One Failed Nun

In my early teens I had dreams of becoming a nun and going to the Congo to work with Dr. Albert Schweitzer and saving lives. Guess I was a hopeless romantic, and I was enamored of Mother Teresa. I actually wanted to be her. Only in Africa. 

"See the face of Jesus in everyone," she admonished.  

Well, I didn't become a nun, haven't been to Africa, and Schweitzer finished out his life without even knowing I ever existed. And so I was left with the task of finding the face of Jesus in random people throughout the ensuing decades, with varying degrees of success.  

Ok, I could have tried harder. 

There surely have been more than a few times when I've been certain I have encountered angels on earth, and seen them touch the lives of others as well. Then there have been those few tender times when I've been given the sweet honor and privilege to serve as the hands of the Divine. And I have had abundant opportunities to gaze into the eyes of souls around the world, many, many aglow with love and goodwill, if not unmitigated joy.    

Yet seeing in some, the searing unspoken pleadings deep within, and in some, a glint of malevolence, in still others, only hollow emptiness. For some, I have surprised them with unasked for help, and from some I have received welcomed kindness. From some I have turned away. Not a spotless track record. But I have never thought of them as sharing any literal DNA from the One who walked the shores of Galilee in the long ago, despite Mother T's injunction and Christ himself reassuring us that, "Even as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

However, time is growing short for me to grasp that principle and more broadly apply it. I do have faith though that the world has been set up by default to supply us endless second chances. But I wasn't even looking for opportunities when I went for a walk on a beautiful morning this week. Downtown San Diego, 2021, and it was perfect. Absolutely perfect! My eyes were drinking in the lush verdant landscape following a full day and evening of rain. My favorite color is trees and favorite fragrance is after the rain fresh, so it was mesmerizing as I meandered up and down some hills that housed now closed campuses, generously endowed with breathtaking landscape. Heaven! And so of course, there He was. Jesus. Where else would He be?  

I didn't recognize Him. At all. 

But He immediately recognized me and made a beeline towards me. Not knowing who He was, this sudden pursuit startled me, interrupting my intense bonding moment with nature, kicking in that fight or flight response. Which made me pretty uncomfortable, so I instinctively started zigzagging across the grass, abandoning all paths, until hitting the city sidewalks. While I sped up, hanging out on the streets there has evidently kept Him in better shape, so after half a dozen blocks, He caught up to me. Small in stature, unkempt, with long gray hair and beard, He more reminded me of someone I intensely disliked, so it was pretty jarring, hard to recognize Him and make an immediate Jesus connection, even though He now was only inches away.  

It was impossible for me to understand what He was saying because of His whisper, so He repeated himself three times. Thank goodness, Jesus assured me He actually didn't want a sexual tryst with me. Temptation much? I mean, that would be a sin after all, did He think I didn't know Christian basics? And anyway, my husband would be upset if he found out I was capable of such shenanigans, when it's all I can do nowadays to keep up with the dishes. I could hurt myself. So what a relief! However, He made it emphatically clear that He did want to smoke crystal meth with me. Seeing as I have yet to even try coffee, I told Him no, had never tried that and never will. You don't think He meant that as a commandment, do you? 

Maybe. Anyway, I took off again and He kept chasing me. I called my husband, who's not religious in the least, and didn't care who the heck it was, and he told me to duck into a restaurant or something. So finally I ran into a little food market at a corner gas station and explained my predicament to the cashier. He said they often call the cops on this guy and a couple others but they won't pick them up because putting the homeless in jail if they possibly have covid is an issue. Perhaps if the Police won't handle it, the Pharisees will. Remains to be seen. I hung out in between shelves for 15 minutes and then walked, shaking confidently, to the apartment building.  

Just as I was about to turn the corner to the entrance, lo and behold, I saw Him coming my way! Was this like the Second Coming or what? I mean, this year has been pretty Apocalyptic, right? Anyway, it's beyond my pay grade to decide, so I jumped into the little coffee shop there on the corner and hid beyond a pillar so He couldn't see me from all those floor to ceiling windows. He was angry and no longer whispering at all. Maybe like when He got fed up with those money changers at the Temple back in the day? He marched up and down the block a couple times, so I had to keep ducking and slithering back and forth around the pillar so as to stay hidden from every angle. 

Finally it was quiet outside. He was gone. Then I realized the way I had been acting in the coffee shop made me look way more suspicious than He ever did, and I would likely be the one getting arrested. Awkward! So I fled the scene.  

Well so much for nature walks and close encounters.

So just to be clear, I generally am not at all afraid of homeless people. I go out of my way to interact (unless there's a group), give food or money or whatever I can whenever I can, because no one should have to suffer such an uphill battle just to survive when there's more than enough abundance around. Obviously. So I don't need to see the face of Jesus in everyone (though I really do love Christ more and more every day). Their very own faces pierce my heart. Usually.  

Still, not a good idea to chase me down. Just a word of caution. 

 

So if you believe there is an afterlife, and if it has sufficient room for most of us, what do you think the chances are Mother Teresa will ever speak to me?  

Silence of The Lamb

Shy? Timid? It's not that I didn't have a voice. I just couldn't use it. 

Of course I could chime in at Grandma's, at home, with a few friends. But certainly not at school. So I pretty much limped my way through grade school without ever raising my hand. Oral book reports were sheer agony. I wouldn't even play my flute-a-phone along with the other kids in fourth grade during our class music lessons. What if someone heard me hit a wrong note? Oh, the horror!

 

And then came Abbott Junior High! Maybe bullying was a big problem back then too. Maybe not. But I never bullied anyone, and I never was bullied by anyone. Well, except Harvey. Harvey Eisner. My 7th grade English and Social Studies teacher. Mr. Eisner was young, short, cocky.... What he lacked in height, he made up for in volume. Arrogance personified. There was nothing much humble about him. Maybe he had something to prove?

