I woke sobbing this morning, the voice of a newly dead man echoing in my head.
I always thought that becoming a woman of a certain age meant something joyful -- being no longer burdened by other peoples' judgements, and free to have adventures.
Instead it seems to mean saying goodbye. One friend has lost her mother. Another buried her father. Two friends have stood by as their mothers endured terrible complications from awful surgeries. My own mother has some health concerns. And the dead man? I don't know that I could have called him a friend, but he was kind to me when I was a child. When visiting my hometown I looked forward to running into him and catching up.
Remember being desperate to grow up? To understand the ripple of laughter that went around the room full of adults? As if being taller was the ticket to entering a special carnival full of shiny lights and amusements. Now I look around and ask: when does the fun start?
This gloom will pass. A good shamble this morning already has put me in a better mood. Still, I feel diminished by this, and so many other, deaths.
However my still-amorphous beliefs resolve themselves, I do believe I'll see again those I've lost, and become whole. Until then, a toast to those who have gone before.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
War No More, or A Small Triumph
The tiny boy slipped between the fence posts of the bakery patio. His mother called him back, but a mischievous giggle told me he was headed for trouble. I've had toddlers. They're ornery beings. Rising to let her pass (I was closer to the gateway), I did a quick calculation and instead sprinted to the street corner just in time. Well, maybe not just in time. He had 15 feet to go, and it's a quiet neighborhood. I blocked his path then herded him back to his mother. She thanked me and I finished my cinnamon roll while basking in a tiny sense of triumph. Not for intervening -- there were enough people around that someone would have stepped in -- but for how I did it. I sprinted. I ran full tilt, legs long and stretching, down the sidewalk, and when finished I wasn't even breathing hard.
That may not sound like much, but it is a big change. Until fairly recently my body was a meatsuit only good for carrying my brain around. Sometime in the past year, that ended. It's not a truce. It's a peace. I've finally come to appreciate my whole self. Most surprisingly, I don't hate any of my parts. I am, shall we say, unfashionably lumpy. My belly will only be flat if someone takes a scalpel to it. I have granny wings. Exercising makes my breasts shrink and my thighs grow. My personal best is a 17 minute mile. But underneath it all I have rock-hard muscles, and a brain to match. I am a creature of the mind and the body. I can climb mountains and write. I can bicycle to a picnic in the park and do kitchen science with my kids.
Last week was tough. I didn't walk at all. The dogs stared at me in particularly guilt-inducing ways. I was sleep deprived and work stressed and there were a couple of authoritative articles about weight loss that made me feel helpless. My pedometer refused to budge, mostly because I wasn't. My scale was just as stubborn. For this first time, however, I didn't hate myself, or rampage through the cupboards trying to find solace in a bag of chips. I told myself that it was an off week and I'd get back on track.
Which is why Miss Awesome, the dogs, and I geared up and headed to the bakery in the first place. Oh, sure, the cinnamon roll was a delicious motivator. But really, I wanted a good walk to clear my head and strengthen my heart.
Which is why Miss Awesome, the dogs, and I geared up and headed to the bakery in the first place. Oh, sure, the cinnamon roll was a delicious motivator. But really, I wanted a good walk to clear my head and strengthen my heart.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
The Wink of an Eye
Wires hung limply from the headlight socket, ends lightly scratching the concrete driveway as they twitched in the breeze. The otherwise pristine Beetle slouched in a vaguely lopsided way. The effect was distressingly like a medieval torture victim whose freedom cost an eye. The lamp itself was gone, spirited away without scratches or broken glass.
Lyss groaned and gave a satisfyingly loud kick to the metal trash can beside the garage. She felt violated. A glance at her cell phone showed there was no time to deal with this, so she gently tucked the wires in as far as they would go and headed to work.
Much later — after calls to the police and the insurance company and the repair shop — Lyss headed to the pub where her friends were waiting. She flagged the waiter, ordered a bottle of beer, and dropped into a chair.
“Fucking Monday. Some asshole stole Lady’s headlight this morning. Or last night. I don’t know.” She rubbed her face with both hands.
“Oh no! It's like your happy beetle has a black eye!” Shelley frowned sweetly.
