Caught Butterflies

The Bodacious Maturation of Wonder Riley--1

2012-01-27T09:32:00.000-08:00

The best present Granny Cat Clark ever received was from me—Wonder Riley. I know this because she tells me practically every day. She covers my wild red rumpus hair with her big-as-man hands and exclaims.

“Wonder, have I told you lately how incredibly special I find my throne?”

I’d trash-picked the eight foot antique hall tree but I took care to never mention that fact to her. I had no desire to reduce it in her esteem. Even so, I suspect Granny Cat may have figured it out as I am not a young woman of great means.

Most recently, I told her of an exciting and wonderful future event.

“My beau’s creating a seat cushion for it, Granny Cat,” I said. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

She p-shawed me. “Now you listen here, Sugar Pop,” she said. “That boy is not your beau, not your forever love. Trust me. I have a gift. I know these things.”

She coaxed two tangerine-colored tendrils out of my updo, arranged them on either side of my face.

“A boy who sews fashion items is not one who will adore a woman,” she said. “Well, not in the way you want. Or need.”

I’d laid my hand over hers. “But it’s rainbow velvet, Granny. With a brush fringe. I’m pretty sure you’ll wet your britches when you see it.”

I didn’t want her to be right about Charlie, but her certainty gave me pause. Maybe that’s why he always kissed my fingers, not my cheek. Nor my lips, full and glossy as I maintained them. Whenever we came together after a separation he’d say, “Enchante” and lift my fingertips to his mouth. He wouldn’t release them for the longest time. And sometimes his eyelashes appeared damp. That meant he cared, right?

Charlie'd worn mittens, charcoal gray ones, the last time we’d been together. His papa had duct-taped them to his wrists.

“Why?” I said as I fished Granny Cat’s sewing scissors out of her darning basket. “Is he concerned you would— That we might—”

Charlie collapsed beside me on the sofa. “No,” he said as he wept against my chest. “He doesn’t want me to stitch again. Ever.”

But that’s a recent tale. I probably should regress.

There's No One Like Me, Right?

2012-01-20T05:53:00.000-08:00

What you must know about me, if you must, is that there’s a book in me, a confessional really. Thing is, I don’t know when (or perish the thought, if) it will ever get from the inside of me into a bound book. The creation of it is kinda killing me. It’s just another thing I’ve started and not finished ‘cause eight hundred four things come at me a day moving at least twelve miles per hour and my little (self-diagnosed) A.D.H.D. brain says, “I can’t do everything so I’ll . . . check Facebook. Change the laundry over. Pet a bunny. Gobble a tiny triangle of shortbread decorated with dark chocolate and peppermint dust.”

Then this demon with a face like a burnt marshmallow perches on my knee and his talons, to tell the truth, they hurt a lot inside my skinny jeans even though I’m wearing black and white striped Betsey Johnson over-the-knee socks ‘cause a West Virginia winter in a one hundred one year old house can be pretty chillay. That’s French for chilly, you know.

And the wee, wrinkly, skin-flaking freak lectures me. Tells me I’m a Shop-Vacking failure at life. That if I was really a good girl with some value I’d be scrubbing the hardwood floors on my hands and knees in the morning, Bible studying and chauffeuring kids all afternoon, and commuting an hour away to do a booksigning (Yeah, a real writer would have a book that people would line up to sign.) at a cute café in a historic district ‘til midnight. And the weird thing is, I believe him. Even though I know failure is just another F word.

But that’s just me. No one else feels this way, right?

So then I get an idea. I fetch a Band-Aid and scribble a scripture on it. Slap it (gently though, ‘cause truth be told, I’m hurting) on my forehead. Oh gosh. That feels so much better. I lean toward the mirror and translate the aqua-penned, backward writing, on the flesh-toned strip.

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Take that, you fart face, skin-flaking, marshmallow moron.

Real Live Spaghetti and Meatballs

2012-01-13T04:49:00.000-08:00

I coulda been a food blogger. Note I did not say shoulda. I am a talented cook for sure but I think my true calling is with words. Least I hope so. However, there was a post of mine last summer—Hospitality Lost and Found—that was positively delicious. I had a HUGE response to it and many folks requested the recipes.

