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.

Thrum and Buzz

Since my father’s passing several years ago
There began to grow in my
inner, spiritual ear,
a persistent buzzing.

It was faint at first
but as I have excelled to those years
When he, at my age, was sole parent,
the thrum yet increased.

Rizzz! I heard when we got a dog
My father thought dogs to be
Antichrist incarnate

Ruzzz sounded the alarm
more firmly still
when my teenage daughter
casually flaunted the word
“butthole” at the family dinner table.

Shaking my finger within my ear
to clear the gnat-like noise,
I could not clear
that growing disturbance
which somehow also
brought familiar comfort.

It was when my husband
announced the impending
ponytail intended for his crown
that the low hum began
and would not cease

Riiiiiiizzzzzzz screamed the noise
the morning I fixed my beloved’s hair
into a beguiling golden cascade
and my daughter wore blue jeans to church
My head sought to split from the
whine so like a dentists drill.

Oh MY – when the full impact
washed over me
What sweet relief to know the source
was merely the sound
of dear Papa Bear
spinning in his grave.

Winter evening repast

the moon is waning and wet weather this way comes
Pork chops fresh from the brine glisten invitingly;
No notion brews for the poor little cutlets
That they are to meet a fiery
And delicious end

apple crisp gurgles and wafts cinnamon
from the oven
and asparagus spears snuggled in prosciutto
stoically bides  time in the fridge
their blanching now complete

Balsamic vinegar stands at attention
and ground pepper lightly dusts
the spear headed vegetables
like an early winter flurry

My glass of wine calls to be refilled
while the waning moon hides among mist covered stars
As dinner is served, I think to myself
Winter does not suck.

Fashion Ballet

I watched the slow, disjointed dance

Three sets of bare feet
Pas de basque
in separate stalls
As shoppers try on various items
at the consignment store

A pointed toe in the center stall,
disappears briefly into a plaid short leg
then touches down
twists against a grimy carpet
Heel flows lightly to the floor

To the left, a frilly skirt
sways briefly into view
and rises blithely
above caramel colored knees
plump calves and flat feet

Whooshing poly-cotton provides percussion
As a chipped pedicure
Turns wallward and back
Wallward and back

Denim rustles on center stage
the snick of a snap
the creak of a cheap plywood door
Signals the end of the dance

Exit stage left.

Ode to the summer ‘do

At 9 years of age
He is spunky and bright
His hazel-gray eyes

dance beneath

a wiry ash blond fringe
and frame a freckled pug nose

How best to honor
the spirit of a boy

on the verge of summer
and on the brink

of incomprehensible changes?

With a new ‘do, of course

With a manly new ‘do.

Hotel Hornet

One of the unintended consequences of the home renovation this far has been an influx of unwanted bugs and critters on the inside of my home.  These are creatures that I try my best to avoid in the great outdoors, so imagine my horror to find them in my kitchen and den on a regular basis.  Now, before your skin gets the creepy crawlies, don’t be too alarmed.  We suffer no roaches here and our ant condo association days are on hiatus for the time being.  However, we’ve recently been host to a spate of hornets.

Many years ago, when we moved to Charlotte, there was a team by the name of the Hornets here and their mascot was the cutest thing!  It had unreasonably large dark eyes and a sort of pointy-down bottom covered in furry black and yellow stripes.  How quaint!  Maybe not-so-much in real life.  Besides, I never forgave them for the “bundling” incident when they tried to package funding for their (wholly unnecessary) new arena within the bond referendum for arts and science.  After that, the city of Charlotte held the door open for them and invited them to be brats elsewhere, hoping the screen door did hit them where the Good Lord split them on their way out.

But I digress.  Real, actual hornets have not so much invaded 714 Union, but they’ve been showing up like unwanted tourists in Washington DC during the spring bloom of the dogwoods.  One day as my daughter stretched out on the floor to watch iCarly or Wizards of Waverly Place or some such drivel, one of the nasty creatures (the hornets, not iCarly) stung her bony little hand.  How rude!  And this morning, when I arrived in my kitchen and turned on the light to give my beloved spouse the gift of freshly brewed coffee, there lay one brazenly napping on the white tile behind the sink.  It was so inert, I delighted myself to think it dead.  Before reaching out to sweep it away, though, I decided I’d better be sure.  “You alive, little sucker?” I cooed at it.  The hornet played possum.  I blew on it ever so gently then, held my breath and stepped back a bit and waited.

HA!

I woke it, apparently and it was not the least bit gracious about my intrusion.  It began to flutter its translucent wings and try to rouse itself to no avail.  Perhaps it had been drinking my vodka and was slow to move.  Well, that thought was more than I cared to entertain, so I reached for…ant spray.  Snap!  It was all I had, so I made do.  Blasting it with three long bursts, I declared, “DIE, you ugly thing – DIE!”  To my surprise, it obliged, but in a most horrific way.

