Documented.
Met impossible deadlines.
Exhausted but buoyed with purpose.

I lost the year.
The year that barely was.
And eight months from the start we are in Chapter 11 and seeking a way to reorganize and reinvent.
And eight months later I force myself to stand up each morning and MOVE through the grief and clamor that almost deafens me.
(I can hardly believe you don’t hear it.
The words and cries ring through my head- a claxon that thrums through my blood.
It screams at me and demands I justify my decisions)
I willingly traded those days with my husband for this.
I willingly and deliberately walked away from a cause in which I still believe.
I believe.
I believed.
I don’t know what to believe.

Because once again there are people in pain.
Once again without a job,
and some of them walking out of the very same building in which they worked before,
and again not knowing what will happen next.
I feel them, even if I don’t hear them, even if I try not to read the posts they make.
These people that worked so hard to create something new,
to master new ways,
to plow through the challenges.
Angry.
Assuming…. I don’t know what they assume… that everything in that lost time was a crafty trick?
Designed to fail?
I told you so- I told you-so- I told you so?

I don’t know what to believe.
My husband does, though.
This man that welcomed me home from long days,
that kept silent during conference calls,
that watched me grab the phone at all hours,
that tucked me in after a call that didn’t end until 1 AM.

This man that says he is proud of me.
That says he knows I am talented.
That smiles and holds me when I cry.
That reminds me that I have learned so many new things in this past year that I will never be the same.
That tells me the year was not lost.
That tells me I have nothing for which to apologize.
That tells me nothing can really be wrong when he has me in his life.
The man that still- dear Lord bless him- asks me everyday ‘how was your day dear?’
And listens while I tell him.

Years ago- I did not know this man.
Years ago- I was the wife of another man.
Years ago- there was a reorganization and I came home and told this once-husband what had happened.
Years ago-that man responded with ‘You didn’t really believe it was going to work, did you?’

It would be very easy to fall back on that memory of years ago.
Especially in the mornings when the weight of what was worked for, prayed for, sweated for, and even bled for drags me down down down.

Many things are different now.
The price paid for where we are now is too dear, too great, too stunning.
The lessons learned
(If I EVER am told to ‘Stay in my own lane’ when I question a decision… well; that will tell me I am in the wrong place and with the wrong people.)
are not lessons I am keen to learn again.

I don’t know what will happen next.
I am both older, and while bruised, also wiser.
I know to trust my instincts.
I know that I have value.
I know that some time soon I will feel the pull of the new day and greet it with gladness.

Until then- it is enough that he believes that the days we spend together are never lost.
Until then- I choose to believe he knows best.

This Seems Familiar

Fell asleep to the news of the President’s staff member testing positive for COVID-19.
Woke up to news that the President had tweeted he and FLOTUS have tested positive for COVID-19.
Scrolled through varied social media responses colored (as usual) by the personal and political views of the people in my circle and the news that I follow:

• ‘Thoughts and prayers’
• ‘He’s trying to avoid the next debate’
• ‘How can they be sick from something that is a Dem-hoax?’
• ‘Biden gave it to him’
• ‘Karma’
• ‘Just a smokescreen so we don’t talk about Melania dropping f-bombs about Christians and kids in cages on that taped conversation with her once-Be Best friend.’
• ‘The poor man does so much- all the stress has weakened him.’
• ‘How many people did he infect this week?’
• ‘I hope everyone on the plane with him the other night gets it, too.’
• ‘I saw the sweating during the debate- it reminded me of Nixon. Must have been because he was sick.’
• ‘Maybe he should have been wearing a mask more often.’
• ‘He doesn’t really have it- he’s just pretending so he can say he recovered and it’s nothing to be concerned about.’
• ‘He’s pretending to have it so he can pretend to be cured. Then he will push the cure that comes from a company one of his friends/sons/investors/Russia owns.’

Reading through the comments, memes, and reports something kept nagging at me: ‘Where have I seen this before? Why does it seem so familiar?’

Dallas.
This is just like something we would have seen on the Dallas TV show from the late 70’s to early 90’s
For those of you unfamiliar with it: here’s the description from IMDb:

“Dallas” is the saga of the Ewing family and its massive oil empire.
Patriarch Jock has three sons.
The eldest is J.R., the relentless CEO of Ewing Oil.
Less obviously malicious are Bobby and Gary.
Over a decade-plus of backstabbing, inbreeding, lust and greed, dozens of characters enter and exit the “Dallas” universe.

