Bruised

My hometown has had a tough time over the last year. Summer isn’t even here yet and we’ve already had a major brawl in a public park that left one young man dead. There have been multiple pedestrian deaths, shootings, and overdoses. In recent months we’ve become deeply divided by a vote over a proposed casino. This past Friday, 170 teachers were laid off—that’s right one hundred seventy.  If Brockton were a person, she’d need a hug and a double shot of whiskey. 

I’ve lived here my whole life and I’m no stranger to strings of bad news like this. Poverty and crime are a daily struggle for many in Brockton. But there are always moments—moments  that stick in my head and make me think maybe this place isn’t so bad after all. I witnessed a moment like that today. 

Every Saturday in the Spring and Fall there are kid’s road races at the local park. It’s a volunteer-run program. More than 100 kids show up every week, pay a dollar, and run. It’s a 2.2 mile loop through a wooded park. A lot of parents run with their kids (I do, but I get left in the dust—I am NOT faster than a 5th grader). For those that don’t, there is a path through the woods that leads to the 1/2 way point in the race. You can cheer your kids as they start the race, cheer them half way through, and get back to the finish line so you can see them cross. I love the kid’s road races. It’s outdoors, low-tech, lots of fun, inexpensive, and run by people who really care—just what a town like Brockton needs more of. 

I was running with my older son Owen this morning. James and his dad were way ahead of us. We had passed the half-way point when a boy in near us stumbled and fell. He landed hard, face down. Owen and I, and a couple of other adults and I checked on him. There was a nasty abrasion on his knee and blood trickled down his leg. One women offered to walk him back to the parking lot through the short cut. But he shook his head and said he wanted to finish the race. He started jogging really slowly—obviously in pain and holding back tears. Periodically I looked back to check on him. Sometimes he was walking, sometimes he was jogging, but he never stopped. 

He met up with his brother and they crossed the finish line together shortly after Owen and I did. The concern on his parents’ faces was obvious. I went over to them and told them how brave he was—how he got right back up, determined to finish the race. The concern on his dad’s face turned to pride and he said to me, “He’s very strong.”

That little boy is Brockton. Bruised and bleeding, but strong enough to keep going. 

Shenanigans

Author's Note: A few years ago, I wrote a blog piece about how much I dislike the way we observe St. Patrick's Day here in the US. One of the particular things that bothers me is how we portray Leprechauns. In traditional Irish Lore, they are not benevolent creatures who leave chocolate coins in your shoes. They are far more mischievous—even devious. This story is a modern fairy tale about what a real encounter with a leprechaun might be like.

         Barry hung up the phone and exhaled slowly. Relief and hope flooded through him—a job interview. He had sent out hundreds of resumes and letters in the months since he was laid off. His savings were dwindling and he was beginning to feel desperate. Now he had the chance to get his foot in the door and make an impression.

         He pulled his best suit out of the closet. It was a little loose after weeks of eating Ramen noodles and pounding the pavement, but it would do. It had to be cleaned and pressed and his dress shoes were worn at the heels and in need of polish. Fortunately he had a few days to get things in order.

         “Can I get these by Tuesday?” he asked the dry cleaner.

         “The suit is no problem. You can have it tomorrow,” the smiling Vietnamese man assured him. “I don’t fix shoes anymore though.”

         “Do you know anyone who does? I can’t remember the last time I went to a cobbler.”

         “There’s a man downtown who still fixes shoes,” the man said hesitantly. “O’Malley? O’Riley? Something like that. Nice enough guy. A little strange.”

         “I can put up with strange if he can fix my shoes before my interview on Wednesday. Have a good night Mr. Nguyen.”

         Barry left the store and walked downtown, saving himself the bus fare.

“This guy better still be in business,” he muttered as he pulled his coat tightly to shut out the bitter March wind.

At the end of a row of empty store fronts, a golden light poured from a shop window. Barry couldn't remember ever seeing the carved oak sign that read:

Daniel O’Rourke, Cobbler

Shoes Repaired While You Wait

         He pushed open the door, expecting the shop to be broken down and dusty like the rest of the neighborhood. Instead, well cared for hand tools were laid out like a surgeon's on the maple workbench and an old black and gold Singer sewing machine gleamed like new. A rack of perfectly repaired shoes lined the wall, each pair tagged with its owner’s name. A statue of a dozing leprechaun sitting on a bench with an awl in his hand decorated one corner.

         There was no one in the shop. No bells rang when he opened the door to announce the arrival of a customer. Barry waited a moment and cleared his throat, hoping it would draw someone from the back room. A few moments passed and he called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?’

