Death, fire and fate

The flashing red lights whipped through a crack in the curtains at half-second intervals.  I huddled under a thin, thermal blanket on the hardwood floor of my brothers’ room.  My bedroom was to be given for the night to our next-door neighbors who were called back home from an evening out by their stunned and repentant teenaged children.

The fire was not their fault.

The din of voices crept up our stairs from the kitchen like a fog of malevolent spirits.  ”Where is Schatzie?”  Mrs.  Sullivan kept asking over the sobs of her son, Jimmy.  The little schnauzer had been my friend and partner before the house fire that claimed his life.  ”I’m so sorry Mom!”  mingled with the fog and slithered under the door of the room, echoing in my ears.

My brothers and I talked for a while in the thickness of the dark in an attempt to dispel the shock that rode the invading red strobe of the firetrucks lights.  Knowing it was futile, we fell into uneasy silence, not approaching sleep, but trying to discern the events that led to our pajama-clad neighbor bursting through our back door earlier that evening.

While we were blessed that it had not been our house that burned, the fire came on the heels of some difficult times for us kids.  We had moved from New York to North Carolina away from friends and relatives,  we had changed schools once since the move, and had suffered the unexpected death of our mother.  Although our dad was a steady presence in our lives, he was consumed with grief and the weight of a new job.  The fire was the last in a line of shocks that shook loose the fragile roots of predictability in our lives.

I slept with lights ablaze for years hence, trying to ward off the notion that I would not be preserved from death or fire or fate.

Me? Running? You Betcha!

My friend Amy is a “rock star” when it comes to running. If I remember correctly, she was on scholarship to a college in Virginia thanks to her accomplishments when she was on the track. So, needless to say when I decided at the age of (insert clearing of throat hear to cover the number I’m trying to hide) to run a 5 K for charity, she was the person I asked for advice shortly after I attempted to train.

Amy was very excited to give advice and even offered to run with me on the weekends. Given that I had never really been taught any kind of technique, especially with breathing, rolling from heal to toe, or gaining additional energy by effectively employing my arms to increase circulation, her consultation was a treasure.

Let me let you in on a little secret: I really loathe running. Loathe it. I have always said that I will not run unless George Clooney is in front of me. However, this may be because I had a dreadful and short lived track career in the 9th grade and because, quite frankly, it is HARD!

And so begins story time, reader. when I was in 9th grade, our little Catholic school in Greensboro must have come into some extra money, or our young gym teacher got adventuresome. For whatever purpose, Mrs. O’Neal decided to form a track team. Since my friend Missy and I finished pretty well on the required course we ran in gym class, we were invited to join the team. I was a “sporting lass” and decided I would give it a try.

Let’s just say it wasn’t a successful venture: we had just one meet. Mrs. O’Neal knew when to quit.

Due to her inestimable confidence in me, or more likely, her lack of options, Mrs. O’Neal chose me, with my short and stubby legs, to participate in (insert derisive snort here) the long jump. Yes, the long jump. The girls I competed against looked like full grown women to me. They had long legs, full breasts, and I’m pretty sure had been shaving their legs and armpits for 7 years prior to the meet. I watched the first girl jump and she cleared, oh, I don’t know — 30 feet? When it was my turn, I ran with all my might, leapt as high and far as I could and maybe hopped a foot. My opponent laughed right out loud, but graciously added, “that’s okay honey, you tried…you tried.”

I will spare you the debacle that was the relay race. I did not run again until a few short weeks ago.

It all started when my nephew’s wife Krissy invited me to attend or participate in a 5 K race to benefit Peacehaven Farm (http://www.peacehavenfarm.org). Being a non-runner, I quickly wrote her a check. But Michael and Krissy had been working so hard for the disabled in their community for some time that I was inspired by their dedication. So, I decided to participate – but not just to walk the event, to run in it. And George Clooney was not eve scheduled to appear, much less be in front of me. Just the same, I knew I had to get in shape fast. I went to my gym and talked to the trainers who set me up with a program called “From Couch Potato to 5K in 6 weeks.” I got on the tread mill and worked the program diligently. But I knew that while the treadmill was good practice, it was unlikely that the track at Peacehaven would be moving beneath me. Enter Amy.

Amy and I have been running together for just a few short weeks. Although she has been off the track for several years herself, once we decided to run together, she was back on. She taught me what I needed to know. She helped me with my form, breathing, and graciously did not absolutely smoke me right off the bat. She’s always very complimentary of me and encourages me to continue when I start to fade a little. She’s even decided to enter a 5K of her own in a few weeks.