Not a one-for-one match, certainly, but the last several years crashed together for me this morning.

You see- when you watched Dallas you never really knew who was telling the truth.
For sure most of the time JR was lying.
(Like Madonna as Nikki Finn was told in ‘Who’s That Girl’ : ‘You’re lying……. because your lips are moving.’)
They knew it.
He knew they knew it.
We knew it.
But sometimes he told the truth (shocker!) likely to keep them off-kilter.
People tuned in each week just to see what would be said or done that would leave the viewer aghast!
Spoiler alert!
One whole SEASON was revealed to have been a dream!
Who would be swindled?
What deal would be broken?
What lies would be told?
What was the latest outrage?

It was a sure-fire way to draw in viewers for a TV show.

It is NO WAY to run a country.

I thought about what it means that there is a portion of the population that isn’t sure that the President is sick when he says he is.
What it means that they don’t believe him but may wish it is true.
What it means that they think he may deserve to be sick if it is true.
What it means that they think it may be a smokescreen to cover something else.
What it means that they think he is trying to peddle a cure and make money from it.
What it means that SOME people think it’s a hoax and they admire the man for it.

This isn’t a television show.
This isn’t a season that will turn out to be a dream.
We won’t wake up and things will be back to normal- whatever that is.
I’ve tried pointing my clicker out the window and changing the channel
– it doesn’t work.

We deserve to trust our leaders, our government, our President.

VOTE.

Are You Here?

It’s a Grand Opening day here in Pittsburgh for two new Loves Furniture and Mattresses stores.

I am in a hotel room, checking email and waiting for the flat iron to heat and allow me to smooth away the impact of five hours of not-enough-sleep.
Terrified to use the germy coffeemaker I am sipping lukewarm Diet Coke and wondering how many doughnuts are enough donuts to bring to the store along with my oversized scissors and red ribbon.

And then I realized that Peter Foley’s daughter was here opening furniture stores in Pittsburgh.
I realized that Lucille Martino’s niece supports smart, educated, experienced furniture specialists that want to be sure customers love what they put in their home.
That Blanche and Andy Smialek’s granddaughter is opening a store down the road from the now-empty family home.
The last time I opened a store in this neighborhood it was a Borders Express in Robinson Center and I was praying I hadn’t crushed Sue’s fingers when we closed the door on them while moving a bargain walkaround (real name) into place.
That my daughter and her family live just a few miles away from one of the stores and due to Covid restrictions I won’t see them…
again I won’t see them,
and just when will I see them all again?

So I’ve put down the flatiron so I don’t burn my forehead
(because: past incidents)
and realized that the line between family I was born into,
family that I birthed through my body and through my heart;
the past and the present,
the aches and sweat and tears and excitement, and exhaustion:
that there isn’t really a line between any of that.

My father and aunt sold furniture for two different downtown Pittsburgh furniture stores:
Buyer’s Mart (‘so big you’ll need to pack a lunch!’)
and Kaufmann’s.
Sales are in my fiber.
Solving problems is in my programming;
be it figuring out why something doesn’t work and fixing it,
trying to explain something unexplainable so it makes sense,
or helping someone find a mattress that lets them sleep through the night
or a recliner that rests their body juuuuust right.

The years spent with Waldenbooks (and Borders, Inc) in this city and state are at every hilly highway turn and road construction delay.
Every mall pylon and freshly restocked display.
Every name badge and scribbled schedule hung in breakrooms.
Every jammed printer and beeping alarms.
Every sales success and plan achieved.

So I am going to cut that ribbon within the hour.
Right after I fix this hair
and pack up the laptop.
And get the donuts.
And focus on the people here now.
You won’t be there next to me when those scissors snap.
But you are part of me always.
And I hope you all know that I love you, too.

Living the Dream

I walked through Ann Arbor yesterday evening.
It was that just-dark time,
and the sidewalks were bustling as the comedy clubs,
music spots, lecture halls , and the like were just releasing people into the evening.

I kept a close look at the signs,
I seldom walk through downtown and don’t ever remember walking it at night alone.
For a person that considers North ‘up’ and East ‘to the side’,  paying attention to signs is very important.