         “Oh! I beg your pardon sir. I must have dozed off!” replied the man Barry had mistaken for a statue. He leapt from his stool in the corner and crossed the room with remarkable speed for a man of only four feet tall. “My name is Daniel O’Rourke. What can I do for you today?” His freckled face was nearly as red as his hair and his dark eyes shimmered like coals.

         “I have a job interview on Wednesday. I’m wondering if you can have my shoes fixed in time.”

         “Let’s take a look then,” O’Rourke said and gestured for Barry to put the shoes up on the counter. He hopped onto an old wooden box and took a closer look. “These are good shoes. It’ll be nothing to get them looking like new.”

         “That’s great,” Barry said. “I’ve been out of work for months. I really need to make a good impression at this interview.”

         “Months you say?”

         “You wouldn’t believe how many jobs I’ve applied for. No one’s hiring.”

         “Well that calls for a celebration my boy!” the little man declared and slipped into the back room. He returned with a pottery jug and two old cups. “I know it doesn’t look like much. But this whiskey is the best you’ll ever have.”

         Barry was taken aback by the O’Rourke’s friendliness, but never one to turn down a glass of whiskey, he smiled and accepted the drink.

         “Slainte!” the little man said. His thick Donegal brogue reminded Barry of his great grandfather.

         “Slainte,” Barry replied, drinking the whiskey. The sweet and spicy liquor burned pleasantly.

         “Your grandfather?” Spoke the little man as if reading Barry's mind. “He was a Donegal man.”

         “How did you know that?”

         “Ach, I've been around. You might say I can smell the blood of a Donegal man,”

         “You're right about the whiskey,” said Barry. “I’ve never tasted anything this good. What’s it called?” He finished the rest and held his hand out for more. The little man poured another generous tot into the cup and smiled as Barry continued drinking.

         “Oh, you can’t buy this in any old package store son. This is Daniel O’Rourke’s own whiskey.”

         “You made this yourself?” Barry asked as the whiskey warmed him all over and made his vision blur. Nevertheless, he held his glass out for more. “You can make whiskey and fix my shoes in time for my job interview? You’re my hero!”

         “I can indeed. Alas, I don’t think you’ll be goin’ to that interview on Wednesday Barry me boy.”

         “Not going? Why? Why wouldn’t I go? Wait. How did you know my name?”

         The little man's grin transformed from friendly to fierce.

         “You drank my whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me for the next seven years.”

         “What? But I don’t know how to fix shoes,” Barry said as the store got fuzzier and fuzzier.

         “Don’t worry about that. You go on home. Get a good night’s sleep. Meet me back here tomorrow.”

         Barry’s mouth felt like it had been dragged through a litter box. The sun shining through his window stabbed at his eyes like needles. He couldn’t remember how he got home. The last thing he remembered was a guy who looked like he walked off a Lucky Charms box laughing at him. He staggered to the kitchen for water. On the table were his black dress shoes. The heel had been repaired and the polish was so shiny, he could see his reflection in it. There was a note attached,

“See you at 10am mo chara. D.O.”

         “Crazy old bastard,” Barry said, crumpling the note. He tossed it into the trash and took a shower.

        He emerged fifteen minutes later feeling clear-headed enough to make a pot of coffee. As he crossed the kitchen, he saw the note, no longer crumpled propped up against his shoes. It was nothing, Barry told himself. He must have imagined throwing away the note. That whiskey had really done a number on him. As he thought of the whiskey, he could feel the warmth steal across his chest like when he took the first sip. Like an echo in his mind he heard the old man say, “You drank my whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me for the next seven years.”

         Nonsense. That was potent stuff, but not so potent it could make him a slave. He picked up the note and tore it to pieces. A chime on his phone alerted Barry that he had a voicemail.

         “Good Morning Barry. This is Fran Lancaster from the firm of Smith, Gold, and Stein. I'm calling to let you know we won't need for you to come into the interview on Wednesday. The position we spoke about has been filled.”

         Barry sank into a kitchen chair feeling cold. He glanced at his shoes on the table. The note was propped up against them once more—uncrumpled and untorn.

         The wind outside picked up. It sounded like laughter.

Honor a Great American Poet... Fashionably!

           I love accessories—shoes, scarves, earrings. They perk up a boring outfit or make an old outfit new again. Until recently, I've never given a lot of thought to belts though. I usually wear a plain black or brown one with my jeans for work. They are unremarkable, but necessary parts of in my wardrobe like socks and underwear. Then, my sister-in-law Kim told me about her new business, Granite State Buckles. I fell in love with her products and ordered a “Londonderry” for myself.

Just in time for St. Patrick's Day!

           All of the designs from Granite State Buckles are inspired by the great state of New Hampshire. There is the Portsmouth:

The Hampton Beach

The Mount Washington

          And many more! You can see and purchase many whimsical designs on Granite State Buckles'website or Etsy shop. They're only $20 a piece or $35 with a belt in your choice of size and color. They are a bargain (or a bahgin, as we say here in New England).