“What?!” Evan set his elbows on the tabletop. “Who the hell steals a headlight?”
“Dunno.” The waiter placed a napkin on the table and started to set down the beer, but Lyss intercepted and took a gulp. After a relieved sigh she continued, “Insurance is gonna pay for it, but covering the deductible means extra hours at work, or cutting something out this summer.”
“Fucker.” That word always sounded funny in Shelley’s gentle Appalachian accent.
Lyss giggled and lifted her beer. “You can say that again.” She waited. “No, really!”
“FUCKER!” Shelley smiled at her friend’s second chuckle. “Why a headlight? That can’t be easy to remove, and nobody’s going to buy it, are they?”
Lyss frowned. “The cops say it’s not uncommon. ‘High-end accessory’ they called it. Volvo side mirrors get stolen a lot, too. Something about the high cost of O.M.E. parts.”
Shelley rolled her eyes. “O.E.M.! Original equipment. Not knock-offs.”
“Whatever. Anyway, it’s a quick and easy repair, so she won’t be in the shop for long.”
Evan nodded. “That’s good.”
They all relaxed back into their chairs and sipped their drinks quietly for a moment, enjoying a friendship that didn’t always require words.
“Hey Lyss?” Shelley glanced sideways. “Do you want me to track them down and destroy them?”
Lyss met Shelley’s eyes and replied fiercely, “Yes! Please destroy them. My poor baby.”
“Okay then.” Shelley reached for their hands and nodded at them to complete the circle. Evan grinned and reached for Lyss’s hand. Shelley closed her eyes a moment, then snapped them open. She slowly intoned
Thief in the night
Stealer of light
May your evil be returned
A hundredfold!
A reflection of light crossed the room and paused momentarily on Shelley. A glass broke in the kitchen and they all — even Shelley — jumped. Laughing, she reclaimed her hands and pronounced “Evil mojo sent. Beware, evildoers!”
Chuckling and shaking his head, Evan ordered another round as the conversation turned to more cheerful topics.
The vehicle — technically a Volkswagon Beetle, but an embarrassment to that name — was a Frankencar, with parts “acquired” from front yards and junk yards. Fenders from the seventies had been forced into compliance with doorjambs from newer models using appallingly liberal amounts of Bondo and sheet metal screws. Nothing quite matched. Nothing actually fit. It was uncomfortable to look at — there were no lines, no harmony of purpose. The overall effect was made worse by intermittent rust patches and a spastic application of remaindered house paint the color and consistency of vomit. Still, it ran. Frances was enchanted by the reedy cricket chirp of the engine. He had found what remained of the frame and engine in a junk yard and “liberated” it, along with a first round of parts. He added more as the reanimation project progressed. He took great pride in his creation. Everyone agreed that it was unique, even if they didn’t appreciate the artfulness with which he had stitched the thing together.
Frances tugged the driver’s side door open and, leaning in, fumbled the key into the ignition. The starter groaned into action and he laughed with delight as the little engine burred. It had taken most of an hour, some wire nuts, and almost an entire roll of duct tape, but he finally had two working headlights. The new one bulged hugely from the much-smaller socket and was partially obscured by the tape which held it in place. A passerby might get the impression of a defeated boxer whose eye had swollen from abuse. Nonetheless, what was not blocked glowed with a brightness that made the first light almost unnecessary.
He turned off the car and went inside to wash.
Pollen rained from clear skies. The nightly news ignored stories of earthbound mayhem in favor of extensive weather reports. Meteorologists, shell-shocked by the sudden interest in their craft, drew giant colorful diagrams of wind patterns and tried repeatedly to explain the drifts of yellow. There was no scientific explanation. Shelley knew, though. While others wiped streaming eyes with handkerchiefs and took allergy pills in double-doses, her eyes were clear. The wind bore the deep green scent of hollows and the dust of grassy balds. It smelled of home. There was magic in the pollen, borne up through ancient granite, charged by seams of coal, and thrust skyward by oak and pine. She had called it with her simple rhyme. Called, but not tamed it. Something had been loosed, and was hunting.