So I thought, I can do this. I can food blog, or whatever the politically correct phrase is. I said that about this time last week but now I sit at my computer before you, head hung in shame. Heart full of humility. Yellow streaks on my chin.

Food blogging is hard, people. Especially the taking pictures part. I pretty much inhale oxygen at that. In fact, I’m still in the process of trying to figure out whether or not to use the blurry pictures. I’m probably going to have to post some of them, like the one below, since I only have one shot of the cute little herb bouquet perched in a shot glass.

(See. I told you I was a lame photographer.)

Due to the stress I encountered during this process (But really, nothing a wee crystal glass of Limoncello can't fix.), I don’t plan to food blog often. Since I like to finish what I start (No, I don’t. That’s a lie. Ask my family.) I will share a couple of blogposts with the recipes for the foods mentioned in Hospitality.

Today I am proud to present REAL LIVE SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS. This recipe is from my one hundred percent I-talian ma-in-law. I can pretty much guarantee you will totally wow your family and friends if you take the time to make this meal. The cool thing is, if you don’t have a ton of people over, you will have lots of sauce and meatballs to spare and both items freeze just fine. Or, you can invite loads of folks over for supper and have no leftovers but several very happy, super impressed, full-as-a-tick-on-a-bear's-back diners.

Sauce

Extra virgin olive oil

2 lbs. chuck roast, cut in 1 ½ ” chunks

1 (12 oz.) can tomato paste

1 (6 oz.) can tomato paste

1 (15 oz.) can tomato sauce

1 (8 oz.) can tomato sauce

1 small onion, peeled with ends removed

LOTS of garlic cloves, 6 maybe, crushed

Herb bouquet tied with kitchen twine to include:

1-2 sprigs each of parsley, basil, thyme, oregano, rosemary

1 bay leaf

Salt (I typically use 1 tablespoon added 1 teaspoon at a time, stir and taste, etc.)

Fresh ground pepper, 30-50 grindings

Water

1 jalapeno or banana pepper (Don’t be afraid. It doesn’t add much heat.)

Meatballs (recipe down below)

Pasta

(I make homemade pasta but you don’t have to. I would recommend purchasing FRESH pasta though. It really is a lot yummierJ)

Parmesan or Romano cheese, freshly grated

-In a large, heavy pot over medium high heat, warm 1 tablespoon of olive oil until it shimmers (Oooh, shiny!). Add meat hunks (18-ish at a time). Do not crowd meat or it will steam, not brown. Turn after a few minutes. Remove to plate. Continue with rest of meat cubes then return all cooked meat to pot along with accumulated juices.

-Add remaining ingredients EXCEPT for water, jalapeno, and meatballs.

(Everything but the water, pepper and meatballs.)

-Now for a fancy schmancy cooking technique. Fill each empty tomato product can once with water. Pour the water into the pot. Stir well.

(After I added the water.)

-Bring sauce to a boil. Reduce heat and partially cover. Simmer 1 ½ hours.

-Add the whole jalapeno to sauce. Do not cut it or slit it in any way or you WILL add heat to your sauce.

-Now add the meatballs. Stir gently. Partially cover again. Simmer 1 ½ hours longer. Stir every 30 minutes if you think about it.

-When your sauce has finished cooking, remove and discard the whole onion, the whole jalapeno, the bayleaf, and the herb bouquet.

To serve (and this is kind of a duh thing), cook the pasta to your liking. Drain. Scoop a pile of pasta onto each plate. Top with a ladleful of sauce, one or two meatballs, and a couple of meat chunks. Grate fresh Romano or Parmesan (or Asiago, or Fontina, whatever you love) over the sauce. Place in front of a drooling diner along with a fork. Otherwise it gets really messy really fast.

Note: The first time I ate this sauce at my in-law’s house I thought, “My! It’s quite runny.” Now I love it. But if you prefer a thicker, more viscous sauce (I love the word viscous, don’t you?), let the sauce simmer for that second hour and a half without the lid. Lots of water will evaporate and this will thicken the sauce.

Note: I had a boss who told me a chef friend of his swore by adding one pork chop to the sauce. If you try this, let me know how it turns out please.