           Kim has created a special line inspired by New Hampshire poet Robert Frost. We'll be giving away her latest creation, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening”. It comes with a black leather belt.

Not gonna lie, I'm going to have trouble shipping this off to someone else!

           Pretty cool, eh? You can enter once by leaving a comment below. You can enter twice by visiting Granite State Buckles' website or Etsy shop first, then come back here and tell me your favorite buckle style. Or leave a note on Granite State Buckles' Facebook page letting Kim know how much you like her designs and I'll enter you three times (maybe you could even "like" her page while you're there). I'll pull a name from my Red Sox cap on Robert Frost's birthday (March 26^th) to determine the winner.

Bitten

        Has anything you believed about parenting before you had children come back and taken a giant bite out of your back-side? It's been happening to me pretty regularly for the last twelve years. I'm beginning to think it's the only predictable thing about parenting.

        I worked at my college library as a student, and I remember having a conversation with the library secretary about being a working mother. She had two or three school aged kids and I was taking a psychology class. So, naturally, I thought we were equally knowledgeable on the subject. I talked about how important it was for an infant to bond with his parents in the first few months of life. She said, “I guess. But, sometimes I think they need you more when they get to middle school.” That sounded like crazy talk to nineteen-year-old me. After all, the Psych 101 textbook didn't say anything about that.

        Those bite-marks are really starting to sting.

        My kids can bathe and dress themselves. I don't have to ask them if they need to go to the bathroom any more. They know where the food is and are capable of making a sandwich or pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. My older son has been certified by the Boy Scouts of America in first aid. He's even received credentials to use a pocket knife and start a campfire safely.

        But with all of their knowledge and skills, there is no substitute for having time to talk to Mom or Dad about what is on their mind. And there is SO much on their minds. Between the things they hear on the bus and the news on the radio and TV, these years are a minefield of awkward conversations. In the past few weeks my husband and I have fielded questions about bullies, heroin, alcohol, mass shootings, French kissing, twerking, suicide, genocide, terrorism, theology and measles.

        But we do it. Maybe not joyfully, but willingly. Just like the thousands of diapers changed, and lullabies sung, and late-night feedings, it's part of parenting. Parenting a middle-schooler isn't much easier than parenting an infant. It's just different. And it isn't any less important. Back then the focus was on keeping their bodies nourished. As they become older, we focus on nourishing their brains and souls. Today after school my son just wanted to talk to me about the latest Lego sets that are coming out. So I sat with him flipping through the catalog feeling relieved it wasn't a “big” topic. But he's going to need the talk about all those “big” questions. Maybe if I give him my full attention when the topic is Legos, he'll continue to seek me out when the topic gets a lot more complicated.

Hi there! I know I've been a very sporadic blogger lately. So thanks for stopping by! Be sure and check out my next post. I have an exciting give-away coming soon.

Write on Edge: The Past

       From the too loud television in the family room she heard a song that took her back to Central Junior High. Her hips moved to the familiar tune as she washed the dinner dishes. She smiled when the guitar solo came in, thinking about the boys in the band who wore more makeup than her mother allowed her to in those days.
       She could smell the Aqua Net in the girls’ room and see the graffiti on the wall. She remembered the mean girls who wore Flashdance inspired sweatshirts and matching leg warmers. Her face flushed when she remembered getting teased about her own clothes back then. Trendy clothes that had hung on the clearance rack a little too long or outgrown by a more fashionable cousin. It took a few more years before she was comfortable with her own sense of style and stopped trying to follow trends her family couldn’t afford.
       There were good times of course. She bought her first vinyl albums: Duran Duran, Men at Work, The Police, Prince, and Billy Joel. She gained some independence, being dropped off the Riverdale Roller Rink to skate to “Gloria” and “Oh Mickey”. There wasn’t that kind of independence for her own children these days. Twelve seems too young to see a movie or wander a mall without a parent in the age of helicopter parenting.
       Her pre-teen son bopped into the kitchen looking for a snack (again).
       “Were they just playing Duran Duran on MTV?” She asked him. “I haven’t heard that song in ages.”
       “Huh?”
       “I thought I heard Hungry Like the Wolf.”
       “Oh, that was a yogurt commercial Mom.”