Today as we ran together, I noticed we seemed to have developed a rhythm together. Our breathing is easier, our pace relaxed but steady, our goals and plans gelled. Its like we have developed this Vulcan mind meld, and it’s awesome. I don’t loathe running quite as much and as a matter of fact I have even begun to enjoy myself. I look forward to time on the path with my new running buddy; to the quieting my my mind with the sound of our breathing and the beat of our feet on the pavement.

Thanks to Amy, the memory of failures on the track are gone. I don’t have to win, I just have to run. And I may not need to chase George Clooney after all.

Changes big and small

Lent is here, and so far it’s been a season of changes big and small for me.  If you know me or if you’ve ever read anything I’ve ever written, there are likely hints here and there that I am Catholic.  Very Catholic.  And Lent is a huge opportunity for all kinds of growth for me - more so than the typical New Year’s resolution because I will be more consistent and persistent in doing something for someone I love rather than for myself.  And God is someone I love.

Most people associate Lent with a time to “give something up.”  In years past, I have given up fried foods, chocolate, and the internet.  While these were excellent exercises in self-discipline, when the 40 days were up, I took back every bad habit with gusto.  So where did it get me?  I don’t honestly know and that’s the problem.

What is often overlooked during Lent is the opportunity to grow closer to God by taking on some new good habits.  There’s nothing wrong with throwing out the old ones, but if no real change is accomplished, I can’t really see the point.   What our faith is trying to teach us is self-discipline as a way toward Discipleship and service to others.

With that in mind, this year, I am still eating sweets, drinking coffee and surfing the web.  However, what I’ve decided to is to fast and pray as my church has asked me; not just for purposes of my own spiritual growth, but especially for the trials suffered in the world such as school shootings, starvation, and natural disasters.  Fasting is not something I normally do (because I really love food and I’m generally self-concerned).  But over the past few years, something changed in me.  I’ve been sincerely touched by the people in my life who have witnessed to me by word and action; who are constantly giving to others, thinking of others, praying for others.  It is clear God has surrounded me with such people to teach me to grow closer to Him.

I’ve also decided to meditate on the book of Sirach.  Sirach is like the book of Proverbs on steroids.  Reading this spiritual guidance has been like getting smacked in the face with the dodgeball every night.  I’m seeing stars — and loving it!  It’s just what I needed and God brought me to it very deliberately.

Although Fat Tuesday is long past, it’s never too late to begin a good habit.  If you haven’t decided what you are going to (or if you are going to) give up for Lent, I invite you to give up the futile practices that don’t make you a stronger and better witness to your own beliefs.  Take up a meaningful new way of life whether it be something as big as organizing a fundraiser for a charity or as small as passing up a meal and being mindful of those who go without because they have no choice.

If these were academy awards I would now be boring you with a list of thank you’s to people you don’t know.  But it’s my blog and I’m going to thrill you with a list of thank you’s to some people you may just know (and there’s no orchestra to cut me off!)

Thank you:  SISTER LAURA, BROTHER(FATHER) WILL, BROTHER GRAHAM, SISTER ELIZABETH, MOTHER CAROL, UNCLE (DEACON) STEVE, EILEEN, MAMA SHIRLEY, CHARI, SUZETTE, TERESA, ROSEMARY, VALERIE (AND MY MANY OTHER CRHP SISTERS), LOREE, ANNE, CHERYL, KRISSY (AKA POSH SPICE) AND MICHAEL (AKA BECKS), FATHER RICHARD BELLOW, FATHER BILL PHARR (RIP), MARJORIE, ANN K., LINDA B., BILL L., “MY JENNAY”,  and of course my very patient and forbearing spouse, FRANK!

I know I’ve left a ton of people off my list and I beg your forgiveness…your 5 minutes of blog fame is sure to make its way to the light of day.  Many blessings and a fruitful and productive lent to you all.

 

Those Kids

Sometimes, it’s all worth it.  Sometimes you get the much anticipated gift of knowing your hard work has paid off.  I am speaking of course, of when your kids “do you proud.”

We live in a small NC town where people know each other or know more about each other than they would prefer.  In a town like this where anonymity lasts about 5 minutes after you move into your neighborhood, it is crucial that your kids not become — you know — Those Kids.

Several few weeks ago we were dining at Gianni’s, one of our favorite restaurants in uptown Concord, and the waiter in the pizza loft was chatting with us as he was taking our order.  He mentioned that he had a band and was going to play a gig for his album launch at a kitschy little restaurant/pub across the street called Little Robert’s.  Our teenage daughter Clarke chirped back that she had a band, too, because first of all Kevin is a good looking young fellow, and secondly, she’s a teenage girl with functioning eyeballs.

