The (gulp) Good Six Letter “C” Word

I love memories, and photos that spark memories, and words that spark memories and things that spark memories. And that is a nice way to say that I am an obnoxious shutterbug, rabid journal keeper and zealous hoarder.

Last week I cleaned out an overstuffed bookshelf and found a variety of journals from different years, each with a few pages written  recording my weight or the foods that I had eaten, followed by empty pages.  Though the dates varied wildly, the weights were all exactly  the same and the message identical: This time it will be different. This time I will change my exercise and eating habits!

Why is change so hard?

Yesterday I had the privilege of hearing the United Methodist District Supervisor for the Corridor District (which includes Durham) speak at Resurrection UMC. The message was an invitation to change, something those of us in protestant denominations MUST embrace to go forward in our changed age.  It was delivered by a well spoken, well educated, dynamic DS who engaged us intellectually and spiritually with a carefully honed message. Most representative of change was the DS herself – yes , SHE, and an African American SHE as well. A welcome poster child representing the virtue of change. 

This morning at 7:00 am  I waved good bye with much arm-fat jiggling fanfare  to Zack as he headed to California. We spent the evening packing and once I realized he intended to relax and take dirty clothes, I begged to do them for him, as one last motherly chore. Four loads and hours later I folded the last clean Tshirt and he tucked his favorites into his suitcase.

Four loads of laundry in a single basket!

While the laundry washed, spun and dried Zack and I had a little last minute bonding over the season finale of True Blood.  We watched together as we had for the past five seasons a show that features vampires, fairies, shape shifters and werewolves sprinkled heavily with gratuitous violence and gratuitous nudity. (Though one could argue that a show about vampires is by definition violent and any show involving Alexander Skarsgård should, in fact, include gratuitous nudity.) And what was the takeaway message of the season final? Change or perish.

From the True Blood Season 6 Finale

Seven hours , a box of Kleenex  and a red nose later(mine), Zack is on his way, his small blue Toyota stuffed  to the roof like an old lady’s pocketbook.  Nat has provided me a shoulder to cry on and Earle has encouraged  a nap because he knows I slept very  little last night. (Zack reports he slept well!)   I am working hard to get into the spirit of change in regards to this new normal of sending my love across the country in letters and texts rather than in a tight hug. I am trying to get into the spirit of dreaming of a visit to the Bay area. I will lug fewer gallons of milk home from Harris Teeter and have no need to pick up banana peels and dirty socks.  I will change. I will not perish. I will thrive, despite the occasional sniffle.

Nat, Zack, and Earle

Me, Zack, Earle

Mary Frances (still in her nightgown!) gives Zack some last minute advice!

On his way!

In fact, I may even buy a new journal. Because this time I will change my exercise and eating habits!

Post script. I found Zack’s jacket hanging on a chair to dry after he wore it while he wrestling  the bike rack onto the back of his car. I will mail  the jacket to him.  A forgotten jacket, a mom getting that  jacket to her son.  Because sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

A night in the (Blue) Devil's Stomping Ground

I love the NC State Fair! The empty calorie indulgences of  hot pink cotton candy,  battered and deep fried-to-an-inch-of-its life  onions and grilled buttery corn on the cob can only be topped by the  procession of fair-going pilgrims from every city, town, hollar and pumpkin patch. People watching is at its best at the yearly event I call "the great equalizer". EVERYBODY is there whether you have a full set of teeth or three, a Timex or a Rolex, or are a size 6 or 26. I love to settle in on a bench with just the right bite to eat and watch the parade of humanity go by.

This week, I learned I can watch the parade a little closer to home.

Earle started with a backache about 10 days ago, promptly saw a doctor, was prescribed a muscle relaxant, handfuls of Ibuprofen, rest and time. Unable to even stretch out in bed, he managed to sleep sitting up, work from his home computer, and grimly and unhappily passed the days.

Friday night we were treated to Durham's "new normal" - a thunderous monsoon of a storm. About 7:45 pm our power went out. About 8:00 pm Earle's back went out. Which is to say the muscles in his back clenched and knotted unlike anything I have ever seen. And the banshee like noises that sprung from his mouth were unlike anything I had ever heard! I found him in our bedroom on his knees. With the assistance of my oldest son and several flashlights, we managed to cram him, howling, in the back seat of our Ford and set off for the closest hospital, Duke.