Frances paced the sweltering kitchen while he ate a random collection of leftovers. The pollen had finally abated enough to leave the house. It wasn’t all gone, but several storms had blown through and washed most of the wretched stuff into meandering outlines in the gutter. His car, however, hadn’t come clean. Yellow motes were embedded in every brush mark. He tried sweeping and wiping and even washing, but the paint peeled off in giant scabs that left it looking diseased. He’d have to paint it again. The car still ran, though, and he was restless.
Stalking out of the house, Frances didn’t bother to lock the door. He yanked the car open and wedged himself in. Throwing it into gear he swerved into the street and gunned it down the block, barely glancing at the cross street as he barreled past the stop sign. Fast. He needed to go fast. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, angling the fly window to catch as much tepid air as possible. The sun would be down soon, and everything would cool off. Four-forty a/c, he told himself. Four windows at forty miles an hour. The joke brought a small smile to his face.
Every stop light was against him: turning red as he approached, taking forever to go green. The bloody sunset reflected from windows all around, blinding him. The city was unbearable. He turned on to Highway 6 and lurched his way toward the interstate. He pulled a death metal cassette from the pile on the passenger seat and shoved it brutally into the tape deck he’d found — still in its car, of course — over in the hoity-toity part of town. He cranked the volume and shouted along vaguely with the German he didn’t understand.
Slowly the lights fell away and the road opened up. He stomped on the accelerator, shifting through the gears, ignoring a metallic cry from the little engine. Fresh air flowed in, tickling his arm and ruffling his hair. His sweat dried. He overtook other cars and swerved around them, cutting as close as possible, laughing at the terrified expressions highlighted by their dashboard lights.
The road began to climb. He downshifted, car bucking as he ground into third. The engine screamed into the red as he forced the little car to race up the hill. Tall pines loomed over the road now, moon flickering between, until the road narrowed and they closed over him. He leaned into the curves and accelerated out of them like a shot, disregarding the weathered center lines. Still holding the pedal to the floor Frances was cresting the hill, exhilarating in a moment of flight, in the sensation of the car falling away from him, when both headlights winked out.
“Sheesh.”
“Yeah. Guy musta been going, well, shit, a hundred? One twenty?”
The two policemen skittered several yards down the embankment to where the mangled frame of a car lay at the base of a gigantic oak tree. The bark was scattered, heart wood splintered and bare almost eight feet off the ground. More parts were scattered down the hill like the tail of a meteor. It was as if the car had dramatically fallen apart at the seams. No two pieces were still connected.
“The hell is this stuff?” The first officer scraped at the ground with the toe of his boot. Yellow powder dusted the entire debris field. “Looks like some clown came by and poured cornmeal everywhere. Who the hell would do that?”
“No fucking clue. Hey there!” The second officer waved at an investigator who was leaning over the largest chunk of wreckage. “Whatcha got?”
“Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. No skid marks on the road,” he waved up the hill they’d just come down, “and it looks like the car fucking flew into this tree. I have no clue how fast he had to been going for that to happen. And here’s the weird bit. He should be hamburger. I mean, look at this shit.” The investigator toed a piece of metal which might have been a door panel, but was too misshapen to tell. “But he’s not. Looks like he just got out of the shower.” The others leaned in and nodded in bemused agreement.
“What the fuck is that powder all over everything?”
“That? That shit is pollen. Came in through the busted windshield. Tell you the truth, I was kinda freaked out by it, until someone figured it got shaken out of the tree when he hit.”
“Makes sense, I guess, specially after the past coupla weeks. Still, it’s kinda weird, being only here and all.”
“Yep. But I’m not gonna worry about it. Dumbass had it coming. At least no one else was hurt.” They all nodded in silent agreement. The investigator clicked his pen and jotted down another note.
The two officers turned and walked down the hill, glancing deliberately at the bits and pieces lying everywhere. Seeing nothing of note, they eventually turned and climbed back toward the road. They stopped once when a flash of light caught them by surprise. A moment’s investigation proved it was just a shiny new headlight, winking in the sun.
Inspired by a couple of truly awesome women I'm fortunate enough to count as friends.
Lyss groaned and gave a satisfyingly loud kick to the metal trash can beside the garage. She felt violated. A glance at her cell phone showed there was no time to deal with this, so she gently tucked the wires in as far as they would go and headed to work.