       So maybe I really am back in the saddle--it’s been a long time since I wrote any fiction. I’m linking up with Write on Edge for the first time in way too long. This week’s prompt is a quote, “The past is a foreign country: the do things differently there.” Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Don't Call it a Resolution

Our New "House"

         Hello? Hello? Is there anyone out there? It’s been so long since I’ve posted, I’m not sure if anyone is reading. If there is anyone out there, let me start by saying, “Happy New Year!” If you’re one to make resolutions, may you have the wisdom to make good ones and the strength and support to keep them. I tend to make my resolutions in the fall. For at least twelve years of our early lives, that’s when the new beginnings start and I’ve always found it a good time to start new projects and work on things in my life.
         The projects I started this past fall are a big part of why I’ve done so little writing lately. I am the Vice President of a community theatre group. This year we moved into a new space.  It was an exciting, challenging and time consuming adventure.  I also signed on to the committee to help select plays for next year. Since August I have read dozens of plays and (for the first time I can remember) absolutely no novels.
         In September I began teaching children’s drama classes at a local music and arts school. There has been a huge amount of prep work for the classes, but the teaching part was rewarding beyond words. More than any job I’ve ever had, I feel like I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing.
         Of course, I still have my day job and plenty of family obligations. Both of my children started new schools in September. And of course they have music lessons, scouts, and sports (they even have a drama class with this crazy teacher). The boys are happy where they are, but the new routine is tiring.
         This was a particularly long Christmas break for the boys, with very few commitments. Entire days went by when I didn’t put on shoes or get in my car. I’ve read three novels for pleasure. There was nothing especially “literary” about them--they were pure entertainment. I even began working on my long-neglected manuscript. I found that I really missed writing. At first, I thought I just missed my readers and fellow writers. But I also missed this weird creative outlet. So here I am, back at my computer. I’m not one to make resolutions, but if I were, I’d resolve to get back to my writing.
         As we speak, the snow is falling and our vacation has been extended by a couple of days. I have soup stock simmering in the slow cooker and plans to bake bread later in the day.  And of course, there will be snow to shovel. Lots of snow. The craziness will begin again on Monday. The boys will go back to school and I’ll have auditions for my next adventure. The routine will start again. Hopefully, I’ll make some time in the routine for writing.
        Happy 2014 everyone!

Panis Angelicus

      “Carly, can you stop by your grandmother's on the way home from school tomorrow?” My mother asked. “She was asking about you yesterday.”

      “I just saw her last week.”

      “I know. But she adores her little Piccola,” Mom said, using Nonna's nickname for me. “It would really make her day if you just stopped by. She's lonely since your grandfather passed away.”

      “Okay Mom.”

      Guilt. Mom learned from the best. That's why I got off the bus two stops early and lugged my book bag to Nonna's little yellow house. My feelings of annoyance vanished as I walked up the front steps. I smelled it before I opened the door—the unmistakable, irresistible, smell of home-baked bread. There is no more alluring scent in the world—not fresh cut grass, or Starbuck's coffee, or lemonade on a hot summer's day.

      “Is that you Piccola?” she called as the screen door slammed behind me.

      “Yes, it's me Nonna,” I said. “Something smells amazing!”

      “I knew you were coming so I baked the most perfect bread you ever saw!” Nonna said as she pulled me into an olive-oil scented hug.

      “You've gotten even more beautiful since I saw you last!”

      “It's only been a week,” I giggled.

      “That's too long to keep me from my Piccola! Now, sit down. I'll pour you some milk and you tell me about your day. The bread just needs another minute.”

      She poured milk into the tiny jelly jars she used for glasses.

      “No cheerleading today?”
      “I'm a majorette Nonna, remember?”

     “What's the difference again?”

      “Batons? I twirl batons. Is the bread almost ready?”

      “So impatient!” she said with a laugh. “Let's take a closer look shall we?”

      She opened the oven door and knocked on the bread gently.

      “It's just right.”

      She pulled out four loaves of bread that looked good enough to be on a magazine over and placed them on the large wooden board on the counter.

      “That's a lot of bread Nonna,” I said.

      “I baked a double batch. Mr. Guerra at the fruit stand gave me a good deal, so I made one for him.”

      “Fruit stand?” I whispered. “Nonna? Did you make jam too?”

      “It's the best jam I ever made.”

      “You say that every time Nonna.”

      “I'm still perfecting my formula,” she said with a wink. “Wait until you taste it!”

      “I can't wait. I love your strawberry jam. It's my favorite.”

      “Ah, Piccola, no strawberries in September. Mr. Guerra gave me a good deal on the last of the summer peaches.”

      There was something about the way her eyes lit up when she mentioned Mr. Guerra.

      “I think I remember him. Doesn't he have the wavy white hair.”

      “That's him,” she said trying to keep from smiling.

      “Nonna!” I shrieked. “You have a boyfriend!”

      “I'm too old for boyfriends,” she said. “Now try this.”

      Steam escaped from the crispy crust as Nonna sliced the bread. She slathered it with golden jam and handed it to me on an old stoneware plate.