I don’t believe I’ve ever actually seen anything or anyone “curl up and die” but I’ll be darned if it didn’t do just that in slow and dramatic fashion.  Its body curled into a tight C as its multitudinous flailing legs kicked in a furious attempt to fight it.  It’s wings moved so fast as to appear to be in a strobe light with vague flashes reflecting off them.  And as the fight to remain alive and most likely rise up and put a welt on my nose continued, the stench of the spray attacked my eyes with such ferocity that I almost regarded the insect with pity.  “Man that’s gotta burn!” I thought as I watched its final spasms.

I reached for a napkin and swiped the corpse from the counter top.  “You’ll hurt no one in my family today, sir,” I chided and tossed the lifeless form into the trash.

Middle age

Last weekend, during “the blizzard” of Charlotte 2010, I attended a poetry reading which featured my friends and fellow writers Anne Hicks and Richard Alan Taylor.  At the close of the performance time for the featured readers there was an open mic session.  Anne made me aware of this before hand, but I had been poetically dry for a while and didn’t feel like I had anything new to offer.  That afternoon, before I left, the snow began to fall and I began to fantasize about quiet, snowy mornings and hunkering down with something good to read.  There is a fireplace in my kitchen and when the home renovations are finished, there will be a sitting area in front of that fireplace with cozy chairs, a floor lamp and coffee table.  At that time, my roof was still leaking and the possibility of snow melt finding its way into my kitchen cupboards, made the fantasy all the richer.

As of today, the new roof is complete:  the house is water tight and I am excited enough about that fact to re-live that warm, wonderful feeling that growing older and more comfortable is within easy reach.  Knowing how blessed I am to live in America where I can vividly picture this blissful possibility, I share the following poem that I wrote last week for open mic at Green Rice Galleries

Middle Age

Hot buttered toast
Crisp fried maple bacon
And a bowl of cheese grits

Taken with tea,
The morning medications,
And the paper

The joy of quiet simplicity
The click of the heater turning on
To squeeze out the damp winter morning

Elicits a sigh over the kitchen table
The crinkled newsprint pages turning…
It is peaceful

This is middle age.

1/29/10

The Ghost of Christmas Transition

It’s a new Christmas here.  For years, I spent Christmas at my in-laws, did the “Santa” thing at home with the kids the next day, went to church and hopped into the car for a trip to my dad’s in Greensboro.  We’d go and have cocktails, eat dinner, tear into the gifts with all the nephews and nieces and chat with AMR and Uncle Carl.  And every year since the kids were little, I’d complain about having to make that trip.  Two years ago after dad’s passing, I stayed so busy I didn’t take a moment to let it in.  This year, it is here in full force – the Ghost of Christmas Past swirls about my kitchen and shouts at me to “Snap out of it for heaven’s sake!”  The Ghost of Christmas Present is jingling about singing that it’s time for a new tradition:  “Hooray – all you’ve wanted for all these years!  You’re very OWN Christmas”.  The Ghost of Christmas yet to come looks at me silently and shrugs.

He pisses me off.

So I turn on some music, pour a glass of wine, boil the potatoes and blog my way through this gray day of transition.  I miss my brothers and sisters.  My children seem disappointed in their gifts.  But this is all melancholy; it is not how Christmas is intended.  I hear Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come chuckle.  The bastard.

My resolve returns.  I decide I will not be pressured or intimidated by the secular nature of the season.  The gifts, the lights and the food will not be the center of this day.  I will light the white candle of my advent wreath and enjoy the ham my husband has labored over today.  Baby Jesus is in His manger on the hearth.  I imagine He purses his tiny mouth and blows a comforting breath through my kitchen dispelling the three trouble-causing spirits and filling my home with the Holy Spirit.  A new Christmas is beginning as I let go of what once was.  My fingers seem stiff and unyielding, but they will bend in time.  As the gentle and holy breeze washes over me, they will relax and I will move blithely forward.  The gray day will roll away.

Next year I will decorate, sing, and spread much cheer.  Not all Christmases will be as those I imagine to be in my future.   Some holidays will be like this year, which hosts “The Ghost of Christmas Transition.”  Luckily it’s not a permanent condition.  I chuckle and shrug back at Christmas Yet to Come.

How lucky am I???

Most everyone that knows me knows that when I was 7 years old, my mother passed away.   She was 41 years old.  I have outlived her by 2 years now and am beginning to see many unfinished circles complete.  My own daughter has a best friend that I am delighted to have in my home, and Amanda, who is a blessing to my daughter, is also a blessing to me.  I have granted her “Honorary Daughter” status.  By the same token, even at my age, I have recently been granted “Honorary Daughter” status once again. This is the most wonderful gift that women give each other.  One of the unfinished circles I have the pleasure to experience has been my opportunity to pass this gift along.

Although I had to survive the excruciating pain and fear of the blind-siding loss of my mom, God has granted me abundant grace in love from other women over the years.  No one can ever replace my own mother, but I have been ever so blessed by the many wonderful women brought into my life.  One such woman was Gullinore Campbell, who became for me “M.O.Y.” during my 7th grade year.  I had decided that she was not just “Mother of the Year” but “Mother of ALL Years” for the simple fact that she listened attentively to me.  She asked me about my problems, offered comfort, advice and support.  She was exactly the kind of nurturing spirit a pre-teen needed.  MOY taught me how to attend to the sniveling drivel of a twelve-year-old.  (Not that my own daughter snivels or drivels, but Clarke definitely benefits these thirty-one years later from the gift of attending I learned from MOY.)