I saw lighted windows everywhere,
the golden light spilling through the panes looked so warm and welcoming.
(I hadn’t brought a coat because last week was 80% and : unprepared.)
I could see people sitting around tables, laptops open.
I figured I was passing a library or study center or something.
Everyone had heads down,
frowns on their faces,
hands in their hair.
Intent.
Worried.
Focused.

And then I saw the sign.
It was a residence hall.
These people may have been studying but they were at home.
In a place that they were (likely) paying to live.
Studying something they were (likely) paying to study.
Courses that were likely of their choosing.
In a warm and golden room.
Surrounded by people with the same interests.

And they looked like they were SUFFERING.
They were in mental agony.
Pushed and pushed HARD.
But still, when you come down to it, they were something they chose to do.

I wonder- do I look like that everyday?
I have a job that I enjoy.
On good days I feel like I have accomplished good things,
worked with good people.

But  oh sweet baby Jane-
by the end of the day my hair is a hot mess from dragging my fingers through it so much.
I can hoard my bottle of Asprominacetaphin (or whatever)  like it’s the last bottle after the Apocalypse,
savoring the relief it will bring when chugged with my guilty-pleasure Diet Coke.
I don’t sleep enough on the regular.
I sometimes look up and realize that I am hangry because breakfast has bled into lunchtime.

Do I look like I am enjoying what I am doing?
Challenging, yes, but do I look friendly- or do I look like I am in pain?
Grateful- or besieged?

Listen, I have heard enough women
(and sometimes that woman is me)
told that I should ‘Just smile!’ to last me a lifetime.
My calling in life isn’t to put people at ease… or is it?
I mean, I can do that without a fake smile stretching my lips.
This I know for sure.
But letting myself enjoy my life?
I owe that to me.

(This post is part of the #31DayWritingChallenge2019 )

 

 

New Year, Same Me

2017 wasn’t the best year of my life.

Actually, though, it was a pretty amazing year.

It was at least than 1/57th of my life so far.
I. like most people, don’t know how many total years I have.
Seeing as how I don’t recall much of the first four or so,
and there are certain months in the 8-12 year-old timeframe I’s just as soon gloss over,
2017 actually is quite a big chuck of change for me.

I went on our honeymoon and snorkeled over a coral reef.
Went parasailing.
Watched the sunset in Key West.
Held our new grandson.
Officiated three weddings.
Doubled the size of my work team
(Now We Are Two)
Completed a coding class without breaking the internet.
Sold my jewelry in four craft shows.
Shoveled out our driveway by hand.
Had dinner with my best friend from high school.
Drove myself to the doctor when i was bitten on the neck by a tick.
Achieved 103 days straight playing Gummy Drop.
Read 73 books.
Bought and used a Zoodle Machine.
Volunteered for two charities.
Use online banking regularly.
Attended Blissfest.
Talked more politics than I ever have in my life.
Laughed and cried in about equal measure.
Saw the eclipse from a small town in The Path of Totality.

It’s OK 2017.
I had such hopes for you>
Was ready to see 2016 go.

Looked for the bright and shiny to happen.

I just forgot.
I forgot that only the calendar changes.
I forgot that we stay pretty much the same.
It takes more than a collective sigh of relief to change the world.
I forgot that change takes awhile to manifest.
First it’s small small small teeny steps.
Then it’s a HUGE tumble into newness.
I forgot that we take baby steps.

It’s just this:
I don’t know that I will ever have enough years that I can afford to say I’m glad another one is behind me.

I am,
However,
looking forward to the one that is ahead.

I want to be fully present and not wishing it away.

Oh.
here you are.
Welcome 2018.

Struggle

I heard a commercial tonight;
medication for people that ‘struggle with obesity’.

That’s odd.

Many things are a struggle for me:

• parallel parking
• online banking
• growing the nail on my left index finger
• keeping my witness when six lanes merge into two and someone decides they can make their own lane and waits until the last minute and cuts in front of me
• keeping the rules of soccer AND hockey AND basketball straight when it looks like the same sport with different round objects and uniforms
• remembering all my many passwords

But, obesity?
No… that seems like a pretty easy thing.
No struggle at all.
I can make that grade without any effort on my part.

The side effect of this medication is odd, too.
States that it may cause ‘suicidal thoughts’.