The ride there was no less taxing and I remembered that I had heard similar cries of pain. In the delivery room. In between spasms, Earle and I discussed the progression of his labor. The baby was definitely coming.

Upon arriving at the Devil's backdoor (the ER) I jumped out of the car and asked the nearest person - a big strong guy - for help with my husband. He explained he was a valet and ran inside for assistance. In a moment the doors swished open. I blinked and looked for our rescuer. In the back lit entrance I could make out the tiniest nurse I have ever seen. I could have carried her in my purse. But she strode over to my back seat and somehow managed to entice the growling bear out of his den and into a wheelchair, through the entrance, past the metal detector and through the check-in line.

My hope was that upon seeing the extreme discomfort of my husband we would likewise be whisked into a room. It was not to be. He was pushed to the nearest row of chairs, crying out in pain, while we waited for our turn with the triage nurse. Considering his pain level was a 20+ he managed very well, though apologizing repeatedly for such outbursts.  As I became accustomed to his cries I slowly began to register the people around me.

The parade had come to town.

First I heard the muttering of the hive mind. Many were discussing Earle's situation and I heard the words "kidney stone" more than once. I slowly turned and looked about and beheld a veritable tent city of  hospital-issued white blankets. Some folks had pulled two chairs together and were tucked neatly into their "beds". Others wore the blankets like capes, some pacing about like Julius Caesar muttering no doubt "Et tu Brute?" Two folks sit motionless and quiet each with a blanket draped  completely over their heads  like a ghost costume on Halloween - only no eye holes. More sounds - sneezes, hacking coughs, moans, tears. I thought of all the legions of viruses and bacteria heading for me and willed my immune system to HOLD THE FORT.

 One man told me he had been waiting with his wife 13 hours but had been told the wait at Wake was only 20 minutes. (Earle say NO to another joy ride). I watched the others mill about. One man was wearing a Tshirt inscribed with "ROLL YOUR OWN" and an odd looking leaf. He smelled funny. A beautiful elderly lady, well dressed with adorable kitten heels sat calmly with the most beatific smile on her face. Her husband sat nearby, charming and gallant and holding her purse.

Thankfully Earle's spasms eased up a bit  and we made a quick trip to triage and then parked back among our people. Earle slept a bit slumped into his wheelchair and I settled in to the new Stephen King book, aptly titled Joyland.

At about midnight our new friends with the 13 hour wait were called back. There was applause.

Earle was thirsty. There was no water in the drink machine (This was Hell, after all.) I went and got in line to ask for some and found myself behind two other men. The first was admitting himself and clearly needed a place to sleep off a good drunk. The other was a man who arrived when we did trying to find out when he and his wife would "go back." Our hostess for the evening checked the computer and told him the wait was definitely down - only 10 hours! After requesting water, I too asked about the wait and learned that since Earle was in such pain we would get one of the next beds.

Human traffic flowed in and out and with each departure my hope grew. My buddy's wife was admitted and he came through to move his car, calling out "good luck" to us. The smiling woman went back. One VERY large middle-aged woman was mad she hadn't been called back and whipped out her cell phone to complain loudly and crudely to her family.

Folks settled in for the night while late night shows played on the overhead TV.  The same sex couple nearby found comfortable positions, the two women who brought 5 children in with them quieted their flock. Thankfully Earle dozed.

And when we least expected it, at arrival + six hours, we were called back! Showtime!

Though it is hard for me to say good things about the darker shade of blue, I will definitively state here  that we had excellent nursing care at Duke. Two nurses, including the tadpole that helped us in, got on the floor with Earle to start an IV when he fell to his knees with his second set of big spasms. And many people responded to his cries once we were back in a room. Our assigned nurse was constant, steady, and encouraging. And what joy to have a room, not a curtain. Our  young doctor came by. We expect the ink on his med school degree was not quite dry, but he was followed by two supervising M.Ds. who clearly knew what they were about. The care was thorough and determined. When Earle couldn't lay down for a CAT scan - they tried again with additional meds until he could. Obviously they had consulted with the waiting room as they wanted to check for renal stones. As night turned into morning, they had discovered no stones and felt confident that these were indeed just muscle spasms. We gratefully accepted prescriptions for more powerful medications and eagerly told our caregivers goodbye.