So one day he decided to prove how absolutely worthless a shy, timid girl could be. He was inspired to call on me to answer a question. Trembling, I barely whispered. And apparently he took that as a personal insult. He immediately instructed the class to move their desks into a circle, surrounding me in the middle.

"Now," he boomed, "pretend you're in the middle of the ocean, and you're drowning. You need to call for help. "YELL FOR HELP!"  

"Help," I sputtered, in a totally inaudible murmur.

"YOU'RE DROWNING!" he bellered, "YELL FOR HELP! NOW! YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT! DO IT!"

"Help," I repeated, moving my lips, and finding my breath heavy, but soundless. I was petrified. Further, I withered.

From there, it only escalated, with him becoming more and more agitated and belligerent, and me more and more terrified, more and more humiliated, silent and shivering, fully willing myself to drown and disappear forever.

Does fear make you scream out in terror? Or does the scream die in your throat?

Finally, Mr. Eisner sneered in utter contempt and with total disgust. 

"YOU DESERVE TO DIE! GO ON, JUST DROWN!"  

His words seemed to hang there, resonating within that room. I was completely paralyzed. The kids who encircled me were in absolute shock. The deafening silence filled the time and space. What had just happened? Ironically, those words seemed to be echoing as the classroom slowly, robotically returned to normal as the kids moved their desks back into the customary rows. My group therapy session was over.

All I remember after that is leaving the classroom and running home. When I got there I told my mom I was sick. And everyday after that when I got a block away from the school, I would get sick to my stomach and turn to walk back home. For three weeks I was absent. I never told anyone what happened and how scared and humiliated I was. I can no longer remember how I got the nerve to return to school one day, with shame as my constant shadow. 

I never liked or respected him after that. I just wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. We had to face each other every day for the rest of the year. But I don't think I sought revenge and ever wished he would die. Just that he would leave me alone. And he did.

As an adult, I now think maybe he was trying to do me a favor even, to help me get bolder, to grow. But I didn't see that then. And later on I did find my voice. Although I hope that he didn't repeat that performance for the good of any other students after that, I am grateful for the experience that year of feeling such disdain, such painful ridicule, so that I could feel empathy for all those who have been, and are being, bullied to one degree or another. I know my experience is a mere fraction of what others go through, and my heart is broken for them. 

Ironically, many, many years later I read that he had a grown daughter that was assaulted and murdered in her own apartment. I expect her father raised her to be bold, to not go quietly into the night. I wonder if she yelled for help, or was too paralyzed with fear? And my heart is broken for Mr. Eisner.

Getting High (Jr. edition)

Abbott Jr. High School, Elgin, IL

Ever gone out of your comfort zone and deliberately entered into enemy territory? As a mild mannered 11 year old entering the adult world of Junior High School?

7th grade held no auspicious beginnings for me. Unceremoniously dumped by my lifelong (so far) best friend. All because my Mom wouldn’t agree to letting me host a “surprise” birthday party for Pam that she was determined to have, I headed out solo on the first day of school. Later, Mom confessed she watched me amble down the street all alone in my new fiaco black and white striped pencil skirt Grandma had sewn for me, and with my trendy ducktail haircut, courtesy of the local Barber. First day at Abbott Jr. High. A lonely vision of sophistication ready to burst onto the scene. She wept.

Apparently I would be in need of a new best friend right off the bat as Pam continued to ignore me even after summer vacation ended and school began. Indeed, for the rest of my life. Hell hath no fury like a former friend who can't manipulate you. So I figured I needed a fresh start and a good way to make new friends with so many unfamiliar faces would be to join after school clubs and get involved in shared activities. What choice did I have?

Plan A- Try out for the popular super duper Choral Club. Of course! But only logical if you can at least carry a tune, and I was under no illusion that I could. However, knowing my limitations and being extremely shy, (I actually had invented lip syncing long before it was discovered in the real world* - you're welcome), I fearfully mustered up the courage to go wait outside the room on the appointed afternoon for auditions. When my turn came, I hesitated; then in an out-of-body moment, gingerly stepped in front of the music teacher and the student officers of The Club.  

What was I thinking? It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to have a difficult time lip syncing when I was told to sing a certain number acapella, as it were. Glancing quickly at the floor, I saw no gaping hole to fall into. I paused, waiting for a miracle. Where was God when you truly needed him? I had no choice but to open my mouth and see what could possibly emerge from it. 

Yep, you can only imagine. It wasn’t pretty. Understatement. Even though I dared not look at them, somehow I saw their astonished faces. I think they were too stunned to laugh. Or cry. Yeah, no call back, go figure. No becoming one of the elite. Unbelievably, I was allowed to remain in school and no one harassed me. At least, not to my face. Maybe they couldn’t believe their ears? Fortunately most of the student body had missed the audition, and the entire incident failed being mentioned in the school paper, so I wasn’t treated like the pariah I knew myself to be.

Plan B- Give it a rest. Wait. Till next year. Try again. Of course nothing musical. Actually the Speech Club (Drama Club) was THE most prestigious, most vaunted club to be a part of at Abbott Jr. High, they put on all the plays, so why not? Some people never learn. Last year had to sing. This year had to speak. And I was no better at that than singing. 

Club Advisor Marge Zarndt had been a teacher even way back in ancient times. When my parents were in High School. A relic. A  4’10” veritable relic. With badly dyed blond hair, strident voice, obnoxious personality, miles on her wheels. What she lacked in height, she made up for in charm. Ha! She was a pistol. What did I expect? A resounding no? Good, then at least I wasn’t disappointed.

