Carrot Sticks

I had a normal childhood, whatever that is. Drying silverware by bundling it in a dishtowel and massaging the soggy, and encrusted with egg package of metal, until the towel got wet or tore was normal for a kid my age. Tossing, yes tossing the bale into the pantry drawer and stirring them until they sort-of made it into the slots my father built in the drawer, so my working mother could be organized, was standard behavior. It was what I did every day after school from first ‘til third grade; breakfast dishes, floor sweeping and dusting. That’s probably why now I never dust, sweep only when dog hair is knee deep, and dishwashers, whether flesh and blood or mechanical, are my friends.

My mother worked as a secretary for the head of a grocery company. I was a mid-century latch-key kid; this was before the term was invented. Though I had a big brother who never came home until mom started dinner, my mother needed to know where I was after school. She paid me to sweep, dust and wash breakfast dishes for .25 cents a day. My employment allowed her the comfort of knowing I wasn’t annoying Mrs. Wiser, our upstairs neighbor, or getting into trouble around town like my brother did. My employment allowed me $1.25 a week to spend on whatever I wanted. The only independently wealthy first grader, I was the envy of the after school cookie and milk set. They had mothers who baked for them, mine was my boss. Even after I married, and had children of my own, it wasn’t until after she died at the age of eighty-three, that I didn’t have her to look to anymore as an immediate supervisor. I’m the boss now, and like they say, it’s lonely at the top.

But, back then, after I did my job, I did annoy Mrs. Wiser. When my chores were done, I’d creep upstairs and knock on her door because she had peeled carrot sticks in her fridge and her daughter Nanette loved Mickey Mouse Club. Because my big brother said I was too old for such baby TV I, more often than not, would watch Jimmie and the rest of the musketeers with Nanette because I was lonely.

When my own daughters were the age I was when I was a latch-key kid, I stayed home. As they got older I worked mother’s hours because it was important to be there when the big yellow bus pulled up. I did that not because I didn’t want them to relive the lonely childhood I had but because it is a different world now. Actually, back then, the world was just as twisted, we just didn’t hear about it as much. The man in the park who exposed himself to me is proof.

But that’s AN ESSAY FOR ANOTHER DAY.
Until then ‘write on’.

The wonder of returning home

Now that I am back to writing essays I feel as if I am home.

The roads are familiar, the buildings right where they should be, but they are improved, looking spiffier. There are changes to this so-recognizable landscape because there are changes in the way I write. Journeying away to fiction, for a few years, has taught me the importance of showing with words that which we want to tell.
I’ve learned that simply writing about the magnificence of the mountains pales. Now I write of the night spice of pine, mixed with campfire smoke, and describe the spongy bed of needles beneath my sleeping bag, and how the breathing of the wind in the pines lulls me to sleep in the shadow of the Grand Tetons.

Instead of writing about how much fun we had at the beach, I know to notice the reflection of the little boy in a red bathing suit, two of them now, in the shallows searching for snails and hermit crabs. Without a camera, it is a winning photograph I see, clicked forever in my mind as Long Island Sound, from his ankles to his little-boy knees, flows to shore.

Ah, I love the essay, it is so wonderful to be home again.

Where is your writing home?

Visitor, Justin Case

My horoscope said that a new person was going to come into my life today AND that person would be very important regarding my career AND the person might even come to my home AND because of this 'new friend/contact' I might even be contemplating 'a move'.

I'm going to clean the downstairs toilet now just-in-case.

Enough Said

My column broke. How wonderful it feels to have a byline again. Life is good, very, very good. Enough said. Oh, yeah,that's the name of the column, Enough Said.

Shorelinetimes.com
click on opinions

Bases loaded?

I am told my column is being launched tomorrow. I am very excited. It’s been a long time coming but I feel as if I am finally home where thoughts softly surface and words come easily.

I am thankful for another chance at bat. This is my season. What season is it for you?

Not Mr. Campbell' s Soup

I read this Joseph Campbell quote on a blog recently.

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to live the life that is waiting for us.

The blogger is a dear friend, someone I know ‘almost’ everything about, a woman who has immeasurably suffered pain and fear and sadness more profound than many of us could imagine. I have never met her.

I scrapped ‘my plan’ and within twenty-four hours, what was waiting, popped up; the deliverance of a twenty-five year old dream which has changed everything.

Who woulda’ thought?

...perchance to dream

What is your dream; the one thing deep inside your soul which brings you to tears because you want it so badly, and because it is so huge, you do not think you’re worthy of its splendor. Dreams, like campfire smoke, always seem to follow the one sitting closest.

Is your vision for something tangible, like winning the lottery, having a house on River Road, a BMW or the Job which will solve all money problems. Or is it for that which is impossible, the health of a dying loved one or your husband back?

After the death of both my parents I found two small bundles of love letters they had written to each while separated by WWII. From those special little gifts in white paper I met my parents for the first time. What I learned about both of them, they were younger than my own children are now, has caused me to redefine who they really were. That in itself has made an enormous impact on my memories, changing how I thought things were, to how they must have really been. But that is not what this is about. This is about their vision for each other, written down over 55 years ago.

After I finished reading the letters, and their impact settled in my heart, I realized that for my father, the nicest guy you’d ever want to know, every dream he wrote about in those letters, came true. The intimate thoughts and dreams he shared with my mother seem simple by definition now, but back then, just after the war in ‘45, with nothing between them but the future, everything seemed impossible. From finding a job, a place to live, to paying for the birth of their first child, monetarily, they were extremely compromised. Yet the promise he saw in the years ahead was inspiring.

This time of year, is a period of award shows and sports competitions the likes of Oscar and the Superbowl. It makes me think of little boys hoping to make ‘the team’, working toward playing pro-ball and dreaming about being a part of the biggest win. They were nothing more than little boys running down the field on Superbowl Sunday, little boys who wondered in their most private moments, were they worthy. When the statues for best in arts are awarded after red-carpet walks of anticipation, I see grown women, in mommy’s dress, with a hairbrush for a microphone, standing before their reflection in a dark window, and wishing on a star.

There are times though when thoughts of fame and fortune pale in comparison to the moments you stand at the foot of the bed of your sick baby listening for the next breath. Every dream you ever dreamed, and every imagined wish flies out the window on a pleading breeze of promising anything, even your own life, for that of your child.

But if most of what you have is okay, and your mind is able to soar above the clouds of daily struggle, what is your dream?

Speaking about the dream which washes my thoughts, and soaks into who I define myself to be, would be like wishing on a birthday candle and then telling what I wished for; they don’t come true if you tell. Some people say to write your dreams down on a piece of paper and place them under your pillow. My father wrote his down, they came true. I think I’ll try that. I will not tell you what they are but if you are reading this, you will know.