Much later — after calls to the police and the insurance company and the repair shop — Lyss headed to the pub where her friends were waiting. She flagged the waiter, ordered a bottle of beer, and dropped into a chair.
“Fucking Monday. Some asshole stole Lady’s headlight this morning. Or last night. I don’t know.” She rubbed her face with both hands.
“Oh no! It's like your happy beetle has a black eye!” Shelley frowned sweetly.
“What?!” Evan set his elbows on the tabletop. “Who the hell steals a headlight?”
“Dunno.” The waiter placed a napkin on the table and started to set down the beer, but Lyss intercepted and took a gulp. After a relieved sigh she continued, “Insurance is gonna pay for it, but covering the deductible means extra hours at work, or cutting something out this summer.”
“Fucker.” That word always sounded funny in Shelley’s gentle Appalachian accent.
Lyss giggled and lifted her beer. “You can say that again.” She waited. “No, really!”
“FUCKER!” Shelley smiled at her friend’s second chuckle. “Why a headlight? That can’t be easy to remove, and nobody’s going to buy it, are they?”
Lyss frowned. “The cops say it’s not uncommon. ‘High-end accessory’ they called it. Volvo side mirrors get stolen a lot, too. Something about the high cost of O.M.E. parts.”
Shelley rolled her eyes. “O.E.M.! Original equipment. Not knock-offs.”
“Whatever. Anyway, it’s a quick and easy repair, so she won’t be in the shop for long.”
Evan nodded. “That’s good.”
They all relaxed back into their chairs and sipped their drinks quietly for a moment, enjoying a friendship that didn’t always require words.
“Hey Lyss?” Shelley glanced sideways. “Do you want me to track them down and destroy them?”
Lyss met Shelley’s eyes and replied fiercely, “Yes! Please destroy them. My poor baby.”
“Okay then.” Shelley reached for their hands and nodded at them to complete the circle. Evan grinned and reached for Lyss’s hand. Shelley closed her eyes a moment, then snapped them open. She slowly intoned
Thief in the night
Stealer of light
May your evil be returned
A hundredfold!
A reflection of light crossed the room and paused momentarily on Shelley. A glass broke in the kitchen and they all — even Shelley — jumped. Laughing, she reclaimed her hands and pronounced “Evil mojo sent. Beware, evildoers!”
Chuckling and shaking his head, Evan ordered another round as the conversation turned to more cheerful topics.
* * *
The vehicle — technically a Volkswagon Beetle, but an embarrassment to that name — was a Frankencar, with parts “acquired” from front yards and junk yards. Fenders from the seventies had been forced into compliance with doorjambs from newer models using appallingly liberal amounts of Bondo and sheet metal screws. Nothing quite matched. Nothing actually fit. It was uncomfortable to look at — there were no lines, no harmony of purpose. The overall effect was made worse by intermittent rust patches and a spastic application of remaindered house paint the color and consistency of vomit. Still, it ran. Frances was enchanted by the reedy cricket chirp of the engine. He had found what remained of the frame and engine in a junk yard and “liberated” it, along with a first round of parts. He added more as the reanimation project progressed. He took great pride in his creation. Everyone agreed that it was unique, even if they didn’t appreciate the artfulness with which he had stitched the thing together.
Frances tugged the driver’s side door open and, leaning in, fumbled the key into the ignition. The starter groaned into action and he laughed with delight as the little engine burred. It had taken most of an hour, some wire nuts, and almost an entire roll of duct tape, but he finally had two working headlights. The new one bulged hugely from the much-smaller socket and was partially obscured by the tape which held it in place. A passerby might get the impression of a defeated boxer whose eye had swollen from abuse. Nonetheless, what was not blocked glowed with a brightness that made the first light almost unnecessary.
He turned off the car and went inside to wash.
* * *
Pollen rained from clear skies. The nightly news ignored stories of earthbound mayhem in favor of extensive weather reports. Meteorologists, shell-shocked by the sudden interest in their craft, drew giant colorful diagrams of wind patterns and tried repeatedly to explain the drifts of yellow. There was no scientific explanation. Shelley knew, though. While others wiped streaming eyes with handkerchiefs and took allergy pills in double-doses, her eyes were clear. The wind bore the deep green scent of hollows and the dust of grassy balds. It smelled of home. There was magic in the pollen, borne up through ancient granite, charged by seams of coal, and thrust skyward by oak and pine. She had called it with her simple rhyme. Called, but not tamed it. Something had been loosed, and was hunting.