So it was with the greatest unexpected pleasure several weeks later that I was able to grant her fondest request when she came to me on bended knee (well not literally or I wouldn’t have been able to see her) and begged me to join her Speech Club. Yes, it’s true!  

Want to hear the rest of the story? For an assignment in Mrs. Zarndt’s Speech class a few weeks following my greatly failed attempt, we each were assigned to come up with a monologue to perform. Are you kidding? Me? (My folks nixed the sudden trip to Alaska.)

Against all odds, I came up with a monologue. I transformed myself into another girl, another time. Props to my props. A gypsy costume with full skirts and scarves and a fake finger I’d sewn out of flesh colored panty hose that was the climax of “my” story as I suddenly tossed it into the middle of the room. The art of disguise can release a magic all its own. The class was mesmerized, the teacher, spellbound. I had no idea what had happened, or how. All I knew was that later that day Mrs. Zarndt trekked through the school to find me, and in her best rendition of a humble human, begged me to join THE CLUB. What else could I do? I gave in.  

*Truth-

Yes, I absolutely did invent lip syncing back in the day! In order to coax me out of my shell in 5th grade, my parents signed me up for both private singing lessons and private elocution lessons. Guess they were desperate. Violet Brady Stewart, a powerhouse of a woman at Grace Methodist (my church at the time) was my singing teacher, a VERY big, older woman with an even bigger, overwhelmingly powerful voice. She would play the piano and sing along with me whatever musical piece she chose for me to sing.

At the end of the year just before the recital, my Dad came to my lesson with me to see how it was all shaping up. He was totally deaf in one ear, and even with his hearing aid for the other, not the best at hearing, so he was a bit apologetic when remarking to her after my private performance that he couldn't hear me at all. "Well, yes," Mrs. Brady Stewart responded,  "I've never actually heard her voice either."  

I was excused from the recital.

Magic Sheets?

The Rolling Stones got all the credit. All the money. But they owe me. Long before “Paint It Black”
rocked the music world, a strange little girl in Miss Matson’s kindergarten class at Gifford Elementary
would only color in black. No bold magenta, no chartreuse, no cerulean, not so much as a bland umber. 
Black crayon every single time. Only.

Evidently this must have been cause for alarm and I was hustled at some point in 1951 to an office to
meet with what must have been one of the world’s earliest school psychologists. At least in Elgin. I
was made to play with little dolls in front of her. I can only imagine the dolls must have lost their voices,
much as I had at school, being shy in the extreme.

And so, to the horror of my mother, this hussy of a woman came unbidden to our home for an
assessment. Nobody ever came to our home. We could play outside all we wanted with the
neighborhood kids, but no one came in. Ever. Mom was fastidious, and I just think she wanted to
keep her world in order, up to her standards. So I never learned what take away the school had from
that. But I expect I was marked. Were I to be able to see those long ago records, I might hesitate.
Dum, dum, dum da dum dum!       

But if that’s ominous, there’s more to the dark side lurking in my distant past. Maybe, just maybe,

I could have been oversensitive a bit to my Mother’s rebukes for whatever havoc I must have caused
here and there. I would be guilted and terrified by “The Look” as her stormy face and flashing eyes
signaled the fast approaching end of days.

And yet I must have felt all the dreaded spankings at the end of those “Wait till your Father gets home”
sort of days didn’t quite atone for my egregious transgressions. I became convinced that I needed to
fully bury myself under the sheets at night, so that the hit men my parents had hired and had hidden in
the bedroom walls to kill me in retribution would have a hard time hitting their target in the dark. After all,
we lived only an hour or so from Chicago, it was inevitable. But those jokers must have been a particular
kind of inept to have to show up night after night only to be foiled yet again by my magic sheets. So it
worked out for me, and I survived and learned in my ever so early years how to cope with the mob and
claustrophobia… and triumph. Take that, all you Al Capone wannabes!

And then there was the FACT that I was literally the daughter of the Devil himself. (Longggg before I
had any idea what that literally meant.) Certain that the entire world was aware of this inconvenient truth
as well, I led a semi-solitary existence, escaping only to watch Saturday morning cartoons or play all
day with half a dozen neighbor kids. These “normals” never let on that they were aware of my vile
identity, playing their roles seamlessly, no doubt secretly frightened/repulsed- have to give them credit. 

The only person I figured who was able to lovingly deal with me despite my being this appalling entity was
my Grandma Lucy. She was also the only religious person I knew, so that she could be gracious to the
spawn of Satan was quite remarkable. And don't think I didn't appreciate it!

I don’t remember at what point my pedigree changed and I was no longer the sole progeny of Evil, Inc.,

but it did, eventually. I guess that’s what Genealogy is for. 

So yes, in all modesty, I invented Paranoia. But the important take is, do you think there’s a market for
magic sheets?

Evolution

                                              (Adam Voorhes)

First day of kindergarten. My Mom drops me off at Gifford Elementary and leaves. I cry. A river. And slither out the door. Escape artist fail. Mortifying call for Mom, but fortunately she was born with the amazing sense to call Dad to come home from work to handle this emergency. Well she had no car, and toddlers at home, so guess he had the default position?

For two weeks, on and off, we do this dance. Either he has to stay with me for a while at school after getting me there, or come home and take me back to school.  And stay with me awhile anyway. I get good at tears. I get good at school. Well not so much, but good enough to not run home anymore. 

For the next seven years, I walk/run to school and back home for lunch. Campbell's Tomato Soup often, and grilled cheese! Then walk back to school for the afternoon session and back home afterwards. Raw potato slices usually, and salt. Eventually I learned to steal candy out of the drawer when no one is around to look. Becomes one of my hidden talents, and sugar addiction serves/curses me most of my lifetime. 

