Getting High (Jr. edition)

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 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. 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 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 I was 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.

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. 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, shook his head and pronounced, "YOU DESERVE TO DIE! JUST DIE."  

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.  

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 far away from him. 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.

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 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.

The Irony

Does it make any sense to you at all that on many days, tiny me was "in charge" of our tiny ER? Me neither. But there I was in the diminutive (2 exam tables!) room across from the hospital kitchen and next door to the Morgue. Dr. Andy Nowakowski was the official Elgin Police Department Physician, so accidents, crimes, DOA's, etc. were supposedly sent to (125 bed) St. Jo's instead of to the newer, bigger Sherman Hospital a few blocks away.  Hmmm.  

At any rate, when I was there, always by myself, if someone came in (no advance notice back then- no cell phones, etc.---  ambulance or walk in, there would just suddenly be people showing up at the door), well there I was! Just me. Can you imagine how reassuring it would be to rush into a hospital ER in sheer desperation, only to be met by a 13 year old volunteer who would get you on an examining table? So I would immediately call up to the 4th floor Surgery Department, and a Resident Dr. accompanied by a Surgical Nurse would jump on the somewhat rickety service elevator and appear a few minutes later to save the day. Or at least try to. 

To pass the time in between these pressing emergencies to deal with, I would assemble surgical trays for the sterilizer. Some days were slow. Some days anything but.

Somehow I never reacted emotionally. I got used to different situations and was always able to be calm regardless of the degree of injury. Until that one day. They brought a baby in from an auto accident. This was an age of no seat belts, no car seats, not much in the way of accident prevention; but according to my perception there was a heck of a lot less traffic, less idiots on the road, at least that's how I remember it.  Your mileage may vary. 

So I had them put the baby on the exam table while we waited for the Dr. and Nurse to appear. And as soon as they did, I bolted from the room. The one and only time I ever did. That tiny little nose had been severed and was only attached by a tiny flap, and it seemed unbearable to me that this vulnerable itty bitty human had to suffer like that. I couldn't take it. I had to leave.

I'm sure there were many people that came to that room in greater agony than that little soul, but for some reason, it just hit me harder than anything else had. Perhaps because most patients were adults. Ironically, 10 years later I would find myself, arms loaded with a laundry basket full of wet clothes to hang in the sunshine, swinging open the back door of my house, and knocking my own 18 month old baby boy off the porch, thus severing his nose. The Dr. who was stitching him up told my husband that he was way more concerned with me than the baby because I was so unhinged. Life is weird, no? So sorry, Adam.

After Life

The tiny ER, where I was sent to spend most of my time that year, was next to the tiny Morgue, which had a door with a window of frosted glass, so you couldn't see in clearly, no doubt a good idea. But you could see motion. Very quickly that summer I had become convinced that I was destined to be a Doctor who would save the world. So suddenly the ER and neighborly Morgue had great significance for me. 

One day I came in from outside through the Ambulance Entrance, and stopped in front of the Morgue door because I could tell there was activity within, and I was intrigued and fascinated. Until. The loud buzz of a saw and cracking sounds shot out from that now gruesome-to-me-room, and I bolted, crying out the Ambulance Entrance to escape the grim reality. Obviously they were doing a cranial autopsy at that point. And I was certain that even though I had been able to handle blood and guts and tears and screams, this was a bridge too far, never going to be something I could deal with. We all have our limits, right?

Ironically enough, I did end up going back into the Morgue itself several times that summer. Turned out that Felix, the Pathology Tech from Puerto Rico, took an interest in my MD aspirations, and encouraged me, or so I thought. He would take me upstairs into the Pathology Lab at times, and then downstairs into the Morgue, when no one else was around, to show me the ropes. I still vividly remember the first dead body I saw laying on the metal slab in the middle of the room, a young woman of 28, with very black hair and very yellow jaundiced skin. Just seeing her so young body, forever stilled, and thinking of what her family must be going through was a shock. There were other cadavers, of course, but isn't there always something about the first that you can't forget? I am so grateful to have never witnessed a young child there.

I don't know if those kind of places should be some kind of hallowed or not, but I do think the dead deserve respect. Apparently Felix felt otherwise, as I soon enough discovered. Come to find out, he was not actually interested in medical goals, or dead bodies, but in young girls and their live bodies. His wife was an aide I knew from the OB floor. I wonder if she knew what he was up to? I had no problem in bolting from that situation after what he tried with me, but soon enough I noticed the Morgue being used as a rendezvous spot for him and an older teenage girl who worked in the kitchen. Awkward! But my chilling time with the corpses was over.