* * *
Frances paced the sweltering kitchen while he ate a random collection of leftovers. The pollen had finally abated enough to leave the house. It wasn’t all gone, but several storms had blown through and washed most of the wretched stuff into meandering outlines in the gutter. His car, however, hadn’t come clean. Yellow motes were embedded in every brush mark. He tried sweeping and wiping and even washing, but the paint peeled off in giant scabs that left it looking diseased. He’d have to paint it again. The car still ran, though, and he was restless.
Stalking out of the house, Frances didn’t bother to lock the door. He yanked the car open and wedged himself in. Throwing it into gear he swerved into the street and gunned it down the block, barely glancing at the cross street as he barreled past the stop sign. Fast. He needed to go fast. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger window, angling the fly window to catch as much tepid air as possible. The sun would be down soon, and everything would cool off. Four-forty a/c, he told himself. Four windows at forty miles an hour. The joke brought a small smile to his face.
Every stop light was against him: turning red as he approached, taking forever to go green. The bloody sunset reflected from windows all around, blinding him. The city was unbearable. He turned on to Highway 6 and lurched his way toward the interstate. He pulled a death metal cassette from the pile on the passenger seat and shoved it brutally into the tape deck he’d found — still in its car, of course — over in the hoity-toity part of town. He cranked the volume and shouted along vaguely with the German he didn’t understand.
Slowly the lights fell away and the road opened up. He stomped on the accelerator, shifting through the gears, ignoring a metallic cry from the little engine. Fresh air flowed in, tickling his arm and ruffling his hair. His sweat dried. He overtook other cars and swerved around them, cutting as close as possible, laughing at the terrified expressions highlighted by their dashboard lights.
The road began to climb. He downshifted, car bucking as he ground into third. The engine screamed into the red as he forced the little car to race up the hill. Tall pines loomed over the road now, moon flickering between, until the road narrowed and they closed over him. He leaned into the curves and accelerated out of them like a shot, disregarding the weathered center lines. Still holding the pedal to the floor Frances was cresting the hill, exhilarating in a moment of flight, in the sensation of the car falling away from him, when both headlights winked out.
* * *
“Sheesh.”
“Yeah. Guy musta been going, well, shit, a hundred? One twenty?”
The two policemen skittered several yards down the embankment to where the mangled frame of a car lay at the base of a gigantic oak tree. The bark was scattered, heart wood splintered and bare almost eight feet off the ground. More parts were scattered down the hill like the tail of a meteor. It was as if the car had dramatically fallen apart at the seams. No two pieces were still connected.
“The hell is this stuff?” The first officer scraped at the ground with the toe of his boot. Yellow powder dusted the entire debris field. “Looks like some clown came by and poured cornmeal everywhere. Who the hell would do that?”
“No fucking clue. Hey there!” The second officer waved at an investigator who was leaning over the largest chunk of wreckage. “Whatcha got?”
“Weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. No skid marks on the road,” he waved up the hill they’d just come down, “and it looks like the car fucking flew into this tree. I have no clue how fast he had to been going for that to happen. And here’s the weird bit. He should be hamburger. I mean, look at this shit.” The investigator toed a piece of metal which might have been a door panel, but was too misshapen to tell. “But he’s not. Looks like he just got out of the shower.” The others leaned in and nodded in bemused agreement.
“What the fuck is that powder all over everything?”
“That? That shit is pollen. Came in through the busted windshield. Tell you the truth, I was kinda freaked out by it, until someone figured it got shaken out of the tree when he hit.”
“Makes sense, I guess, specially after the past coupla weeks. Still, it’s kinda weird, being only here and all.”
“Yep. But I’m not gonna worry about it. Dumbass had it coming. At least no one else was hurt.” They all nodded in silent agreement. The investigator clicked his pen and jotted down another note.