Even though Jr. High is a couple blocks closer, they don’t make any allowances for going home for lunch. I hate cereal, any breakfast food, so I always refuse to eat in the mornings, a rebel without a full tummy. I'm teeny tiny, but Mom packs lunches with the mindset that I might be joining the football team as quarterback or tight end. Always one and a half sandwiches. Roast beef (leftovers from Sunday) on Mondays, then rotating bologna, tunafish, pbj, idk. But who does a sandwich and a half? And I don’t dare not partake, because I'm convinced that woman has eyes in the back of her head, and probably spies at school. She tells me she has to ask others what’s going on all the time, because I never tell her anything. Heck, I never tell anyone anything. 

High School is much farther away, hence a little more privacy one would dare to think. But I know my Mom and her superpowers. So I still eat the blasted sandwiches and twinkies and fruit/veggies every single day. And become the star quarterback! With a tight end! 

It wasn’t till I escape to college 1500 miles away that I'm independent enough, at 17, to drop the routine. I'm also too broke to eat lunch so my boyfriend generously shared his cafeteria options with me. He would have the main course options and for me, the salad. I always choose cucumbers and tomatoes. Still my favorite.  

Luck is on my side and I grow up anyway, and along the way, say 50 years in, I decide to become vegetarian. This ironically after being virtually a carnivore since my first teeth came in. My sister used to sit next to me at the kitchen table, and seeing as Mom was often distracted taking care of the food and cleaning up while we ate, Jan would covertly slip whatever meat was on her plate under the table to me. And I would reciprocate and stealth bomb her my potatoes or whatever starchy offering I could clear from mine.  

And so it went. Nevertheless in 1996, I'm given a book, Diet for a New America by John Robbins, that changes my thinking, my life. Thank you, Linda Vazquez! Having been oblivious to the horrendous ways that animals were raised and abused in order to fill our voracious appetites for dead flesh, my eyes open, my heart shatters.  

Robbins deserves a lot of credit for not just exposing these practices, but for not doing so in a sensational manner to get the point across. It was how he presented what he saw and found, and lets the reader make up his own mind. And this reader does. I live on sauteed mushrooms and frozen strawberries for a year. And rice, lots of rice. Not concerned about my health, I change it up for the sake of the animals. 

Five years later when my husband's diagnosed with stage IV cancer, veganism for his health becomes urgent, paramount, and I embrace it on both levels. I have no doubt that such radical change gave him 12 extra months on earth with some especially priceless highlights for him to enjoy.  

Twenty five years later, I am so grateful for the epiphany I had to be able to make this change. But regrets? I've had a few I'd like to mention. Fifty years of eating animal cadavers is a ton of regret! Beyond sad. If only we could go back in time for some hefty do overs. However, better late than never. For the sake of the animals, and for the sake of my own health, this indelible choice has been the most tender of mercies.

"Have a Nice Day"

"HAVE A NICE DAY!"

Yeah, in all modesty, I weaponized that.

So back in the day during the absurdity that was covid, my daughter, Willow, flipped out after being told to put her mask up over her nose in a store. Her reaction to that command was not pretty. Later that night she was shocked and chagrined when her sister, Treesje told her that she was now Mom! What? Wait a second. Who me, a sweet tempered, mild mannered, paragon of virtue? 

Apparently the story about Mom going ballistic on a homeless man in the long ago has become the stuff of legends. Until a video to the contrary surfaces, take my word for it that Mommy Dearest was merely a victim here, like everyone else nowadays. I was just ahead of the curve.

So here's the background, we had spent a week delivering telephone books to homes in LaJolla/San Diego. It was summertime warm, Wayne was just a baby, and the older two kids had other jobs or plans, but every day five of the middles and Wayne and I got in the van and spent the days driving from house to house. Jared had his arm in a cast or sling, but it was as if he and Willow were in a sports competition so they would run down the road delivering these heavy phone books, and the other kids tried their best to keep up. It was far from a walk in the park. After a week, I figured we had finally earned enough funds to spend a day at the Zoo.

And so we spent a day at the Zoo! It was all fun and games. Until the end of the day. As we exited the gate and headed for the parking lot, I saw a man begging for money. It was an era when you couldn't come out of the grocery store or anywhere else without being confronted by this ubiquitous army with donation jars, usually these men and women dressed in white uniforms, white shoes, white hats. (But the plot thickens, there had been an exposé where one of the leaders of the group had bought a small yacht, so all may not have been as it seems. Who knows?) Regardless, it was something you couldn't escape. 

Anyway, we had spent every penny we had previously earned in delivery mode, and I felt both guilty and resentful to have to face this man with my pockets empty. So I was immediately inspired to give to him what I was always given after donating to the hands out brigade. Awesome! As I smiled brightly at him, I cheerfully said, "Have a nice day!" He immediately realized that meant no money, and retaliated, "No, you have a nice day!" It felt like a slap in the face, so I stopped and again insisted, "You have a nice day!" You didn't think he'd take that sitting down, did you? So you can probably guess where that went for a few minutes. My kids quickly snuck off trying to avoid the embarrassing shouting match. Oh well!

And here we are, just a few decades later, with people ending hostile social media arguments with "Have a nice day" without even giving me the credit I so thoroughly deserve. Well, you're welcome! Now go ahead, have a nice day! I dare you!

Overflow

"They've had loss and been broken more than we will ever know, but it's the tenderhearted who let life overflow."   

-Sara Watkins


So I got lost driving home after meeting my husband for our early Monday night dinner date. I knew I was going in the right direction, but a turn here, a turn there. And then where are you? A dash of serendipity. Listening to the stories on NPR as I meandered. Let the good times roll.