After a stop at the front desk ("What?" they said. "No-one came by to ask for insurance information?") we turned the wheelchair around and had a last look at the waiting room. It had miraculously cleared out. Only two of three white blankets were visible. Only a few gentle snores could be heard.

The Parade had moved on. If only Duke served cotton candy.

Earle in his room at the Duke ER

The One Finger Salute

I’m not sure how old I was when I first saw someone flip the bird. Most probably it happened on the school bus when I was in elementary school.  Most definitely it was succinctly explained by my best friend’s older sister.  Though only two years older than us, she was oh-so-much-more-knowledgeable about everything.  She looked down her nose at us with distaste.

“It means “Go to Hell”” she said and promptly shot us the gig, followed by the bang of her bedroom door in our faces.   Our response was to create a crudely drawn picture of a hand with the middle finger extended  which we then shoved triumphantly under her door.  We marveled at our new found ability to communicate such a powerful and scandalous message without having to utter a word.

And so it was that I found myself in my front yard with Richard, whose family had moved into the Barbee house across the street.  He was also a few years older than me. I found him an interesting playmate, whether we were playing  Monopoly on my grandma’s front porch or donning formal gowns from my dress up box.  Richard was very thin and pale with a rash of freckles and often found himself the object of much teasing by the older kids. I was just happy that he didn't seem to mind that I was younger than him.    

That afternoon though he started teasing me. Being a round child left me open for such as that from time to time. Luckily, after first grade much of the teasing had stopped and only rarely appeared, usually in  painful use of the name “Jackie Gleason”. Which is what Richard chose to call me that momentous afternoon. 

My response was to shoot him the bird.

“You don’t even know what that means!” he mocked.

“Yes, I do!” I yelled.

“Prove it!” he said. “Your daddy will beat your hide if you say it!”

I didn't hold back. For the first time in my life I opened my mouth and let out the beast out of the cage.

“Go. To. Hell.”

Richard was a quick thinker. I will tell you that. He didn't miss a beat.

“I am going to tell your father what you just said.” With that he turned and strode out of sight, towards the side door that was hidden by a large Camellia.

My heart sunk! I was in such trouble. I was going to get a spanking for sure.  I had not gotten one for a while, and truly only got them when I deserved it. I loved my Daddy so much! He often made time for me, letting me scramble up into his pickup truck and go ride with him. My mind darted to my last spanking which I richly deserved.  I remembered afterwards writing a little note that said:  “Do you forgive me? “  With two boxes. One to check for Yes and one for No. I didn’t want to go through THAT again. I held my breath.

Soon Richard reappeared and said “Your Daddy wants you”.

My pent up breath exploded into sobs and I raced inside already crying “I’m so sorry Daddy! I will never say those bad words again!”

My Dad was caught totally unawares, sitting in his big chair in the den, catching the evening news after working at the bank and then the farm.  He looked at me askance as I continue to blurt out my sorrow and beg for forgiveness.

When he made sense of what I was saying, he looked at me, stood up and said “Don’t go anywhere. I will be right back.”

My heart thumped in my chest. I dreaded the spanking, but far far worse was the knowledge that my Dad would be so disappointed in me. That I had willingly and knowingly used words I knew I shouldn’t. Where had he even gone? Had I gotten old enough that I needed to spanked with a switch? Was he cutting a switch even now?

Finally, he came back into the den.  I had about cried myself out and was ready to accept my fate.

Instead my father amazed me. 

He said. “Richard won’t be giving you any more trouble. I’ve been over to his house and he is not allowed in our yard anymore.”

To say I was relieved is an understatement. My Dad had taken my side. Rather than seeing my “sin”, he saw the circumstance and loved, forgave, and protected me. 

I never did play with Richard Cox again, though when we crossed paths, he no longer teased me.  As an adult I understand that because he was the subject of bullying, it was natural for him to make me a target of the same.  

But I learned a bigger lesson that day. About forgiveness and unconditional love. About being cared for and protected, even if that protection is a little messy and might offend the neighbors. And that I was important enough to protect. Even if I was on the round side.

I ran into Richard’s brother not long ago, now a preacher and in talking with him, this memory resurfaced. Its message is sure and true and easy to extrapolate.  If our earthly fathers forgave and loved us so, imagine how much our heavenly Father does too…

Though it’s been 7 years, I still miss my dad.