The two officers turned and walked down the hill, glancing deliberately at the bits and pieces lying everywhere. Seeing nothing of note, they eventually turned and climbed back toward the road. They stopped once when a flash of light caught them by surprise. A moment’s investigation proved it was just a shiny new headlight, winking in the sun.
Inspired by a couple of truly awesome women I'm fortunate enough to count as friends.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
What comes next
I filled out an application yesterday for the Metropolitan State University of Denver. Assuming I get in (perhaps it's hubris, but I'm operating on that assumption), I will start classes at the end of August.
I didn't get in to the first program -- the Teacher in Residency -- on which I had my hopes and heart set. I didn't even apply to the second and third and fourth programs I looked at. I fell into despair and spent a black month feeling wasted and old and useless.
I colored my hair crimson.
I pulled on my big girl panties and did some research and figured out that totally changing directions at age 41 is hard, but not impossible. If I want to teach science, I can teach science, but the powers-that-be are not going to simply accept my assurance that I know enough. I need proof that I have knowledge to share. So I'm going back to college to get what will essentially be a second bachelor's degree in Science (with an emphasis in Chemistry). Once I've fulfilled about 2 years worth of requirements, I'll apply to the Teacher's Ed program and move forward. I'm calling it a four year plan. I can do this.
My husband is sceptical. He, too, is feeling old, mostly because he's been working more than full time all along. He recently started using the word "retirement" and talking about how we'll have an empty nest in nine years. I believe he has visions of the two of us travelling and just hanging out together after the kids have gone off to college. The idea of me starting a career right now messes with his plans.
Relaxing into the ease of that life -- my current life -- is tempting. No struggling to learn calculus. No dealing with fractious parents who are offended by my teaching style. Traveling and adventuring without concern for the calendar. Those are gifts he's offering me.
I can't accept them.
I need to contribute, somehow. I've waited a long time to get to this point. There's been a whole behind-the-scenes process of self rediscovery that had to happen before I could even start the application process. I've fought to get to this point, and I know I want to teach. I always have.
Besides, what else would I do? A friend recently posited that I could write, not just for my blog or occasional online prompts, but really write, for publication. I'd never considered that. Honestly? I've never believed enough in myself. Lately I've been reading a lot of other peoples' work, and I can truthfully say that some of my writing is better. And I have my friend's assurance that I really do write well enough to maybe even sell some of my words. So that will be my fallback. It's good to have a back up plan. In the meantime I'll be studying algebra on Khan Academy this summer, and in the fall I'm signing up for Chemistry, Geography, and Biology.
I'm looking forward to it.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Anything, but
You can do anything
I tell my girl
corralling my sadness
for another place-time
Who wants to tell
a child she is limited
by her physiognomy
to a lifetime of
servitude and struggle?
You’ll go far
though in every place she will be
a vessel
for someone else’s idealized interpretation
of a few scraps
parchment, bound
by tradition into
inescapable expectations
Looks don’t matter
though breasts will be
the first and last
of her that some men
Notice. Not
how brilliantly her mind
shines
You are fierce and strong
which of course means
she’s a bitch, though
didja get a look at that ass?
I will protect you
as best I can, but
my needle and thread
cannot mend a
broken dream
I tell my girl
corralling my sadness
for another place-time
Who wants to tell
a child she is limited
by her physiognomy
to a lifetime of
servitude and struggle?
You’ll go far
though in every place she will be
a vessel
for someone else’s idealized interpretation
of a few scraps
parchment, bound
by tradition into
inescapable expectations
Looks don’t matter
though breasts will be
the first and last
of her that some men
Notice. Not
how brilliantly her mind
shines
You are fierce and strong
which of course means
she’s a bitch, though
didja get a look at that ass?
I will protect you
as best I can, but
my needle and thread
cannot mend a
broken dream
Poets of G+ prompt: write a poem in which everything is lies
for National Poetry Month
Friday, April 11, 2014
My Morning
a play in one act, for your amusement
Setting: 5 a.m. Friday. The sun has not yet risen. A cool spring breeze flows gently through my bedroom, where Darling Husband and I sleep to the melody of robin-song.