And there he was. Tall and slender. Hunched over as if he were hiding in plain sight. A wool beanie pulled down past his eyebrows, sheltered there under the hood of his winter jacket. In the 108 degree of Las Vegas this balmy August day.

Something compelling in his gait as he pulled his overflowing shopping cart along the sidewalk of the expansive modern shopping center I had just accidentally encountered as I tried to sashay my way home. He wasn't asking for anything as he slowly ambled along. I wasn't sure if he could see where he was going, with his face cast so downward. Maybe he was watching his feet. Maybe he was in another world, not paying much attention to this one.

I drove past him and into the next parking lot entrance so I could have a minute to get out of the car and make it to the sidewalk in time to intercept him. After finding cash to pay for pizza a half hour prior, I was aware I had a roll of at least 10 ones in my purse that I figured might now serve a higher purpose. Perhaps I had been directed here? The Universe, God, Whoever you may think... is often curiously full of detours, surprises. There are times when I look to help a homeless person, I end up chasing one down instead of just reaching out to someone on the corner with a God Bless You sign. Not every time, but sometimes.

When I got to the spot where he could hear me, I chilled a little, hesitating. Help is not always welcome, and I remembered being attacked by a little old white haired lady wearing a babushka, pushing a shopping cart a couple years ago on one of my Out to Save the World Missions, so I hesitated. Daunted, I called out, "Sir, I hope you won't be offended, but I just found this and thought perhaps you could use this more than I could tonight." He turned and let me approach. I held out my paltry wad, which he accepted. I noticed he had one dollar in his other hand, a sweatshirt sandwiched between his coat and T-shirt. We began to talk. I wanted to unnotice how filthy his tan winter coat was, but I had to check it out repeatedly just to make sure it was as disgusting as I first thought. It was. I have an unnatural love affair with washing machines, holding them in almost sacred respect--- years ago having spent hours washing dirty cloth diapers in the bathtub with water heated on the kitchen stove. But no one and nothing is invincible, and I knew that no washing machine had the superpower required to deal with this coat. How to wash away the grime and muck of the world from someone's soul if you can't even do a decent job with fabric? I despaired.

What could I do? I asked if I could give him a hug, and we embraced. He told me of his hopes to get a home with other homeless wanderers, but that it was hard because so many were drugged out or otherwise "occupied" and yet he cheerfully shared that he always dwelt on the positive because that just might make something good come about eventually. I told him of states where there was progress to the point of having no more chronically homeless, and that it was not simply charitable, but economically sound. He couldn't believe that. I mentioned Utah pioneering that effort, and he thought Utah was an extremely cold climate, and was pretty incredulous when I told him that just a hundred miles away was St. George, with a climate comparable to that of Las Vegas.

So we talked of things for half an hour. Of this and that. Of Discovery Channel (he advised me to get TV), of his Grandma and what different interpretations age old adages might have. His name was Darius. He really was intelligent. He was gentle. His smile was sweet and his eyes were kind. But they had  familiar look to them that I recognized. I knew not why at the time.

24 hours later, it came to me. In my late teens I had worked those summers in between college in a State Hospital for the "insane." So many there were people I would never forget. Etched into memory was one young woman who was brought there in restraints, her wrists and ankles tied to the bed posts in the middle of the Ward. Of course, whatever remnants of her spirit remained, immediately held hostage to the ubiquitous drugs of such a place.

I was so taken with her irrepressibly cheerful demeanor, surreal and out of place as it was. She would burst into song when anyone approached, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray...."  Her eyes were bright and clouded at the same time, exactly like those of the man I had just now encountered all these decades later. Her story shattered instantly my idyllic world bubble. She had finally broken after enduring a few years of her husband selling voyeuristic privileges to dudes who watched as he forced her and her baby daughters to perform sex acts with random strangers. So beyond my feeble imagination. My idea of Hell at the time was of burning fires to be delivered at a date yet to be announced. Never dreaming such a blazing scenario might actually be preferable to Hell-in-the-Raw-in-the-Here-and-Now.

And so I wondered what searing or smouldering Hell had led this mild man to fill a shopping cart with plastic bags and spend his days cloaked against the cold in the midst of the relentless heat. And my soul ached for his, for my songbird of long ago, and for all of us who are lost. So, so lost. But soon my tears too will be swallowed by the desert heat. And what will become of Darius?

                                                      * http://www.notesontheway.com/

Full Circle

I never met her. And yet here I was carrying a container with her ashes to their final resting place. So bittersweet. But go ahead and accentuate that sweet part... she was finally coming home with the love of her life to the place where they’d spent some of their happiest moments- Coney Island, where they courted in the 1940’s as high school sweethearts. Rae had died fourteen years previously, two months to the day after 9/11, long before we’d had a chance to meet. Her husband of almost 50 years, Ray, had wanted to bring her back to the beach they’d played on so long ago, but had worried that with the increased security measures in the wake of the September tragedy, his mission would be highly suspect, and could easily go awry. So her remains remained. In the living room of his small mobile home. And then sadly, 6 months before he would have turned ninety three, he too was translated to ash, and we began to make plans to fulfill his dream of returning them both to the place where their young love had kindled.

Making the arrangements to transport the containers from the mortuary was just one of those details, one of those red tape matters society increasingly imposes. Timing is everything and the regulations on our airline had just tightened that Fall, dovetailing with our reservations. But Paul crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s and we figured it was virtually handled. Still, the State had yet to return the final official forms to the mortuary the day before we were scheduled to leave. That night Paul was philosophical, “We’ll just have to get out to New York another time down the road.” How would we be able to afford that? I was crushed. I had such a romantic vision of this whole operation and strongly felt that the time was now, they’d waited long enough and were so ready for this final journey.