Meatballs

¾ c. breadcrumbs

2 T. water

1 t. salt

¼ t. pepper

¼ t. fennel seed (optional)

Parsley, snipped, maybe 2 T. (optional)

1 small onion, minced

1 clove garlic, pressed

1 egg

1 lb. ground beef

-In a large bowl (I like to use my Kitchenaid mixer, aka “Big Mama Mixer."), combine all ingredients EXCEPT the ground beef.

(Everything but the meat)

-Add the ground beef. Stir (or run mixer on low) until everything is mixed well.

-Shape into 1 ½” balls (For uniformity purposes, I use a measuring tablespoon to scoop the meat mixture.)

-Place the meatballs on a plate until all of the meat mixture is used.

(This is how my meatballs look.)

-Drop meatballs into simmering sauce at the 1 ½ hour point. Yes, they will be food safe (if your sauce has a true simmer going on). This will give them a soft, delicate texture plus, you'll have fewer dishes to wash afterward. However, feel free to bake the meatballs on a sheet at 350 degrees for 10 minutes before adding to the sauce if that makes you feel better or, if you like a little bit of a crust on your little roly-poly guys.

(Meatballs added to sauce and stirred gently.)

-Note: This recipe yields about 28 meatballs. Consider doubling your meatball recipe because everyone ADORES meatballs!

-Another note: If you have a mortar and pestle, grind the fennel seed before you add it to the meatball mixture. It really ups the flavor!

Still to come: Real Live Focaccia and other pre-spaghetti treats, easy make ahead side dishes served at the Italian Feast, and the "Sunday items" mentioned in Hospitality Lost and Found.

Maria and Me

2012-01-06T05:09:00.000-08:00

If I could show anyone my list of 2012 possibilities, I'd choose Julie Andrews. In her Sound of Music costume.

     Surely Maria, a flibbertijibbet, a will-o'-the wisp, a clown like myself would comprehend why I abhor resolutions. How they remind me of jail, all striped vestments and fetters.
    I bet she'd bring her guitar and when she opened the case it would be empty but the aqua satin lining would dazzle me. I'd gawk at the luxe beauty of it. She'd stoop and stroke the fabric's gleam.
    “Here, love. Place all your 2012 possibilities in here and nary a word shall I say if any are not achieved.”

I'd approach her, kind of pulled into myself. She's so famous! And she'd smile and tilt her head to the side. Like maybe she was thinking, "Don't be shy, dear. I use potty paper just like you."
Then I'd kneel and carefully arrange all my 2012 I-think-I-wanna's (penned in green 'cause that makes them seem alive) in a single layer. And if you read them one by one, this is what they'd say.

Open, offer myself to others more.

Be nicer to my mommy.

Fritter (my moments) less.

Prance, skip, or frolic. At least once a month.

Learn scads of stuff.

Eat fewer things with a face.

Be sincerely (and frequently) thankful.

Wear ponytails at least once this year.
(To remember.)

Exist here. In the moment. More.

Sing out loud. A lot.
(Never mind. I already do that.)

Attempt performance poetry. Once. Maybe.

Bring fewer inanimate objects into our home.

Write love letters to my children.

Take five GIANT steps toward my destiny.

Create beauty. Often.

Compliment folks frequently and sincerely.

Cultivate strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries.

Do that random act of kindess thing. A lot.

Consider coloring a random hank of hair purple.

Make it a point to pronounce the ‘p’ in raspberries.

Date my husband.

Appreciate beauty. Often.

Snort less when I laugh. Maybe.

Fear (your judgement, my failure) less.

Attach a colorful fabric ♥ to a bright sweater.

Selah. Definitely daily. Hopefully more.

Your turn. What possibilites will you consider for 2012?

No Ordinary Joe

2011-12-30T05:58:00.000-08:00

She is dead to me. I tried to speak the words. Instead I swallowed them, bitter as bile, moments after Mother delivered the news.

“Sit,” she said when I entered the room for the midday meal. She pushed a cup across the table. More wine than water. “Drink.”

Parched from the morning’s work and wood dust, I gulped the contents. Mother used her hip to nudge me over on the bench. Covered my hands with hers.

“It is thickening, Joseph,” she said.