And you know,  I never did get another spanking.

My family, circa 1968

Leaving Home

I am really bad with goodbyes.

I was terribly close to my parents when I was a little girl. In fact, literally a few feet. From the time I was born until the time I left for UNC, I lived in the room next to them, a cheerful Carolina blue bedroom with an adjoining door.  Once, in a fit of 13 year old independence, I gathered up my courage and moved upstairs. I didn't like it. After a few months without hearing the hushed voices of my folks and their footsteps up and down the hall, I gathered up my pride, threw independence out the window, and and slunk back downstairs.

At ten, when I was packed off to Camp Rainbow with my best friend Kathryn, my mom had reassured me that I would LOVE it! My older sister told me I would LOVE it! It'll be great! You and Kathryn can swim, do crafts, meet other girls, fun, fun, fun, all the time!

I HATED it. Kathryn HATED it. We wrote letters to my parents to PLEASE come get us. They were mailed to a campground a few miles away in the mountains of North Carolina, where my parents sought some much deserved privacy. We begged, we wrote multiple missives in our one short week of camp but when the letters didn't find their target, we were forced to tough out our week. We were ever so glad to be picked up. Such martyrs for staying the whole week!

When the day came to be dropped off at UNC, I was both excited and terrified. My parents remained upbeat and encouraging (they had been waiting for that empty nest!) but Kathryn's mom sobbed as our parents pulled out of the parking lot. That kept my own tears somewhat at bay.

I adapted well, but the phone calls to and from home were tough. I stayed busy with classes and made new friends and loved Chapel Hill, but speaking to my folks just pulled those heartstrings. No texts and the scarcity of calls made them even more precious and more than once my voice thickened and cracked before I could say goodbye. It made my dad crazy. Finally he felt he must address it head on.

"Boots" he said.
"It's not so bad. You could have caner. Or be in a concentration camp."

Words to live by.

When my boys were little, they were just as bad as I had been.

In preschool a 3 year old  Nat had a very understanding and supportive teacher. Which is good, because he cried. He cried EVERY day. The only way I could leave him was to let him figure out a way to deal with it. He did. He took his baby blanket, spread it in the corner of the classroom, laid down on his stomach with his head on his baby pillow  and looked at a photo of our small family while I left the building.

Zack's preschool drop-offs were equally bad. He had to have his stuffed Barney. He would stand at the window crying and holding onto Barney until he could no longer see my car.

But they both managed to grow up. And though they went to school in-state, they've journeyed to Belize, England, Germany, France, Japan and more, each with a semester study abroad.

And now it is time for Zack to leave home. In the morning he is leaving to drive to California where he will hop a plane bound for Japan to explore more of the country he fell in love with while studying abroad. At the end of the that time, he will have a leisurely drive back across county - all told about 9 weeks away from home.  Plans for the summer are up in the air but are decidedly not in North Carolina. And in the fall he will most likely be leaving for graduate school in California.

One of the richest gifts my mom gave me was to never shed a tear when I left home. Oh she missed me, as evidenced by the reams of letters I have tucked in a box under my bed, but as a kindness to me, she never cried, or insisted I come home, or acted upset if I celebrated holidays away. She let me live my life on my terms, which I have always deeply appreciated.

And now, with the anticipation of watching the little blue Toyota leave my driveway tomorrow morning, I know how expensive that gift was and what a price she paid! My tear ducts seem to have a mind of their own and I wish I could say I have been as stalwart as she, but from time to time this week my eyes have overflowed and my chest has felt as though it would surely burst.  But I will try to be brave and smile and wave and be happy for this great adventure!

After all, it's not cancer or a concentration camp.

Zack and I the day before his great adventure!

Ghost Walk

I went on a ghost walk today.

The March wind pushed me forward.

First to Miss Vera’s House.

Miss Vera,

Who taught me 2^nd and 3^rd grade.

A neighbor,

Whose daughter was one of my mother’s best friends in Seaboard’s halcyon days.

She was a Grand Southern Woman who settled me into reading,

Who click clacked on the wooden classroom floor

In shoes a size too small.

Her house, once also a Grand Southern Dame, soon to be torn down for a tractor store next door.

I snapped the jonquils still blooming.

Who planted them and when?