The next morning Paul called from his office with great news. Before he could share it, I had some preemptive news of my own... I had just discovered when I tried to check in online that actually our flight had already left at one minute before midnight the night before. Guess who got confused on the dates? Just like that, I'd punctured his balloon toute de suite. Dark clouds thundered deep inside me. It seemed ironic that he had just gone over and picked up the last minute paperwork from the mortuary so we could take our exceptional cargo on a plane that had already left! I was a basket case.

And in that condition I left to get to a Dr.’s appointment. I was so rattled I drove to a couple other Dr. offices in town first and was unforgivably late. It was a surprise to me that they still could fit me into their busy schedule. By the time I was in the examining room I warned the nurse that because of my situation my blood pressure would be off the charts, yet she was extremely reassuring and emphatically stressed that everything happens for a reason. I did calm down some. Some. The Dr. came in and gave me medical clearance for the surgical procedure I was scheduled to have in New York. Which was great, except how was I supposed to get to New York at this point? It would be prohibitively expensive to try and buy new tickets for the same day, and planes are usually full anyway, particularly this close to Christmas.  

NYU Langone Hospital had called the day before to switch the schedule from Saturday to Monday, so a couple days’ grace, but still. It was Thursday, and it would be a cross country 5 day drive, a bridge too far. When it rains…. Sometimes there are rainbows, in fact had we been on the right flight I would have been in NYC already and missed my Vegas Doc appointment that I needed to clear me for the surgery in New York. There just hadn't been an earlier appointment available when I made it, so I took it in the hopes of the Universe conspiring to be on the list in case of a fortuitous cancellation. But the Universe tends to get out of whack when conspiring, so no cancellation and instead this flair for the dramatic.

Things happen for a reason, I tried to repeat that silently as a mantra while I was dialing Jet Blue customer service. Let it go. Let the chips fall. I felt I had nothing more to lose, so I was calm as I explained a bit of the situation to the agent. She listened. She really listened. And she cared enough to work some magic with the help of her supervisor. I was on hold for several minutes while she was waving her sparkly wand around, and when she came back on the line, she told me that we were booked to leave that night at one minute before midnight... same exact flight, 24 hours later. And I was only charged the change fee! Bonus upgrade thrown in, how generous, Jet Blue! How were there even two seats together for us at the last minute? On a full flight? Do things really happen for a reason?

Well the plot thickened once again. Midnight came and went. 1 o'clock, 2 o'clock, 3 o'clock, all came and went. No explanation in the semi-deserted airport. Finally, as we were at long last able to board, we got an explanation. There'd been a brawl that broke out in the less than friendly skies that night among some good ole Irish hockey fans enroute to Vegas for a match. The plane was turned back around midair to JFK so the authorities could referee that situation in a more up close and personal manner. Meaning that we didn't leave the McCarran Airport till closer to 4 am, and our poor flight crew was even groggier than we were, having supersized their shift of duty. At long last though, we took off into the starry starry night. Or what little there remained of it. Isn't life pretty much an obstacle course?

So we got to New York. Eventually. And got on the Subway from Manhattan to Coney Island that Saturday. Soon we would realize our vision of returning Rae and Ray to the deserted desolate beach that had once been Coney Island, an attraction for throngs. Those were the days, long gone now, and with Hurricane Sandy slamming through here only a couple years ago, we envisioned not much left, not even debris. A place of raw, poetic solitude. It would be cold and forlorn and we would be figures enveloped in a mist of fog, fulfilling a sacred mission. I clutched Rae’s container close to me, haunted not by a ghost, but by the thought that with my track record, I conceivably could mess up something so eternally important by inadvertently leaving her on the subway. I held on tight the entire way. So tight.

Other unbidden ghosts flooded my reality then. I remembered how per my own mother’s dying request, I’d asked to scatter her ashes on my father’s grave rather than in her own plot, thinking it a simple matter. But it enraged the cemetery manager who made all sorts of threats, having cameras installed in the trees, etc. Seriously. I’d had to do so surreptitiously. So I had some baggage, a tad of apprehension, for who knew what was legal/illegal in such matters in another state? Better not to know at this point. After all. doesn’t that axiom about it being easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission hold sway at certain pivotal times? It's possible a smattering of trepidation can be useful. What better basis for a little needed discretion?

And so an hour later we disembarked and started for the Boardwalk, or more likely, where the Boardwalk used to be. Soon we saw old shops on the main street, a couple of blocks from the beach. They were all closed for the season, and looked like they had materialized from an old Kodak photograph. And behind them, behind tall fences, the roller coasters and ferris wheels and tilt a whirls and rides from another era. Spectacular! What ambiance! Who would have expected such a bonanza? Wouldn’t our charges feel right at home now?   

 

Then soon enough there we were, on the Boardwalk. It was still there! Incongruously, so were the people! OK, some people, maybe not the exact same ones of yesteryear, perhaps their kids or grandkids even. Great grandkids? It wasn't wall to wall humans like in the old postcards. Still, there were hundreds milling around in the aberrational December warmth. We weren't expecting extras in this personal documentary/drama. So guess they didn't get the memo, and our vision of the lonely poignant send off was obviously going to have some major revisions. We needed some time to edit that script, and so Paul, The Director, ever hungry, was more than happy when he noticed that the little diner on the corner was open. Turns out that Tom's Coney Island first opened circa 1934, making it the quintessential hangout for that era's teenagers. Maybe we were even sitting in the same booth Rae and Ray once had! Anything seemed possible. And overshadowed with meaning. Or were we just more open to it?

What needed to open up next though was a new vision... where and how exactly to inconspicuously, yet with suitable dignity, return them here, what with all the activity around. I found a bench to warm with Rae & Ray while Paul went to scout for the perfect spot. He came back feeling inclined to head down the beach toward the pier. As our feet first met the sand, there was rhythmic drumming coming from the pier, which seemed strange. Then as we turned to the ocean, ready to scatter the ashes, Paul remarked, “You know, neither of them were very good swimmers at all.” What? So how would that be in their comfort zone?  