Now, that’s just what I need.

Like, fitting into a pair of black slacks that MUST have shrunk in the wash isn’t already depressing enough.
Like, deciding wearing my hair up only makes my neck look like I have a goiter.
Like,  well. like anything isn’t already enough without medication pushing you down even more.

I’m sure it’s the solution for someone.
But I don’t believe that the solution is in a pill.
At least, not the whole solution.

There’s nothing wrong with taking medication when it’s needed.
But finding the solution in a commercial between blind auditions of the Voice?
That seems improbable.

I am not my struggle.
Not my weight,
or my age,
or my gender,
or my income,
or my heritage.

I am my heart,
my fire,
my spirit,
my intuition,
my compassion,
my faith,
my potential,
my courage.

I may struggle.
But I persevere.

 

Thoughts on Paper

Thoughts on toilet paper, that is.

Things came to a head (couldn’t help myself) this week.
In the ladies room and in need of toilet paper I wondered if anyone else thinks the same way I do.

•  The stall has two silver toilet paper holders.
  In each, one roll is visible for use.
  The second roll hides at the top, ready to drop into place when needed.
  Both bottom rolls were empty.
  Both top rolls were bashful.
  Angling my fingers I attempted to jimmy one loose.
  Nothing.
  I scrabbled the roll around and around like a feverish hamster.
  How the thin white stuff can seal into an invisible line I have no idea.
  No break, no weakening. No end to that roll.
  I started on the second.
  Nudging it
  (OK- maybe smacking the side of the case helpfully.)
  Nothing.
  I snagged and tugged and succeeded in lodging it catawampus-askew and stuck.
  Back to the first roll and prying slivers from the edge with my thumbnail.
  (I briefly contemplated the Emergency Cardboard Tube Blotting Maneuver but decided that was best left to the music festivals this summer.)
  I couldn’t just adjust the rolls because the silver cases were locked.
  Back at my desk, I considered the incongruity of locking toilet paper dispensers.
  Rolls cost about ~what?~ fifty cents?
  So four stalls with (tops) 4 rolls per stall= $8.00 of supplies safe from thieving toilet paper skimmers.
  Our break stations each have about ~what?~ 8 to 12 pounds of coffee in boxes and drawers, parceled into foil packets.
  Unsecured.
  Coffee costs about $6.00 a pound wholesale?
  So, conservatively, I have free access to about $60 in coffee at any one time.
  But $8.00 of toilet paper? Nope.
• The photo above is from China.
  Expensive facial recognition dispensers have been installed in public toilets.
  It scans your face and drops down a length of toilet paper, which you take into the stall.
  Electricity goes out?
  You are out of luck.
  I hope it doesn’t catch on.
• Our local movie theater subscribes to the giant-hamster-wheel of paper management.
  One big roll is suspended in a huge tape-dispenser-ish thing that is bolted to the stall wall.
  Paper drops out of the bottom corner closest to the door (and farthest from the throne.)
  These giant rolls seem to have good staying power and probably last quite a while.
  To make sure people don’t use too much, though, there is an evil twist.
  The dispensing end of the holder is at my shin height.
  To actually get any paper a person would need to ‘paper up’ before entering the stall, crouching down and pulling out a length.
  Because once in the stall with the door shut it’s difficult to get any paper at all.
  My fingertips barely tickle the end of tab of paper.
  Maybe an old-time backscratcher would help.
  With the top sealed and the only opening more than arms length and hidden from sight it’s infuriating.
  My guess is that they were installed as per a blueprint,
  with the top of the dispenser at the height the bottom should have been.
  Oh, yes, and there are free refills on soda…. of course.

I’m sure it’s just me.
But it’s the little things that grate on my nerves.

Pussycat, Pussycat- where’ve you been?

I am conflicted.

I am proud that women can stand together an peacefully be heard.

I am profoundly disquieted by the words our President has shared and continues to share (speak, tweet, whatever).

Objectifying,

verbal humiliation,

crass disregard for the basic humanity of women is wrong-

– and it’s horrifying coming from the President of the United States.

(People lie.

Clinton likely inhaled.

Oral sex is sex.

1,000 points of light are turning their faces in shame or winking out.

Weapons of mass destruction… weren’t.

Lies are everywhere without respect to political party.)

But I didn’t march yesterday.