I snapped her back doorknob, a crystal beauty that beckoned my childish hands many times.

Then the ghost wind pushed me further, to grandma’s house nearby.

Where Maggie and Edward lived, and before them maiden aunts Lillian and Eva.

The doors and knobs were old friends too.

And many a bright day I banged them open and called out to whoever was inside.

One didn’t knock,

One banged and called 

“It’s me!”

And still those doors reach out to take me back.

But a funny thing,

Around the decaying house the daffodils still bloom,

Whipped about by a great spring wind, but bursting still.

Brilliant yellow,

Straight and tall beside a crumbling house.

And all around Camellias and Forsythias and Japanese quince

Ask “remember when?”

But also reassure me that life begins again

In Spring.

Jonquils at Miss Vera's House

Back Door Knob at Miss Vera's House

Key at Grandma's Back Door

Grandma's Side Door

Daffodils at Grandma's Side Door 

Red Camilla at Grandma's

White Camilla at Grandma's House

Forsythia at Grandma's House

Mary Frances Takes a Shower

     If you haven't met my 87 year old mom, let me tell you about her. She is gently rounded, slightly stooped and moves carefully. She has an apple doll face topped by snow white curls. She has a charming smile, a quick wit and a passion for the News and Observer, mystery novels, chocolate, and the Methodist Church. She could talk to the President or to a murderer on death row and find good things to say about each. She disdains  wearing slacks as real women only wear skirts and dresses. She lives with me most of the time now as forgetfulness and limited mobility slow her down a bit, but she is a vibrant, alive and a joy.

Except. Tonight. Mama needed a shower.

I feel sure if researchers tackling the human genome took a gander at her curly stands of DNA they would be surprised. Somewhere within the double helix that makes Mama Mama, they would find  a section that is decidedly mule.

I time my invitation perfectly. Fifteen minutes before Antique Roadshow I say casually "Mom, let me help you get a bath before Antiques Roadshow comes on. We'll be done in no time".

Why, she asks.
I don't need a bath, she says.
I bathe off everyday.
I'm not dirty.
He-haw.

Yes, Mama, I say.
Sister will give me a fit if you go to Seaboard to stay with her and you haven't had a bath.
It's quick, I say.
No problem, I say.

How about tomorrow, she says.
Tomorrow is plenty of time, she says.
He-haw she says.

No, Mama, You must Mama. I'll help you Mama. It will be fast. Mama.

Okay, she grumbles. He-haw.

We gather what is needed and head to my bathroom with the shower stall.

She looks at the garden tub.
How am I going to get in that??! she asks. I can't get in that! HE-HAW!

No, Mom, the shower.

I've never noticed it, she says.

She undresses. She looks at the shower.
Too high to step in she says. I can't do it. She says. He-haw, she says.

The lip to the stall is 2 inches high.

You can do it Mom, I say.
It's not high, I say.
I will help you. I say.

This is hard, she says.
I don't like it, she says.
I don't want to do it, she says.
He-haw.

She sits down on the built in seat. I take the shower wand and start the water.

COLD! she says.

Wait, I say.

No washcloth! she says.

I hand her one.

No soap! she says. He-haw!

I point out the Dove soap touching her leg.

Oh, she says.

The water warms up and she soaps and lathers, grumbling and groaning. I man the shower wand and rinse and rinse again.

We are done!

I hope I don't fall down and break my neck in the shower before I can get out of here, she says. HE-HAW! HE-HAW!

Don't joke! I beg. Come on, I urge.

At last, she steps back over the edge, and grasps her faithful cane. We get on nightgown and glasses. Bedroom shoes and bathrobe, back to the couch. I can hear the lead-in to Antiques Roadshow. She sits.

I must admit, she says in a small voice, it does feel good to be clean.

She settles in to watch her favorite show.

 I don't have my ears, she says. He-haw.

I bring her the hearing aids.

I am going now. To take a bath in my garden tub. With a big glass of water to drink which I will pretend is wine. And Epson Salts I will pretend is the finest bubble bath money can buy. With a book, that I can't wait to read. And I may not come out. Ever. Or at least until the end of Antiques Roadshow. (He-haw! I say. The apple doll's daughter  doesn't fall far from the tree!)

Why I can't sleep late (and how Jordan's Mill Pond figures into it....)