In my young adulthood, I had the pleasure to work with a lady named Loree Charles.  Loree taught me humility and Christianity by the way she lived her life.  When I met her, she had recently returned to work after caring for her mother and step-father, both of whom had Alzheimer’s Disease.  She dealt with moving her step father and mother to nursing homes, renting  her parent’s home, and churning through a very demanding job.  Through dead-beat renters, running back and forth to King’s Mountain as her stepfather’s health declined, and quietly enduring the pain of her mother mistaking her for someone else at every visit, she still managed to smile.  She trusted me enough to share her pain and worries with me and unselfishly helped me through mine.  The people she has worked loyally and diligently for in the last 16 years have (for the most part) not been worthy to stand in her tiny shadow.  Loree’s willingness to share her struggles and talk openly to me about her prayer life showed me that just because life is difficult doesn’t mean that Jesus doesn’t love you.

Shortly before I met Loree, I was given the gift of a mother-in-law beyond any new wife’s best dreams.  Carol Armstrong is the woman who I am privileged to call Mom these days.  From the very start my relationship with her son, my mother-in-law has given us her uncompromising support.  She helped me plan the wedding, she and her friends threw me wedding and baby showers and she was present for the birth of our daughter.  She even helped me wall-paper the miniscule bathroom in our first house and I could not have enjoyed the task more.  Had it been left to Frank and myself, one of us would not have left that bathroom alive.  Not once in 18 years of marriage has Mom been anything but a great friend and adviser.  She and her husband of over 40 years raised my best friend.   She is a strong and supremely classy individual and I want to be just like her when I grow up!  “Evil mother-in-law?”  I think not!  (Eat your hearts out ladies.)

As if I have not been blessed enough, just last year I was adopted by my friend Cheryl’s mom, Judy Bridges.  Judy was my original mother’s name, so I’ve come full circle.  Judy is a cancer survivor who inspires me with the seeming ease with which she takes each person as they are, and graciously offers them acceptance.  Not only has she not forgotten how to have fun, she has in the past had to remind me to have fun, too.  I have the distinct impression that the two Judies would have been great friends.  I can easily imagine Cheryl and I headed to the theater with our moms and having an absolute blast.

God makes no mistakes.  As a matter of fact, He scored BIG on this one.  It is as if every time I cried out to Him, begging him to tell me “Why” when I was growing up, He nodded indulgently, knowing how much love and joy He had for me in response.  It has been a gift beyond all telling.  Thank you Lord.  Thank you, Ladies!

And now for something completely different…

As those who know me will tell you, I have a religious bent.  I’m a practicing Catholic, but I won’t say I’m a good Catholic because…of course, I’m still practicing!  When I get good at it, I will most probably be dead.  One of the things I’ve been trying to be consistent about to help me in my quest to be an improved example of who a Catholic is called to be, is in reading the Bible.  I recently read the story of the 10 Lepers who were healed.  I had read this passage many times before and always came to the same conclusion.  I have harshly judged the 9 that did not return to give thanks to Jesus for the cure.  Bear with me here…I’m setting up a poem, so if you’re already familiar with the Gospel story I’ll be brief.

In part of my studies, I discovered that the one man who returned to Jesus was a Samaritan; the other 9 were Jews.  Therefore, when Jesus instructed them to go and show themselves to the priest, it was for ritual cleansing.  This may not have meant anything to the Samaritan, so on the way to the priest, when he discovered he was healed, he returned giving praise.  Jesus asks him, “Were there not 10?  Where, then are the other nine?”  Of course it is easy to consider the remaining 9 to be ungrateful, but what if that was not the case?  What if they were eager to re-join their faith community or their families?  What if, when they returned they were not welcomed as they had hoped?  Had their wives, after their banishment to the Leper colony  had to live as widows, selling off children, or themselves to make ends meet?  I imagined a sadder side to this healing miracle, filing it under “be careful what you wish for…”

So, in considering all this, I came up with a short poem.  I hope you will enjoy it and use the allegory to possibly expand how you read stories that have always seemed familiar to you.

One of the Nine

Praise Yahweh – We are Healed!
We leapt on our once leperous legs,
Embracing as we continued on
Toward Temple, eager
to show ourselves to the priests
as the Nazarene instructed.

All went but the foreigner, who turned back
The one who had no place,
Who, with nothing to gain, would defile
The Holy of Holies

We carried on
Astounding all Jerusalem
As word of our recovery
Reached the priest well before us.

“What of the man?”
I replied to their interrogation,
“He simply directed us to you.”

But I, like the foreigner,
Was given no place at the Temple
No return to the Bosom of Abraham —
Once unclean, always unclean.

I remain judged for all time
As one of the 9 who did not return to give thanks
Yet I am one who sought only
To rejoin the living community of God.

Praise Yahweh…I am healed…