“So let's bury them in the sand then, “ I volunteered. “How?” he queried. And right that second he saw a small crater in the sand ahead, much closer to the Boardwalk than the water. Obviously someone had conveniently hollowed out this little pit for this very purpose. We went and sat down. t wasn’t very deep, maybe 8 inches deep and a couple feet wide, but it was a start. I improvised and took Rae’s ashes from the container, which were secure in a heavy plastic bag, and I used the empty container to dig deeper and deeper. The cool, damp sand was cathartic; it helped me ignore all the passersby who were hopefully ignoring us, and the cadenced drumming in the distance seemed ceremonial, appropriate. We were being clandestine in intent, but paradoxically more hidden in plain sight.

It was soothing to just keep digging and digging. But the sky was darkening, and Paul thought it was more than deep enough, and so even though it wasn’t even a full two feet deep and maybe two feet long, there was ample room for them both. So the time had come. Still, it seemed like a certain je ne sais quoi would be in order as we placed the ashes into the sand. They weren’t religious at all, so I couldn’t very well offer a prayer. I don't do short prayers anyway, and Paul is a man of few words. I couldn’t sing, and he wouldn’t, so I was stymied. I was grasping for something. Ceremony? Ritual? In a flash it came to me. “Time out!  You’re Dad was a veteran, Paul, a Purple Heart Veteran, for heaven’s sake! Do you realize we can have your Dad along with your Mom interred for free in a beautiful Military Cemetery, with a 21 gun salute and all? It’s a tremendous honor, so moving. You even get to keep the flag they use as a permanent memorial." I felt like I was pleading. "We’ve not even considered this, and maybe we should. Are you sure you want to trade all that for this casual-in-the-extreme, less solemn rite? Is this maybe a huge mistake?"

Just then we saw the seagull walking deliberately towards us across the sand. No mistake. We locked eyes with him and he trumpeted a few notes. “Ray,” I said, “ you’re here.” There was no more room for doubt. I was overwhelmed, and Paul choked up. We gently started scattering the ashes into the trench. Peripheral vision revealed another seagull approaching; she hung back just a little and didn’t come as close as Ray, but her eyes were on us the whole time, and well we knew who she was. They stayed until we finished replenishing the piles of sand back on top, and then took off. It was all so very, very good. A phenomenal and very personal experience.

RIP @ Coney Island, Ray & Rae. May beachcombers and young lovers, moonlight and stars, sunsets and storms keep you company at times, and bring you full circle.

Cucumbers

After my Dad had a heart attack and the subsequent bypass surgery left him totally incapacitated from a stroke suffered during that procedure, a black cloud descended on my Mother. It was more than apparent that she could not cope with the possibility of taking care of someone on the level he might need. It was a palpable darkness, you could see it on her face, feel it in the air around her. I knew I would have to, need to, want to move back home to take care of this man I so dearly loved. I told my husband, not sure at all what he would say, how he would feel about the prospect of leaving it all behind to go far away and willingly sacrifice his wife to serve her parents. Was it too much to ask?

He never hesitated for a moment. "Of course," he replied, "when do you want to leave?" He knew full well that would mean leaving all his business contacts and trading in an office for an apron. This from a man who fed the kids cucumbers, and only cucumbers, for dinner when I was in the hospital with the latest newborn. Who evidently didn't know how to load the dishwasher, at least had never before tried. Who that same day threw the dirty cloth diapers in the washer without first rinsing them and had to buy a new washer immediately. And furthermore spread bug spray sufficiently around that night, so that the next morning the kids were violently ill when they came to the hospital to pick us up. Before we even could take the new baby home, we had to make a pit stop at the Doc's office. Not a great track record. His Mr. Mom skills might need a little polishing. But he didn't balk.

I was so happy, and grateful. We would be able to make a difference in the life of the man I had so loved and admired all my life. I was not unaware that this circumstance would change the lives of my children. That it would be hurtful and life changing for them, some more than others. Leaving friends, changing schools and more. We had been around the block with this before. And it was obvious our economic well being might become even more precarious. Sacrifice does entail real costs. But paramount in my mind and heart and soul was the quality of life of my Dad; it overrode all other considerations. Decision made.

And yet, it never happened. Dad never left the hospital and died there three months later. Sadly, we never got to the point of planning his home care and rehabilitation. A few trips... for a weekend or couple weeks... holding his hand at the hospital during that time was it. (Leaving Mr. Mom in charge back at the ranch, expecting they all could survive. Possibly.) Still stings.

Looking back all these years later, I am comforted by the realization that we truly wanted to be there for him, and would have made it happen. And I know that's the genuine article. Love. Wanting to help someone. And following through if you're granted the privilege. If only. Would it have been easy? Or a good experience for everyone involved? Obviously not. And talk is cheap, maybe the overwhelm would have had us rue the day. I have no doubt we would have stumbled. A lot. Maybe I would have made a mistake that would catapult Dad's health downwards, making things worse, not better. Torturous thought. My Mom could have ended up resenting us, I usually tried her patience. Our kids could have run with the opportunities and challenges, or run for cover. We'll never know. But I do know the depth of love I felt for my Dad in his hour of need, and I do know the depth of gratitude I have for my kids' Dad in supporting me supporting him. That covers a multitude of cucumbers.  

Requiem (Updated)

The year is winding down. And I've noticed that '11 turned out to be a time to reflect on the past a bit for random reasons, time to think back to what it was like to be part of a family in the last century. Feeling a little antique here, but it's been good to remember.