      “Well?” she said as I slowly chewed the first bite.

      “Nonna, if you give this bread and jam to Mr. Guerra, you aren't going to have a boyfriend.”

      “No?”

      "You're going to have a husband.”

      She smiled ever so slightly and said, “You think?”

      I'm linking up this week, for the first time in AGES with Write on Edge. We were given these two delicious images for inspiration and asked to write something fresh. It's nice to be writing again.

Thrifty Tasty Tuesday: Individual Zucchini Quiches

        For the past several years, we've had a vegetable garden in the summer. The most successful plant is always zucchini. I love picking them when they're small—still tender and slightly sweet. They're delicious sauteed with a little chopped onion or brushed with olive oil and grilled with a sprinkling of herbs. But zucchini plants are HUGE and every once in a while you end up with these giants that go unnoticed until they're the size of baseball bats.

         So I'm always on the lookout for recipes that use grated zucchini. This week I tinkered around with a recipe for individual quiches. These are just what my diet ordered—a make ahead breakfast or lunch with lots of protein and veggies that can be frozen and reheated in the microwave.

Individual Zucchini Quiches

makes 12

2 cups of grated zucchini

¼ teaspoon salt

6 eggs

¼ cup buttermilk

¼ cup feta cheese*

¼ cup shredded parmesan cheese*

¼ teaspoon thyme

dash pepper

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray a muffin tin with nonstick spray (or line with muffin papers).

Sprinkle grated zucchini with salt and set aside in a colander while you prepare the other ingredients.

Whisk together eggs and buttermilk thoroughly. Add cheeses, thyme and pepper.

Squeeze as much of the water out of the zucchini and fold into the egg mixture.

Pour into prepared muffin tin and bake for 20-25 minutes until puffy and slightly browned.

Allow to cool in tin for a few minutes before removing.

*You can use whatever cheese you have on hand. I chose feta and parmesan because you get a lot of flavor in a small quantity of cheese.

100 Word Song: Mirrors

         I'm linking up with the 100 Word Song over at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week's prompt was Justin Timberlake's Mirrors. As I read over the lyrics, I thought it would be fun to write two pieces that “mirror” each other about how others see us—and how sometimes people get it right and sometimes they get it wrong. Depending how you look at it, I've either done extra credit, or I cheated by writing 200 words. I'll leave it up to Professor Leroy to decide. This piece picks up where I last left Karen and Danny. You can read more about them here. 

Karen's Mirror

         Karen and Danny spent the afternoon decorating the church basement for the CYO dance. They transformed the cold gray room with crepe paper and balloons before the Ladies' Guild arrived with cookies and punch.

         Mrs. Doyle looked scandalized to see Karen with Danny. To her, Karen was the girl who “got in trouble” after her father ran away and her mother drank herself to death. Unfit to associate with the deacon.

         To Danny, Karen was the little girl who got straight A's and sang the “Pie Jesus” at Mass.

They were both right. And they were both wrong.

Danny's Mirror

         Karen could still see the same old Danny under the cassock—the boy who had holes in his jeans and dirt under his fingernails and got into fights. When the Ladies' Guild arrived, they treated him with a reverence that made him uncomfortable.

         “Deacon Daniel, you mustn't bother with moving those chairs. We'll take care of it,” Mrs. Doyle insisted, banishing the Prodigal Son to his office to work on his next sermon.

         The coffee she brought him tasted bitter in his mouth. Mrs. Doyle couldn't see that he had come home to get his hands dirty, only Karen saw that.

Nine Years

Fiction: Yes Captain

         Nora watched him get ready for the day through a crack in the doorway. Everything he needed for the day was laid out on the glass top of his bureau—tie, glasses, watch, cufflinks, phone, wallet. He put each one to use, working left to right. He didn't hurry, but wasted no time. She had never known a man who took such care getting dressed. She stiffled a giggle and wondered if he put his accessories away right to left.

         When he was nearly finished, Nora hurried down to the kitchen. She had already set the table with his Wall Street Journal folded in thirds on top of his New York Times, which was folded in half. She placed an ironed linen napkin to the left of his bone china cup, ready to be filled with black French-pressed coffee when he sat down.

         One her first day, Nora let his egg cook for twenty seconds longer than necessary. He noticed and without raising his voice, made it clear that three minutes was his expectation and she would follow his instructions to the letter from then on. She did. His needs were no more than anyone else she had ever worked for, just more specific. Her pay, however, was the best it had ever been—well worth meeting his exacting standards.

         Nora brought out his breakfast tray with his (perfect three minute) egg and his one-cup serving of Capt'n Crunch in milk. It was the one glimmer of whimsy in his otherwise severe existence. He nodded in acknowledgement and opened the Times and Nora returned to the kitchen. Moments later she heard the china cup clatter in its saucer and the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor. When she looked, he was gone.