Kevin, invited her band to open for them without having heard the band at all, which was both generous and brave of him.  We realized this was a great opportunity and immediately encouraged her.  She said she would check with her band and let him know for sure.

I asked how much she would be paid.

Well, since Kevin is of legal age, he and his band were being paid in beer.  Clarke would be paid with experience.  Still, it was a good opportunity.  She got her band members to agree and she and Kevin agreed a few days later that they would perform for about 20 minutes.

The band practiced several times.  My husband Frank and I made all concessions to ensure she got as much practice as necessary, as we were very excited for her and proud for her to have the experience.  We told our friends and family about the gig, and several people agreed to come.  This thing was happening!

The night before the gig, we were back at the pizza loft enjoying ourselves and Kevin and Clarke were chatting about the next night.  Then he said it…the thing that changed everything…he said he was looking forward to her 30 minute set.  Clarke doesn’t speak rock and roll and took him very literally at his word.  She called the band members the next day and said they needed to throw in a couple of covers to stretch the set and make the 30 minute requirement.

The bass player would have none of it.  He baldly stated that it was a recipe for disaster and that the band was in fact NOT ready for the gig.  He was not coming.  After several hours of back and forth with the drummer and  lead guitarist discussing plans and attempts to convince the bassist that everything would be fine, the efforts came to nought.  The boy would no longer answer his phone and fled to his girlfriend’s house.

His reason for not showing was simply that because it would make the band look bad for them to show up and not play well, so he refused to try.

And this is when our girl began to shine.  She called the lead guitarist and stated that she had made a commitment to Kevin and that people were counting on them.  “We may suck,” she told him, “but we’re going to play no matter what.”  The guitarist, Heath (God bless him) agreed.  This was at 3:30 pm when they were supposed to be at the pub for a 6 pm sound check.

Clarke spent the rest of her afternoon coming up with a song list of covers and original music, printing the music she needed, tuning and practicing.  She timed each song to be sure they met the time requirement.  She went to the pub, met up with Heath and they went over the music from sound check until set time.  (The drummer, for reasons unknown, also did not show that night but it turned out to be for the best.)

She and Heath rocked it.  Make no mistake, our Clarke is very talented, and for that we are extremely proud of her.  But the fact that only half of the band showed up, and she made it happen with a fresh set of tunes and sheer determination blew us away.  It blew everyone away.

I told Heath he was my hero and kissed him on the forehead.

I told his parents how awesome their son was.

I danced when my daughter sang and embarrassed her to tears, but she kept singing.

Yeah, Clarke and Heath are Those Kids:  Those Kids that made us proud!

Getting to NO you

I have a very dear friend, whom I’ll call “Suzette” (because that is her name, after all) who gave me much to think about recently. Since I haven’t pontificated in a long time, I figured this was a good tangent to go on.

Suzette was having a bit of a bad time when she came to visit a couple of weeks ago. Without going into the details, she said she came to see me because she knew I wouldn’t “hand her a line” about her concerns and that I would cut straight to it, so to speak, and give her the truth. Who knew? I’m apparently an honest person despite all my years of practicing to be the penultimate sniveling, conniving weasel. (Ask my siblings — they will confirm the characterization). I credit my husband with delivering the proper relationship training, but that is for another blog.

During our visit, my delightful “Sister Suze” at one point said, “Well, when someone asks you to do something for them, you should never say ‘No’: you just DO IT.”

I guffawed. (Hey, I’m honest — I never claimed to have developed any tact.)

“Since WHEN?,” I nearly shouted, “who told you THAT?” Suzette paused. “I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just something I believe — that you’re never supposed to tell anyone ‘No’.”

Although the words flew out of my mouth before I was aware they were leaving my lips, I knew once they were out, that my friend and I had vastly different belief systems and that my beliefs were relatively new to me. I had, much like Suzette, been raised to put others first, be respectful and above all, to do what I was told. There is merit to such an upbringing, but I think something got lost in translation or the carry-over to adulthood became twisted. Suzette and I discussed the matter further after I apologized for my outburst. She and I came to the understanding about something she read in her daily devotional earlier that day. She read what I now call The Great Unsaid. The Great Unsaid is the fact that that we have every right and are even obliged to say no, when what is being asked of us is detrimental to our own physical and emotional well being. It’s not that we should turn down every request for help or favors, but sometimes enough is too much. We forget that — or rather, no one ever said it to us in the first place.