IBM ruined me.

When I worked there fresh out of college, they had this MARVELOUS arrangement called flex-time. If you got in a 7:00 am, you REALLY could leave at 3:30pm! And people ACTUALLY left at 3:30 pm! Home by 4:00 pm! 

Well maybe my nephews ruined me.

In the long hot summers of high school, they’d swarm in our house around 7:00 am, and BANG, throw open my bedroom door and lunge into my bed to wake me up, bouncing and yelling. 

Whatever it was, I am ruined for good. I can’t manage to sleep late and any attempts to do so leave me feeling slovenly and out of sorts. Today even my Saturdays go a little like this:

3:30 am: Pug #4 AKA “Little Girl” takes a post directly beside my husband’s head. In the dim light I notice her posture, which can only be likened to a vulture. 

4:00 am: Husband twitches a muscle, somewhere, anywhere.

4:00:01 am: Little Girl frolics in our king sized bed “My Lord and Master is awake, my Lord and Master is awake!!!”

4:00:02am: Husband stumbles out of bed and heads for shower.

4:00:03am: All four pugs (in bed) migrate over me to the two inches of mattress between me and the edge of the bed. They sit and watch intently for their Lord and Master to get out of the bathroom.

4:20 am:  In the bathroom I can hear The Lord and Master put his shoes on the floor prior to putting them on. This soft sound is followed by whoops of joy from the bed (but not from me) as the pugs practically shiver in anticipation of his return. 

4:30 am: Coast is clear. Pugs and Husband OUT of the bedroom. Turn over for blissful sleep.

5:30 am: Husband comes into bedroom asking “Are you awake?” Well, yes.

And so my days begin. And now, I am in this habit, which can’t seem to be broken. Though I am slow to get going and I complain heartily, I love knowing the day will stretch ahead of me full of opportunities.

Back in the day I do remember something I most definitely WOULD have missed if I had slept in.

I was on a youth retreat – one of many I enjoyed with the Seaboard Baptist Church. They were held at Jordan’s Millpond – a gorgeous, distinctly Southern oasis. Central elements were the Mill House and the Mill Pond, complete with cypress trees from which Spanish moss hung like so many wispy gray beards. At times, there were peacocks, screeching their distinctive laments. There were flat-bottomed wooden boats for rent for fishermen, and wooden boardwalks, some criss-crossing from bank to bank and some mysteriously dead ending. And always, always, a musky scent of decay or as I know now, the scent of rich soil being born.

The overnight retreat was held at an appropriately quaint location. Around the millpond’s dogleg and just out of sight, was a cottage, owned by the Howell family I believe and built AROUND A SCHOOL BUS! I loved it! There was a great den with plenty of chairs, long sleeping porches, a full kitchen, bathrooms and a  fabulous bus in the middle with cots for sleeping!

The retreat usually consisted of a few very intense bible study sessions held by the handsome, earnest, young Baptist preacher determined to save our souls, especially the Methodist kids since though we were baptized, we were not immersed, so we weren’t really saved.  We had volleyball, cookouts, and lots of giggling. We all stayed up WAY to late talking and walking in this enchanted place, and finally one, by one the Howells, the Davis’s the Maddreys, and the few Methodists (me and Dean) with assorted guests (including my dear friend Jill), would find an empty cot and give it up to Morpheus, drifting off to sleep.

After one of these nights I woke up on the sleeping porch in the silent cottage at the first hint of sun. I remember crawling out of bed and stepping outside. The grass was wet with dew on my bare feet. The morning air was still cool as if just waking up itself. I drew closer to the end of the Mill Pond, to watch the first rays of light dance across the brackish sleeping water. A fine mist rose from its surface. And then I heard a gentle splash and to my astonishment saw a huge buck, with a fine multi-pronged rack slide into the millpond not far from where I stood. The swell of his shoulders as he swam through the pond to the other side hinted at both the power in his strokes  and the depth of the pond where he traversed it.  He swam straight across, slipping in and out of shadow and brilliant rays of  morning light, then reaching the other side, hauled himself effortlessly out of the water and  then silently vanished into the woods.

For once, I am quite sure I was at a loss for words.

Even now, I am overwhelmed just remembering this most beautiful of sights. And even now, I have the feeling that, I, well, really might miss something if I sleep too late…….