I believe men have felt threatened by the primal life-force of women since men first realized women can bleed monthly and not die

… and not only that but life can come from between her legs and emerge screaming into the world.

Such great magic was to be feared….. and things that are feared by man must be conquered and disparaged.

(Of course, it could also be revered and magnified… but we aren’t there as a people yet.)

I get that there is a collective urge,
deep in the DNA of many (not all) men
– keep the women quiet.

I see it.

I know it’s there.

Men: I love you in spite of it.

But my vagina isn’t the source of my compassion.

I don’t speak the truth through my uterus.

My labia don’t define my self-worth.
I am more than my parts… which are mine to be shared as I choose.

I believe that life is in all of us.
I also believe that I don’t really know when that happens.

When LIFE happens.

Is it with breath?
Is it with birth?

Is it with heart beat?
When we are named?

I don’t know.

And since I don’t know- I can’t say I agree with a choice that can snuff it out.

I can’t stand and be counted for abortion rights.

I miscarried at 4 months and it haunted me for years.

I wish that agony on no woman.

I can’t be counted as believing something I don’t know.

I do know that every pro-choice person that I’ve met is also pro-Life.

And so I connect with that belief in us all.

There were so many reasons to march yesterday.

And there were just as many reason to march… and vote… last November.

So now what?

Yesterday 15 tornadoes ran through Mississippi and Georgia.

There is pain- destruction, fear there.

Help them… show them their lives matter.

So-called ‘honor killings’.

Glass breaking.

Bombs.

Hate-speech.

It seems every week someone with  a weapon shoots a random gathering.

(I heard it discussed last week- ‘Did you hear about the night club shooting! Crazy, huh?”
It had the same emotion I used to hear when the cafeteria announced pizza day.)

Where is the outrage?
How have we not stopped- stunned- at the loss?

How are we raising children differently to instill compassion so that violence is abhorrent?

But I did not march.

Because I can’t say I agree with all I did not stand beside you.

But I heard you and I support and believe in you.

Instead- I will continue to impact life  through my action as I can.

Where I can.

Homelessness, hunger, literacy.
(Alleviating two and boosting one!)

I’ve heard it said- ‘Why don’t “they” care for the children that are here if “they” are so concerned?’

Good question.

Unless you are with me all day, everyday, do you know that I don’t?

Must I reveal every act of charity for society’s approval?

I don’t need the approval so strongly.

Charity is for its own sake- not for publicity.

You impact as you can, too.

I don’t need to know how.

I don’t need to know what you do.

When we all make a difference the difference will be evident.

Yesterday was a big step in that direction.

It is our right to speak.

To declare without fear of harm our innermost belief.

It is, I think, our duty to speak truth.

And when un-truth (alternative facts is, I believe, the phrase of the day)

is spoken we must stop and shine the light of truth on it.

I am thankful for the march.

I am so proud of you for speaking your truth.

I admire the women that marched in generations.

I applaud those that moved WAY out of their comfort zone to be heard.

I appreciate the example of peace and conviction.

And so I dare to add my voice,

to declare my viewpoint and uncertainty:

I will honor the truth that I know for certain.

I honor life.

I honor compassion.

I honor activism.

Now that we’ve marched;

now that the, to me, frighteningly-horrible man is our President-

what can we do to help ourselves?

How can we use the momentum of the movement shown to build-up?

My vow is to find the ways and take them.

Look for the pain and help with the burden.

And, yes, I will pray for this man- this President.

I wish part of the oath had been, like for physicians: First do no harm.

But I fear it is too late for that.

So; marchers and observers alike, I challenge us.

What’s next?

How will we make change?
How will we drain the rapidly overflowing swamp?
How will we help the hurting- feed the hungry- house the cold?

Do you have blankets/coats/gloves/boots for the drifter?

Donate them.

Can you add a little to your cart for the food bank?
Feed them.

Can you speak to your neighbor and find common ground?

If nothing else, this President has galvanized action.

Let’s use it for good.

Do You? Do You Hear What I Hear?

Music used to be a real part of my life.
Now that I listen to books as I drive,
music is receding from my daily life.
Except; December.