Today’s middle-aged American women were conditioned by the past generation in a most contradictory way. Although we came of age during or shortly after the Feminine Revolution when women began entering the professional workforce, it was a time when women were not necessarily to have it all, but rather to DO it all. This was best embodied in a smarmy and annoyingly catchy perfume commercial jingle from the 1970‘s that went, “I can bring home the bacon…fry it up in a pan…and never never never never let you forget YOURE the MAN…‘cause I’m a woooooman: Enjoli.”

WHAT THE HELL KIND OF MESSAGE IS THAT? Okay, go into the workforce if ya wanna, woman, but don’t forget to have my dinner on the table when I get home!

No wonder Suzette thinks she’s never supposed to say no. Hopefully, I can disavow her (and you, reader) of that notion.

I propose that we learn to and practice saying no from time to time. Here are some guidelines to consider, should you decide take up the cause:

Say NO when there is simply not enough time to take care of everything you have already planned for your day/week/month. (Note: author is completely guilty of over-packing her schedule like a piece of luggage after a Disney vacation)
Say NO when you are already exhausted and truly need to rest
Say NO when your financial means dictate that you can’t afford to buy another roll of wrapping paper, set of costume jewelry, or cookware
Say NO to “takers.” We all have takers in our lives. You know who they are. Not only can you say no to them, you should change your number and address if necessary to avoid being drained by them like a sink full of dirty dish water.

I also propose we remember to say YES, too, but to keep some perspective in mind:

Say YES out of love and genuine kindness instead of obligation
Say YES to help build or strengthen relationships you WANT to build and strengthen
Say YES when the request is in line with your moral, religious and ethical beliefs
Say YES when there is emotional benefit for you as well as the person you are assisting
Say YES because you WANT to and you have the time, energy and means to help.

Okay everyone, got it? Good. There will be a test!

You said what?…no test? What do you mean, “NO”?

Good, you’re catching on!

More to come

Things have settled down. Long time no post, but that will be amended this week. Sorry to starve you , fan, but I’ve been working with my co-editors and the publisher of moonShine review to get the next journal out. Now that I’ve read so much great work, I feel inspired to put out more of my own.

So, thanks for reading and I’ll be back with you shortly.

Adventures in Driving

Like most Catholics, I am a firm believer in the help I receive from Guardian Angels. Tonight, as my daughter and I set out on an errand, I prayed that Jesus would cover us in His protection…forgetting all about poor Flossie, my Guardian and friend for Life. Luckily for me, Flossie shows patience with me.  Otherwise, I’d have been dropped from the protection roster long ago.

Anyway, on our merry way home, Clarke had to change lanes in order to make her turn. There was a short span of available lane for her to use and she dutifully checked her blind spot, as did I.  Neither of us saw the *insert your favorite insult here* coming from behind her to pass her, and as she was half way into the lane change, this (ahem) individual came careening up on her right side, blowing the horn and maintaining position with a roaring engine.

To say I “squeaked a bit” might be an understatement, but rest assured the squeak was in stereo. Clarke pulled back out of the lane allowing the (ahem…) individual free rein to speed by us and jet forward another hundred yards, so that he or she might get to wait at the red light just a little sooner than would have been possible had they applied their brakes.

Once our hearts were out of our mouths and we could speak through the panting, I told her I pray a blessing over people like that. “Heck, it’s only traffic,” I said, “Grow up, chill out and move on…ya know?” “Yeah,” she breathed, still stunned from the experience. “So, it’s a good thing our Guardian Angels were looking out for us, huh?” she asked. Then she said she didn’t know the name of her Guardian Angel or whether she had a girl or a boy protector.

“Flossie!” I said. “Mine is named Flossie!”

“How do you know that?” She said. “I heard you’re supposed to pray to them and ask them to tell you their name,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

“Well, I did that,” I replied. “I did that and my angel said ‘Flossie.’ I heard it in my head.” Then I began to laugh. I began to laugh really hard.

Clarke glanced at me as if she thought she might have to keep driving to the funny farm and drop me off.  You see, I had been imagining meeting Flossie. What if our little incident had turned out for the worst and I came face to face with my very own Guardian Angel? In my mind’s eye, Flossie was standing by the side of the road, arms crossed wearing a disgusted look. Head shaking side to side, Flossie, who closely resembled Mean Joe Greene, growled at me, “Flossie! FLOSSIE?!” That wasn’t me talking in your head — that was that jive-ass Gabriel messing with me again! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Claire…the name’s Crusher. Now, c’mon and I’ll take you to God…

…she’s got a thing or two to talk to you about!”