         The newspaper lay on the floor. A photo on the front page showed an shapely blond wearing a slinky dress and high black boots. The headline read, “Espionage Suspect Flees to Cuba”.

        I'm linking up this week with the Trifecta challenge which offered the word "crack" as our prompt and with Write at the Merge which gave us a wonderful photograph of men's accessories and the iconic Nancy Sinatra song, "These Boots were Made for Walkin'" for inspiration.

Lessons from Vacation

A family adventure at Universal Islands of Adventure.

         Did you ever wake up from a nap or finish a meal and think, “Wow. That was exactly what I needed.” Maybe you didn't feel tired or hungry. Then you took care of your needs and suddenly it becomes crystal clear that you needed that nap or that perfect grilled cheese as much as you need oxygen. That's how I've been feeling since I got home from vacation last week.

Legoland: The Holy Land for my boys.

         For five days I didn't cook a single meal, wash a dish, pack a lunch, fold laundry, or even drive a car. For five days I drank Butterbeer, watched people make balloon animals for my kids, played with Legos, screamed on roller coasters, read a novel, and wrote in my journal. I went an entire week without needing to see my chiropractor (something I haven't done in a year).

         I came home wanting to write—not feeling like it was something I was supposed to do like taking out the garbage or making the bed. I went to work happy to be there (not as happy as I was to be on vacation of course, but definitely happier than I had been before). My chores seem a little less chore-like this week. I know this afterglow won't last forever. I just hope I'm perceptive enough to not wait so long before I go on vacation again. I needed that time off... like a long nap on an overcast day or a perfect grilled cheese when I've waited to long to eat. I needed that time off like oxygen.

Sometimes you need to get dizzy to feel grounded.

Eleven

          See this woman in the photo? That's me, just about eleven years ago this weekend. I was about 41.5 weeks pregnant and had no idea what I was getting into. I had gone for an ultrasound and a non-stress test that morning to see what was taking the occupant of my womb so long to come out and introduce himself. My doctor assured me that my tenant had no intention of coming out soon and suggested we offer him a little surgical assistance.

         “I think the baby could be over ten pounds,” he said. “I think he hasn't dropped because he's just too big. I'd like you to have a c-section on Tuesday.”

         “Can I go to my cousin's wedding today?” I asked.

         “Sure. I really don't think that baby has any plans to be born today.”

9.8 lbs with a head in the 90th percentile. Thank God for c-sections!

         So for the first (and only) time in my life I went to a wedding in flip flops and no hosiery. I hadn't planned on going. I thought I'd be in the hospital, or newly arrived home with my infant. After all, this kid was due to arrive on June 22^nd and it was already July. We brought Owen into that world on “the day before America's birthday” as he likes to say.

Preschool graduation. Six years have passed in the blink of an eye.

         On Friday, that baby finished his last day of elementary school. It's such a cliché to say that time flies. But man, does it ever! This week Owen turns eleven. In September he'll start middle school. He's been a strong and beautiful boy since the beginning. Now he takes my breath away with his intelligence, integrity, and faith. He loves loud music, great books, and games of strategy. He believes in equality and social justice.

He's a devoted brother and a wonderful son. And he's only eleven.  Happy birthday Sweetie! I can't wait to see what else you bring to the world!

 

Take THAT, Stagefright

           I know in most parts of the country, summer vacation is in full swing. But here in my little corner of the world, we have another agonizing week to go thanks to the hurricanes and blizzards that visited us this year. But the full-on crunch of homework and projects is finally winding down and has been replaced with field trips, science fairs, Hawaiian shirt days, and my favorites—school plays and concerts.

           Having been bitten by the performance bug when I was in sixth grade I get really excited to see my kids discovering the joy of being on stage. They had been reluctant to try, claiming stage fright (although how you can have stage fright without actually getting on stage remains a mystery to me). Several years ago I auditioned for a local production of “South Pacific” and there was a part for a child Owen's age. I asked him if he'd like to come with me and give it a try. He was wide-eyed with horror at the prospect, “I will if I have to,” he said. I assured him that he didn't have to and he was very relieved.

           During April vacation, he told me his class was going to be doing a play and he asked if I'd help him practice for the audition. After running a victory lap around the house, I settled on the couch with him to read his part. He wanted to be a palace guard—a small part that would allow him to wear his Halloween costume again.

           He got the part and last week after months of rehearsal, we finally got to see the production. He did a great job with the small number of lines that he had. (As we say in the biz, there are no small parts, only small actors.) But my favorite part of the show was an ensemble musical number where the entire cast sang and danced together. When the song began, he sang shyly and danced deliberately. As he warmed to the audience, the desire to entertain became greater than the fear of looking silly. By the end of the number he was glowing. Owen had discovered the joy of performing for an audience.