December is music to me.
Hearing the songs activates areas of my brain as sugar does to my tongue.
Not the incessant screeching of Aretha Franklin’s album
(sorry to her majesty, but- really?)
Not the trumpet-y riffs on the muzak endlessly looping between
the twangy hippopotamus song
and a very young and screechy Michael Jackson
going on and on about momma and santa kissing.

No.

For me it is O! Holy Night.
Little Town of Bethlehem.
Joy to the World.

It is Cathy Orosi’s insistence that,
for the Sunday School program,
we learn ALL THE VERSES of the songs- not just the first and best-known one.
That we stagger our breathes to continue the swell of sound.
That we pronounce it ‘Gloria in Eggshellsees Deo”
To avoid overly sibilant esses.
It’s the tingly fizz of opening my mouth to solo on What Child is This?
and seeing that young mother holding a tiny baby in a far away night.

It is  the elementary school assembly.
I’m part of the Silver Bells bell shakers.
I know that after we finish Joe Rozewski will move forward to center stage.
He’s dressed in a tattered coat and will sing his solo.
Blond hair,
clear and pure tenor voice,
Joey would make the adults weep as he held a small drum
and sang The Little Drummer Boy.
(For many it’s Bowie and Bing that come to mind when they think of that song.
For others it might be Tennessee Ernie Ford.
For me it’s Joe.)

It’s caroling with the Methodists.
(The Methodist church had the BEST youth group in Lincoln Place.
My friend Laura invited me to join them and it was wonderful.)
We walked to, I suppose, church member homes.
Songs were sung,
gift baskets handed out,
and off to the church for hot chocolate.

It’s hearing Aunt Margie sing O Holy Night as I turn the pages for Grandma.
Her quick nod as she reached the end of the page was my signal.
We are in the front ‘hallway’ in the Lincoln Place house.
A fire is burning in the living room.
Stuffed cherries and olives are in dishes.
Green AND black olives- that’s how fancy we were.

We’d already sung the kiddie favorites like Here Comes Suzy Snowflake.
We segued with Silent Night.
Now it’s time for Margie’s big guns.
Her voice was a gorgeous and soaring soprano
(although she also sang alto as needed).
She’d open her mouth and the song swelled through the room.
Up the stairs to the second floor.
Up, Up, up- into the attic.
I was sure it went all the way to the stars.
Those brightly shining stars in the song MUST have been able to hear that song.
To know that they were still remembered.
Remembered, at least, by this family.
With this song.

December songs stayed with me all year.
My sister’s favorite lullaby was Away in a Manger.
We shared a room and I’d sing it to her, night after night.
Later I’d sing it to my daughters as I rocked them to sleep.
Anytime of year.

As horrid as the canned and repetitive muzak is, I am grateful for it.
My ears know the season is here again.
I can go home and dust off the CDs
(and yes, the cassettes).
I find my Barbra Streisand Christmas Album.
Go to track #10.
I Wonder as I Wander.
Aunt Margie made me love this song, too.
Slow.
Reflective.
Questioning.
Dirge-like, actually.
Questioning this whole Christmas thing.
This miracle in a manger.
This night that just lingers on and on.
Why? How?

I close my eyes and hear all of those voices echo in my memory.
I hear Joey at school.
I hear Dan Sweeney and Tammy Redfield practicing for the church program with Cathy encouraging them to ‘e-NUN-ciate!’.
I hear Margie and my Dad.
I hear Jenn and Shannon in a pageant singing Joy! Joy to the World!

I’ll go outside several times this month.
(Actually- this is less proactive than it seems.
I live in Michigan.
It’s dark here in the morning when I leave for work.
It’s dark here as I drive home from work.
Basically- there are something like 5 hours a day of sunlight.
Or so they tell me.
I wouldn’t know.
This is one dark place to live in the Winter.)
But, while I’m out there,
I’ll look up.
I see Orion’s belt.
I find the Dippers.
And then the North Star.
‘I remember,’ I’ll whisper to it.

 

 

 

Jelly Shoes Don’t Need Socks

I was not a calm Mom.

Ok, I had my oasis of happy now and then,
but as I remember it: no.
I was not a calm Mommy.

I grew up with a fairly clear image of The Way Things Had to Be.

The top of the refrigerator needed to be free from dust.
(A challenge when you are just over 5 feet tall, I promise you.
I mean, I never even THINK of the top of the refrigerator.)