Hospital Interlude

Candy Striper. What on earth? Could that be what you called someone who made fudge? Cotton candy? Random possibilities come to mind with that term, but actually it was the moniker for teenage girls who volunteered at hospitals in the USA back in the 60's. All because of the pink and white striped pinafore that was the ubiquitous uniform identifying such a strange creature. 

Well count me in!

I started out on a rather humble level at thirteen. Maybe I'd read a book where cute interns fell all over themselves drooling over starry eyed, fresh faced, teeny bopper volunteers in such beguiling outfits.  Must have been way into fiction back then. Anyway I signed up, and the matronly Supervisor of Volunteers soon had me sitting around a table with other girls, all of us sewing dolls of some kind for little patients. Did I mention I don't sew? And I didn't want to learn, seeing as a sewing circle in a back room didn't seem like a handy way to meet interns, after all.  

So call it an inconvenient reprieve. They signed me up as a "victim" for the emergency crisis practice drill. On a blistering hot summer day, we were on cots in the hostile sun out on the hospital lawn, waiting to be triaged by the (hopefully handsome) firefighters/paramedics. I was really into it, having passed junior high drama class and even making drama club, but by the time they got around to me, it had kind of gone to my head, and I couldn't even remember my own phone number by then, much less what bones were supposed to be broken, wounds festering, etc. Or I feigned it. Go figure, there were a few puzzled hospital personnel who were not at all impressed with my performance of a scatterbrained fake casualty. And surprisingly, no hot date with a first responder either (never mind that I'd never had a date of any kind at all yet).  

It must have been obvious that I wasn't just a one trick pony because the next thing I knew, I was assigned to sit at the front desk so I could greet and shepherd visitors to the right rooms. Even though I have absolutely no sense of direction, I could do this, as the elevator was right behind me, so I could look up a patient name, give a room number, and nod knowingly to the elevator over my shoulder. One Saturday a middle aged wiseguy came up to me and asked me what exactly I was doing there. "Oh," I smiled, "I tell people where to go." He started laughing and said, "You do? Well hey, that's everybody's dream job!"

I did all this with such utter finesse, that I was promoted to the medical floor pretty quickly! Soon I was running countless samples up to the Lab on the 4th floor and refilling ice water for patients at St. Joseph Hospital. Somehow I graduated quickly to feeding the helpless, emptying bedpans for the bed-bound, changing bed sheets, taking vitals, running to the rooms when the light when on to call the nurse, and giving back massages in the evenings to relax weary muscles and bones and souls into merciful, if constantly interrupted, sleep.  

I felt useful, needed, appreciated. I could make a difference, albeit small. Finally I had a purpose. So basically I decided to live there. Well almost. My Mom said the car automatically would just drive to the Hospital. And I received a pin for volunteering 1500 hours the first year.

But often these random functions were punctuated by the very grim reality of people in pain, people on the edge, people with needs far beyond what I had ever imagined. At the far end of the 3rd floor was the Ward, with beds for men who were indigent, or at least without sufficient insurance. On my first day making myself useful by going up and down the hall with a cart full of ice water, I finally found myself in The Ward, going from patient to patient, refilling their metal pitchers, helping some to get a drink, when suddenly a hand of bones shot up from a bed and grabbed mine. Startled, I looked down into the bed where a wisp of what once had been a man lay, and as his eyes penetrated mine, he almost loudly gasped, "Help me! Help me! They're taking my body away from me!" I was paralyzed by what this literal skeleton had just uttered. Or was it by the sheer inexplicable strength of the grip he momentarily held me in? But just as suddenly he turned away, releasing me as his strength and voice both faded into eternity. I never knew his name, but never will I forget his anguished face.

Oh What A Day!

Who can say when moments like these will happen? Moments where the whole world appears so spellbinding, so outrageously beautiful, so perfect, that it seems both surreal and at the same time more real than anything you've ever known. 

Even though I was barely 5 years old, I was keenly aware that day as I was walking home from kindergarten that something definitely out of the ordinary was happening. All alone, as I looked up into the sky, I was aware of seeing a blue I had never before even imagined. More than cerulean. Deeper, palpably more intense than any Crayola crayon ever created, any wave that ever crested, any sparkling jewel ever coveted. I didn't just see blue--- it was somehow part of me, or I was beautifully part of it! 

And the white of the clouds in contrast, so brilliant, so pure. They were vivid, delicious. And the trees--- greener than green, and so alive I could see vibrant life in every leaf. Each oak, maple, willow towered over me and shimmered in the dazzling light show especially for me. It filled up my senses. Tasting the colors, smelling them, touching the inside of the world. Being touched. It all blended into my very being.  