Smoke Detector 1: Let me sing you the song of my people
Smoke detectors 2-infinity: We will sing with you, brother
I rise and stumble downstairs to listen to the glorious chirping
Unfortunate Puddle: Let me bathe your feet in cold dog urine. All the girls are doing it.
I fumble for the mop and spray bottle and clean a bazillion square feet of wood floor
Unfortunate Puddle: I shall return!
Smoke Detectors (all): Chirpety chirp squeak squeal!
I take matters into hand
Smoke Detector Eleventy: I weep for for your ignorance as you tear me from my hearth and home. SDE screams in mighty agony
All the other smoke detectors wail in disbelief. The children wake and begin to cry. I mercilessly storm through the house, pulling down smoke detectors and gently stacking them for later battery replacement
Smoke Detector The Last: I will sing intermittently and at random, in mourning for my family. You.Will.Not find me.
I spend 20 minutes searching for the last smoke detector and finally find it in the unfinished basement
Me: AHA! Gotchu, fucker!
Unfortunate Puddle: I'm ALLIIIIVVVEEEE! Let me shower your hand and arm with dog urine, filtered through the floorboards above. All the girls are doing it.
I throw the soaked detector in the trash and mop myself with paper towels as I head to the shower
On-Demand Hot Water Heater: Poor girl, let me shower you with delightful hot water. Better?
Me: mmmm.
ODHWH: PRANK! switches instantly to ice water
Me: FFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!
Alarm Clock: Wakey, wakey rise and shine! Are we ready for another GREAT day?
*The End*
Setting: 5 a.m. Friday. The sun has not yet risen. A cool spring breeze flows gently through my bedroom, where Darling Husband and I sleep to the melody of robin-song.
Smoke Detector 1: Let me sing you the song of my people
Smoke detectors 2-infinity: We will sing with you, brother
I rise and stumble downstairs to listen to the glorious chirping
Unfortunate Puddle: Let me bathe your feet in cold dog urine. All the girls are doing it.
I fumble for the mop and spray bottle and clean a bazillion square feet of wood floor
Unfortunate Puddle: I shall return!
Smoke Detectors (all): Chirpety chirp squeak squeal!
I take matters into hand
Smoke Detector Eleventy: I weep for for your ignorance as you tear me from my hearth and home. SDE screams in mighty agony
All the other smoke detectors wail in disbelief. The children wake and begin to cry. I mercilessly storm through the house, pulling down smoke detectors and gently stacking them for later battery replacement
Smoke Detector The Last: I will sing intermittently and at random, in mourning for my family. You.Will.Not find me.
I spend 20 minutes searching for the last smoke detector and finally find it in the unfinished basement
Me: AHA! Gotchu, fucker!
Unfortunate Puddle: I'm ALLIIIIVVVEEEE! Let me shower your hand and arm with dog urine, filtered through the floorboards above. All the girls are doing it.
I throw the soaked detector in the trash and mop myself with paper towels as I head to the shower
On-Demand Hot Water Heater: Poor girl, let me shower you with delightful hot water. Better?
Me: mmmm.
ODHWH: PRANK! switches instantly to ice water
Me: FFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!
Alarm Clock: Wakey, wakey rise and shine! Are we ready for another GREAT day?
*The End*
Monday, April 7, 2014
Spring Break
We are on vacation. Usually we start with simple plans that become distended and unwieldy with nearby opportunities and potential adventures. This time, though, I refused. I declared unscheduled hours not gaps to be filled, but breathing spaces. No add-ons. No supplemental adventures. My husband pounded at my resolve, wheedling with promises of family memories to be made. I stood firm. No racing against an agenda of reservations and schedules. Therefore this year’s journey isn’t an epic story to be told with rueful laughter, but a series of small moments.
I read aloud, alternating between a young adult dystopia and a children’s fantasy about mermaids. For once there are no distractions — we are driving, only driving. I lose track of time and distance. I pause. The children prompt me: more, please. At home they are pulled away by friends and electronics, obligations and activities. Here, now, I have them in their entirety. Though my voice is raw I continue, silently delighted in their attention.