Remembering those people. Kind of fun, kind of tender. One memory leading to another. One person to the next. One photo offering up a disappeared world of smiles that no longer light up this one. Those priceless long ago faces. Faces that didn't linger around nearly long enough. And wouldn't you know they belonged to some of the best people! Isn't that the way it goes?

As a young girl, I remember my Mom wistfully mention her cousin Dale, recalling how he was the absolutely nicest guy in the world. Too nice, apparently, for his own Father's world at that time. So he got professional help for Dale in order to adjust some, I guess, toughen up. Man up, Dale. Who knows what pressures a gentle soul could face, especially back when? In his early 20's Dale had a little accident while cleaning a gun, they said. My Mom's eyes got faraway and her voice soft the few times she ever mentioned his premature death.

But I was young and so were MY cousins. We had never known him, so what did that have to do with us?  Not much. Too busy playing, too busy living. We didn't grow up spending lots of time together, but we'd horse around a few times a year... at Grandma Lukey's for Christmas, for instance, at Grandma Lucy's for Thanksgiving. I had a handful of cousins on both my Mom's side and my Dad's side. Just enough to keep it from ever getting dull at the get togethers. Maybe not a Norman Rockwell painting, but then again, that's exactly what it all seemed to be to me. 

Then blink. We grew up and most of us lost touch. But life went on, until it didn't.

Peggy (Lund) was a year or two younger than me, and she was always "on" at Grandma Lukey's... witty, vibrant, all grins. She and her older sister, Vicky, set the pace. And it was fun! But those days are long gone. Life happens, things change. Some hard times. Some intense depression. It became complicated, difficult. Until the smiles had nowhere to go anymore, and on New Year's Eve, a month before she would turn 40, the wit and vibrancy, the resiliency she had summoned for untold years... fled. And she left this world behind.

My cousin Jimmy (VanVleet), however, made it into his 50s. Jimmy was on my Dad's side of the family. Such a bright kid... top of his graduating class, good solid career as an Engineer. Grandma Lucy was so proud of him. You could have bet a lot of money on him having a successful life. Good odds. Even had a family, 3 kids. Seemed to have it all. For awhile. Then. Over time. Divorce, Diabetes, Depression. Damn.

Larry (Mills), what happened there? He lasted 58 years. Another exceptionally bright student, an Attorney, a successful Prosecutor for a long time. Found dead in a hotel room the morning of July 5th, 2013. Could it be foul play? Accidental? Non accidental? Just his time?

Diana (Lund) had a rough beginning, and not an easy life. She tried so hard, Until she couldn't anymore. And so suicide again laid claim, 2023. https://www.tributebook.com/domains/ec092348-052b-433a-a858-d64cbcf7e023/obituaries/27494457/book#

Greg (Lund) is now gone too? 

Vicky (Lund) was lost to cancer a few years ago, not sure what happened to Cathy (Mills) and Steve (Mills), but maybe medical issues? Like I said, blink. 

I look at these old photos. Happy innocent faces. Who knew? I miss them.

I miss them.

When I Grow Up

JOYCE SHOLES

Sophisticated.
Intelligent.
Classy.
And so much more.
My Aunt Joyce.

She'd put on make up every day and tailored knit suits and heels and catch the bus to downtown where she'd manage an insurance office. She was the essence of glam, in my book, the soul of independence. And I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. Once I figured out on paper how I could do exactly that... I'd just have to make $50/week to fill those shoes! Dream on!

Despite being a single career woman, or maybe because of that, she had time for us kids, her 10 nieces and nephews.  Some of that would be just letting us listen to records up in her room or hide and play in the back of her mystery of a closet in the old house she shared her whole life with my Grandparents. Maybe work a little in the yard with her. But once in awhile she'd take one of us into Chicago to see a real live play ("Oklahoma" for me), or on a trip (the shores of Lake Michigan for a few days once, another time my first trip out West-to the Rockies!)

Besides introducing us to the magic of popular music, she loved to read and shared that as well. Somehow when she would read "The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh" to me, I remember I would get wildly  hysterical every single time about the Heffalump, and it was then and there that I fell forever in love with Eeyore.

Joyce didn't seem to have a sentimental bone in her body, at least not overtly. I can't ever imagine her talking baby talk to a baby, but she WAS genuinely interested in us goofy kids and patient with our silly ways. Never felt judged by her. While she unconditionally accepted us, she still had high expectations of our minds... talking to us about ideas, books, life. She just treated us with respect, like miniature adults.

On that trip to the Rockies, I went with her and her friend to Colorado and then on to Yellowstone as a 13 year old wannabe world traveler. One lesson she taught me was at the Bali Hai Motel in Denver. I had taken a stroll around the grounds that evening and came back distraught because I had heard a group of people loudly laughing at me. Of all the nerve! She looked me in the eye and calmly said, "They're not laughing at you. You're not that important." Like that, the Universe shifted. I stopped being the center of it. The woman had power, I tell you.

A few days later we were in the Tetons at the base of a mountain where climbers were rappelling up. I had been in love with the idea of mountains ever since the first book I read about the West had claimed my soul, and I was thrilled just to be there. Then suddenly it wasn't enough. I just HAD to climb! I don't think I even had to say a word, Joyce just nodded to me and I scrambled up like a billy goat. No, like a mountain goat! Racing the real mountain climbers with all their gear.  She understood somehow, and didn't hold me back. Who else would have done that? Pretty sure I couldn't have done that any other way, at least not in such an exhilarating one. I felt capable, grown up. Like that, the Universe shifted. I became part of it.  

She taught me life lessons like that and gave me those kind of gifts that last a lifetime. I am so much the richer for having had such a woman in my life. So unbelievably grateful.

When I grow up, I'd still like to be like her.