I melted into the warmth and glory of the sun, the gentle breeze was my very essence. As if I had jumped into my own finger painting, caressed by the swirls, enveloped in the colors. It seemed as though time had finally stopped, and yet the world had just truly started, all fresh and beyond words to describe it, only to feel it. 

I don't know if I ever really thought much of God before that day, but at that moment I knew He existed, and was perfect. I loved Him wholly. Never was I more alive. Ever after, I began searching for Him, whom I had really already found. Paradox has since been my marker for truth in that journey. 

There are some moments, some days where the overpowering inspiration of it is an overwhelming gift to forever be grateful for. 

Or could it be that's there for us everyday, simply if we become aware of it? Tell me, how does it get any better than this?

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. 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.

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, 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 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 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.  Idk.  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 it has sufficient room for most of us, what do you think the chances are Mother Teresa will ever speak to me?  

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, 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?

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- 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 comparabable 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, 2, 3, 4 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.

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!  Incongrouously, 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 dozens and dozens 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.  It 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 we well 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.

O Holy Night

Our first Christmas in Bavaria (Southern Germany) was different.  You were two months old and we had just moved there two weeks before to join a certain young soldier who had been stationed there since you were 3 days old.  We were poor, and lived in an apartment a block from the Blue Danube, above a teenage discotheque, next to a couple of prostitutes, Frederika and Eva.  It was all we could do to get oil for the heater to keep warm, and when we would get the oil, it would explode all over, and I would have to clean black soot from the walls.  I had to boil water on the stove to be able to wash cloth diapers in the bathtub. Every other day for dinner we had a 15 cent package of macaroni and cheese to share, along with a small package of frozen peas.  Those were the good days.  I lost 30 pounds in 2 months and got down to 95!

So obviously we couldn’t afford a Christmas tree.  But then. On the 23rd we went to a Christmas tree lot and they gave us one of the trees that hadn’t been sold.  Maybe it wasn’t breathtaking, and yet to us, it absolutely was.  I strung popcorn and made garlands out of paper chains.  What could be more beautiful?  The downside was that even though we were together for our first family Christmas, our Soldier Boy had volunteered to take on someone else’s guard duty Christmas Eve night and into Christmas Day because we really needed the money. Here we were next door to the Black Forest and the Land of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and our reality was less fairy tale with a tiny side of grim. So the new momma and baby spent some more quality alone time and we celebrated a little when he got back that night. All's well that ends well.

Our second Christmas in Germany was a little more involved than our first rudimentary one on many counts. Another year, another new baby, another Christmas tree. But it was different in the respect that Dad was able to be home with us this time. That was our extravagance. I was excited to be able to have our little family together for the Holiday, but I started remembering the year before, how it was to miss him, and to think of how lonely and cold it had to have been for him to spend the night in the cramped, cold guardhouse. This year we were so abundantly blessed. To have him not be in Viet Nam. To have him home with us. How lucky can you get? I felt so spoiled this time.

And that made me think of the guardhouse, and who would be spending that special night there this year. Or was it Dad remembering that rather unique experience he'd had the year before?  Of course, it wasn't on my mind until it actually was Christmas Eve, so we jumped at this sudden inspiration and got into action spontaneously. Better late than never. I spent the evening making cookies for the soldiers who would be huddled in the tiny guard booths throughout the base. It took a while. We packed our babies into the ancient VW Beetle, and took off at midnight to make our rounds. Once we were on our way, we did have just a second to wonder if these guys with guns would mistake us for Santa...or Russian spies.

We were in the middle of the Cold War, and you never knew. Deep breath. We pressed on. It was cold and dark (imagine that) and it felt amazing to surprise these guys who were alone, and probably a tad homesick, on Christmas Eve, and see how grateful they were for a such a bit of unexpected thoughtfulness. Off the wall.  Hardly Bob Hope and the USO, but still.... Probably most of the soldiers on duty were single, missing loved ones far, far away. I'm sure it just seemed that way, but the stars appeared so much brighter to me right then. Dazzling.

You know, it was such a simple thing to remember the lonely that night, but that experience will always remain one of my all time favorite Christmas memories. I learned all over again how a little kindness goes an awfully long way, and I was always grateful that over the years our whole family enjoyed nothing more than our tradition of Ding Dong Ditching when leaving goodies as Family Home Evening Phantoms. Who knows, maybe those seeds were planted way back when one holy night.    

HO HO HO!