           When it was over, he ran up to us and said, “That was so much fun!”

           Yes Sweetie. Yes it is.

Mother Goose and Me

           Every afternoon on my way to pick up my son at the bus stop, I pass a small pond. It's home to a variety of creatures—turtles, waterfowl, frogs, dragonflies. A few weeks ago, their numbers increased when four fuzzy new goslings hatched. They wobbled after their parents much like human toddlers, still getting used to being on their feet. If I got too close to them, they'd duck under their mama's wing while papa goose hissed at me to stay away.

           Yesterday when I walked past, I noticed they've doubled in size. They walk and swim on sturdy, steady feet—they practically strut. And their dad isn't quite so aggressive when I slow down to watch them. They aren't babies anymore. The beginnings of real feathers are beginning to show like the peach fuzz on a young man's face. They're tweens or teens by goose standards now. In a few short weeks, they've gone from helpless balls of fluff to geese on the road to adulthood. I couldn't help but feel a little sad on Mother Goose's behalf.

           My oldest son is finishing up elementary school this month. Next month he'll be eleven. He isn't a baby anymore. He doesn't seek shelter under my wing very often these days. I'm proud of the way he seeks out independence. It's a relief to not have to see to his every need—feeding, clothing, bathing. But I can't deny that eleven years have gone by much too quickly. Poor Mother Goose, I hope she has a girls' night out planned soon.

Ah, Bach

 

                   Karen heard music drifting up from the church basement. It wasn't Mrs. McCardle practicing today. The church organist played piano accurately and deliberately. There was no love in Mrs. McCardle's playing―music was just a job to her. Whoever was playing the Bach prelude, was playing with passion and devotion. The music sounded like praying.

                   Karen waited in the stairwell until it was quiet.  The piece was so lovely, she half expected to hear applause when it was over. Instead, it ended in an awkward, naked  silence.

                   She pushed the old metal fire door open. Danny was sitting at the battered spinet.

                   “That was you?” 

                   “Is it already 10:00?” he asked checking his watch to cover his discomfort. Karen had offered to help set up the hall for a CYO dance.

                   “I'm a little early. Sorry.  I had no idea you played.”

                   “My mother made me take lessons.”

                   “I don't remember that.”

                   Danny blushed slightly, “I used to carry a pair of boxing gloves with me when I went. I let the neighborhood kids believe I was training. I knew they'd give me a hard time.”

                   “Did you tell her you wanted to quit?”

                   “I didn't want to quit. I just didn't want to get beat up. I loved piano. It took me out of that neighborhood, you know?”

                   Karen nodded.

                   “Did you ever play professionally?”

                   “I don't like to play for other people. The only person I ever played for was Mum and she's gone.”

                   “When did she die Danny?”

                   “While I was away at seminary.”

                   “That's when my mother died too. Do you think it's easier to lose someone when you're religious?”

                   “No. Knowing that someone has gone someplace good doesn't make them any less gone.”

                   He put his hands on the keys.

                   “This was her favorite,” he said as he began to play. This time, the music sounded like a confession.

                   If you're interested in reading more about Karen, she has her own page on this blog. You can check it out here. The title of this story comes from an old episode of MASH. I'm linking up this week with Write on Edge and Trifecta. Trifecta gave us the word "deliberate" for inspiration. Write on Edge gave us the word "orphan" and this picture:

This image courtesy of F3D3.86 via Flickr Creative Commons

                  

One Word Wednesday

Benign!

(I'll write more later. I promise)

100 Word Song: A Good Feeling

           Charlotte had been observing ghosts for years—watching their memories like a silent film. But today they spoke to her. Filled with the euphoria of purpose and belonging, she walked the hotel grounds as the sunlight dissolved the mist. The once manicured gardens were now a jungle of rhodedendron and tall grasses. It would be be easy to be discouraged by the monumental task of refurbishing the old hotel, but she felt good about it. A bird lighted on a wild rose bush and made eye contact with Charlotte. He tilted his head, twittered his approval, and soared into the sky.

           I'm linking up with the 100 Word Song prompt over at my friend Lance's place. Our inspiration for the week is the incomparable Nina Simone singing “Feeling Good”. If you like reading about Charlotte, check out her page here.

It's Probably Nothing, Part 2

You can read part 1 here.

           Monday afternoon my phone buzzed while I was at work. We aren't allowed to use cell phones on the sales floor, so I normally just return calls on my break. This time, I could tell the number was coming from my health care group. The week before, I had an unpleasant three day game of telephone tag with my primary care physician, so I rushed off the floor to take the call.