The dog and I walk the perimeter of my parent’s town. There are more birds here than at home. More wildlife. The leash protects hidden deer from the jubilation of a city dog. Bird song rises, pulling crocuses and tulips from the freshening earth. Their gaiety is contagious. It snowed in the night. Normally staid trees — elms, cottonwoods — are dressed in icy finery, dollops of snow on their branches mimicking the coming floral frippery of plums and cherries.
On the final run I abandon my husband to the role of instructor, arcing around the Ski Patrol’s mop-up crew and reveling in a moment’s freedom. After a day of snowplowing and slow, wide turns, it is a relief to head straight down. I’ve stopped fighting my skis. My turns are light and quick and I feel as if I am floating. Only the sound of metal edges scraping across thin patches of snow belies the sensation. I crest and pause, waiting for my son, arching to glimpse the bright jackets of my husband and daughter. I see nothing. The sky has grayed with an impending storm and I cannot distinguish the peak from the clouds. Leftover leaves clatter across the snow. The people have all gone. Columns of aspens rise like smoke, waving in the rising wind. Branches creak without rhythm. Our family is the last down the mountain, which rises massive and icily indifferent. The wind blows. I close my eyes to listen, as if sight hampers my hearing. I come to wonder if there has been an accident and begin to imagine digging the toes of my stiff boots into the snow, carving five hundred steps upward in search of a broken child. Red flashes between the trunks and “They’re coming” breezes back to me from a ski patroller rushing to an end-of-season party. Again I am alone. I dismiss the vestige of responsibility that holds me in place and fling myself down the mountain, catching up to the wind and passing it, flying down, flying alone, flying through the rushing air until I run out of mountain.
The sky darkens red an hour early. Mud drips from dust-sodden clouds, leaving random red-brown circles on sidewalks, roofs, windows. Three years ago the wind picked up sheets of Mongolian soil and dropped them halfway across North America. I walk to the car, draw a line across the window with my finger, and bring it to my mouth, imagining I can taste the colorful geometry of the Gobi desert.
Our supper guests have gone. My mother and I step easily around each other, putting away leftovers, wiping counters. Chores done, I sit at the kitchen counter with my book as my mother sits in an armchair with her crocheting. The dishwasher groans and swishes quietly. Voices drift down from upstairs where my family is working on a puzzle. I turn a page with a papery whisper. Mom counts stitches under her breath. We do not need words to take comfort in each other.
The splashing of fountains and the water slide are so loud I cannot hear their made-up rules. The ball is tossed and thrown with joyous desperation between watery attacks on opponents. I rush between my husband and children, leaping to grasp the beach ball and falling laughing into the water. They wade toward me until I pop up and toss the ball away. My son shakes water from his hair and throws it back — over his sister’s head — right into his father’s arms. We grin and he throws the ball again.
The hike is up and up and up. We walk along a fin of rock six feet wide which falls to sand and scrub below. Sheer walls rise just out of reach to left and right, black varnish pocked with red where weather has taken bites. Farther and higher and we are above the walls, perched atop our slice of sandstone hundreds of feet above the brown gray valley where golden sun pours across the floor, mirroring the clouds above. Rain falls in intermittent curtains, parting and closing to obscure the La Sal range rising at some incalculable distance. Storms dance all around us as we scramble toward the arch at the end of our path. Dry balls of snow fall. Wind paints my arms with cold. Ravens hop and caw, opening their wings like sails in corvid mockery of the earth-bound. When we find the arch my family is underwhelmed. I answer my son’s gripes by saying that the important part was the journey, not the destination. For once the aphorism is not a cliche.
I am layered to inflexibility to fight the chill. Supper is an exercise in creative cookery since one of the stove burners doesn’t work. I slowly remember the rhythm of camp cooking, warming hot dogs in the macaroni water, heating broccoli on the lid. We huddle companionably around the table to eat and savor the last hour of daylight with card games. Somehow, without walls, our family is more intimate. Despite the cold I linger, urging another round, until it is too dark.
I wake, nose icy, huddled in my sleeping bag. I hear cars on a distant highway and gaze at the tent roof, unsure if it is time to wake. Both children have drawn close in their sleep. My son, who treasures his lone bed at home, has his back to mine. I am curled around my daughter, who has snuggled into the curve of my belly. Their warmth soothes me. I close my eyes and wake much later to the dawn.
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