Laundry had a simple progression of:
clean and in drawers,
to body,
to hamper,
to washer,
then dryer,
then folded,
then in drawers again.
No lagging in any one place during the process.

Children sat quietly in cars.
Toys were picked up at the end of the day.
Dinner was on the table as soon as Dad came home.
Everyone ate together.
Homework was done before playing.
Thank you notes
(heaven help me on this one)
had to be written before the gift was enjoyed.

Allowance was split into money to save and money to spend.
(The good old envelope system of budgeting.)
Please and Thank you.
Sit up straight.
Don’t talk back.

As my marriage frayed at the edges,
I was more and more strict with the rules.
The tension was so thick that ANYTHING could signal the End of the World.
Shouts,
and the even louder silences.
I blamed my daughters for every infraction.

I saw them as failures- causing their dad to be angry with me.
I forgot: we chose how we react.
We could have been parents first.
But, no.
Everything out of place was a potential landmine.
Could cause an unknown misstep and explosion.
I was exhausted trying to foresee and forestall the damage.
And in the end I caused damage myself.
Every small thing became impossibly difficult and important.
Every interaction had the potential for failure.

Thank heavens for jelly shoes.

Do you remember them?
Popular in the 80’s they were available almost everywhere.
I bought them for one or two dollars a pair at Woolworths and Hills.
(Two retail giants that dominated my shopping time in Pittsburgh.)
I bought them in bouquets of colors and sizes.
One of the two girls would eventually fit them,
it didn’t matter if they were the wrong size at the time of purchase.

Open and lacy,
colorful and cleanable.
Cheap and replaceable.
The perfect shoe.

My youngest daughter liked things the way she liked them.
Socks were one of the things that had clear guidelines.
Heel:cupping the back of her foot.
Cuff taut.
Toe seam: an even line.
Straight.

Dear heavens, I lost my witness over her socks more than once.

She would be dressed,
all of 5 years old,
almost ready to go out.
I’d line up the sock,
slip it over her foot.
We would agree it was perfectly straight.
I’d slip on her shoe and she would stand up.
And immediately crumple to the floor, wailing.
“Not STRAIIIIGGHT! NOT STTTRRRAAAIIIGGGHHHTTT!”

Remove.
Repeat.
Remove.
Repeat.

Boots were the worst.

(It may be impossible to put a boot on over a sock without dislodging the sock.
It should be an Olympic sport.
Separate the weak and the strong.)

I would sweat.
Plead.
Cajole.
Implore.
Threaten.
Cry.
Yell.

Discarded socks strewn around us.
Rejects in the battle.
Inferior warriors of nylon and cotton.

Then, the perfection that was the Jelly Shoe.

Day-glo.
Impervious to dirt, mud, and sand.
Molded to the foot, they required no lacing.
No Velcro.
No socks.

All three of us loved them.
It doesn’t take much to make a difference.

I thought about those shoes this weekend.
How the blessing of just the right thing,
at just the right moment,
gave a breath of sanity into our lives.

I’m thinking about all the moms
trying to pull off perfection for a family Thanksgiving this week.
The expectations of tradition and training,
the scripts running through their mind of just what ‘perfect’ looks like.
I KNOW that some of them will experience an explosion over their home.
Over the food.
Over their behavior.
What they said, or didn’t say.
How they looked at a person or didn’t look.
Too spicy.
Too cold.
The children.
The pie.
The centerpiece
(are centerpieces still a thing?
pinecone or handprint turkeys?
Saucy pilgrims?
Cornucopias?)

Over nothing at all.

Like my daughter,
someone will freak out because something is NOT STRAIGHT!
The mom’s breath will catch in her chest.
She’ll blink back tears.
Maybe duck a bit to the side to dodge a snarl.
Or a dish.
Or a fist.
She will try and try and try to get it right.
Sometimes.
Sometimes you can’t.

And this is what I have to say.
What I wish I had known then.
Back when the knowing would have made me a Nicer Mom.
When I could have known that not every crack would send the iceberg adrift.
When I could have known that the END of the World … wasn’t.

Take care of yourself.
(If you aren’t safe- tell someone and go.)
But, all rest?
Let it go.
Center on the people.
On your family.
On your friends.
Don’t worry about the top of the refrigerator.
If they can see it, they can clean it.
Buy a store-made pie.

Toss the socks.
Breathe.