           “May I speak to Victoria?” the caller said.

           “This is she,” I replied.

           “I'm calling to remind you about your biopsy on Wednesday at 9:00.”

           “Yup,” I said. “I'll be there.”

           As if I could forget. As if I had been thinking about anything else. Lately, I've been more distracted by breasts more than a fourteen year old boy. My mind is not where it's supposed to be.

Last week in my rush to get dinner on the table between the boys' music lessons and Boy Scouts. I accidentally shut the oven off twenty minutes after I put dinner in the oven. The chicken takes forty minutes to cook. Fortunately, I realized my mistake before I served Salmonella Cordon Bleu to my family.

           Thursday night I came home from working the night shift. The sports bra I had worn to work seemed unusually uncomfortable. I chalked it up to being preoccupied with the upcoming biopsy. Upon closer inspection, I realized my bra was on backwards. It's been that kind of week.

           It's also been the kind of week that has made me extraordinarily grateful.

          After I was told I needed a biopsy, I prayed for my health. I pray pretty regularly. Mostly prayers of gratitude for the blessings in my life—my husband, children, extended family and friends. I often find myself praying for situations in the world or of friends who are going through a tough time. Sometimes I pray for strangers—like the customer who told me her husband was just diagnosed with bone cancer. In the darkness of my bedroom that night, I couldn't remember the last time I prayed for myself. And that lead to even more prayers of gratitude.

           Wednesday was the day of my biopsy. I had a great friend with me—one smart enough to tell me she was coming with me instead of asking if I wanted her. There were texts and messages of encouragement throughout the day. By the time I was in the ultrasound room I was pretty calm and together. The radiologist had told me I would feel some pressure, but no pain. The last time a doctor told me that it was a big, fat, lie. This time however, the only thing I felt was a small pinch from the novocaine needle. The biopsy itself only took a few minutes.

           An hour later, I was sitting in my favorite diner with an icepack in my bra eating the most fattening breakfast they had on the menu. I ate every bite. Calories don't count on biopsy day.

Most of the discomfort is gone now and the waiting for results begins. I should know something by Tuesday or Wednesday. So far, I've managed to keep the “what ifs” at bay and concentrate on the things I know:

• I have loads of people pulling for me and praying for me—some I've never met in person (thank you blogging community!).
• The medical professionals I've dealt with lately are wonderful—including a PCP who went out of his way to get in touch with me (when he wasn't even on call) to make sure I made an appointment for my biopsy.
• Mammogram techs have heard every boob joke ever uttered. But they will laugh at them anyway, just to make you feel better.
• The sound of my boys' laughter is therapeutic and their hugs can work magic.
• My friends have given me support, laughter, and bourbon to get through this.
• Twenty-something years ago I met a cute guy at a keg party. He turned out to be the love of my life. His calm strength have helped me through tough times before and will continue no matter what the results of this biopsy are.
• Besides, it's probably nothing.

Karen: Bad Blood

           Karen sat on the curb by the service entrance of the country club watching cherry blossom petals rain onto the pavement. She was the first to arrive every shift. Tony hinted at a promotion and a key of her own once she earned the owners' trust. She wondered when arriving early, staying late, and working her fingers raw would be rewarded. She pushed aside the thought and admired the sunlight breaking through the fog on the golf course.

           “Good morning Karen,” called Charles, the co-owner and banquet manager of the club. “Early as usual!”

           She stowed her purse and began setting up the coffee urns. Tony strolled in a few minutes later and began setting up chairs.

           “Karen, can you grab the bin of white tablecloths when you're done with that?” Tony asked.

           “No problem Tony.”

           Karen finished her task and headed for the storeroom. She heard Charles arguing with John, the other owner and slowed down when she heard her name mentioned.

           “I'm not giving Karen a key,” John said.

           “Why not? She works harder than anyone else. She's always early. She's willing to stay late. The members lover her. Why not let her move up?”

           “She's a good worker. But I knew Edmond O'Brien for years. He was a weasel from the moment he took a breath.”

           “John, Karen wasn't raised by Eddie. He walked out on her and her mom years ago.”

           “Then Peggy drank herself to death! Blood will out. Karen's blood is tainted by liars, cheats, and drunks. I won't have her holding a key to my club.”
           “Our club.”

           “Fine. Our club. I gave in when Tony wanted to hire her. But I draw the line at giving an O'Brien a key to my livelihood.”

           Karen picked up the bin of tablecloths and returned to the dining room.

           “You alright Karen? Tony asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

           “Something like that.”

I'm linking up this week with Trifecta, who gave us the word “blood” for inspiration and Write at the Merge who gave us a photograph of a flowering tree and a quote from REM. You can read more of Karen's story here.