My eyes narrowed. “What is?”

Mother brushed my knuckles with her thumb. “Her waist,” she said. “Your Mary’s.”

My Mary? At first I didn’t understand. Her waist? What? Then I knew. I coughed. Couldn’t stop. I clutched at my chest. Hacked. Tried to stand but the room seemed to tilt and take flight. My knees felt watery. My cup struck the floor with a clank. Rolled.

Mother pounded my back several times. My eyes teared. She’d spoken so casually. How could she be calm? Who? Who had told her this thing?

“I didn’t believe my sisters, so I searched for her, your Mary, in the market. When she embraced me, Joseph, I discovered . . . They were right.”

I attempted speech. Failed. I summoned spit to wet my throat. Rasped out words.

“Perhaps her cousin Elizabeth is gifted with food,” I said. “Mary was there for three months, you know. In the hill country.” She was there for three months. A young woman. Lovely. Alone.

Mother circled my waist with her arms. Laid her cheek against my shoulder. Sighed.

“Her girth is firm, my son. Not soft. It is as they say.” Her tongue made a clicking sound. “I’m sorry.”

I stumbled out to Father’s shop. Had to find my way by memory since tears had stolen my vision. I swallowed air in great gulps. Over and over. Prayed my father would be there working. Hoped he wouldn’t be. Inside I collapsed in a corner. Rocked and keened, no care for who might hear. Thoughts churned. Visions tormented. Finally through the window I observed the moon as it settled into position for the night.

"My Mary," I whispered to the stars. My very own angel. I’d thought. We’d said our vows. She was mine except for the wedding night and the subsequent feast. I’d planned it out. Every last detail. I would leave my father and mother. Go to claim her. The wedding party would see my torch and proclaim my approach. My Mary would drop everything and don her wedding dress. I knew she would be radiant. Shining with purity and anticipation.

After the ceremony I would lead her to the home my father and I had prepared for her. There, in a bed made by my own hands, we would become one flesh. Blood pounded in my ears at the thought.

On our marriage bed I would arrange myself behind her. Remove her headcovering and see her hair, her crowning glory, at last. I imagined she braided and pinned it into a thick coil every morning before she concealed it. I’d release its constraints, watch the tresses tumble free in the lamp light. I would call her my dove in the cleft of the rocks. She would liken me to a gazelle or a young stag. In the moonlight I would fit my front to her back. Our bodies would line up perfectly—curve to curve, swell to swell. My breath would extinguish the lamp and in the night my innocence would find hers and—

“Another has it!” My words ricocheted around the room gone cold. “Her purity is lost. To him. To a man in the hill country of Judea.”

I gathered fistfuls of dust and ground them into my hair. Slapped more into my beard. Moaned from a place beneath my stomach. My eyes searched the ceiling. What kind of man must he be? To tempt Mary to sacrifice everything? My Mary. Mary who blushed whenever my sandal touched hers. Mary whose tunics were both worn at the knees due to her copious prayers. In the end I could only fathom that he must be wonderful. Much more so than I. Perfect even.

I awoke when the door to the workshop opened. Father’s form filled the doorway. I rubbed my face. Picked at the dried mud.

“So Mother told you.”

I began to sob again, my cries raw and hollow in the workroom.
“What now, Abba?” I said. “What now?”

Father joined me on the floor. Drew me so close I could barely breathe but I didn’t want him to stop. I felt the warmth of him—his compassion, his sorrow on my account, enter through my skin. At last he released me. He reached up and patted his workbench. Brought down a knife and stub of wood. He carved as he spoke, sending tiny curls of wood to their doom in the dirt.

“In times of trouble, son, I search the scriptures.”

I dabbed at my nose with my sleeve. “As do I.”

He smiled at the shape in his hands. “I know you do, son,” he said. “You’re a good man.”

He used the edge of his garment to remove dust from his work. “It has always been my hope that I, and you, would inherit the wisdom of our forefather—”

“Solomon?” I said.

He nodded. “Yes, and today a scripture came to me. For such a time as this.”

I turned my face to his. Held my breath.

“Two are better than one, Joseph. If either falls down, the one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”

I cleared my throat. It burned still. “Actually, I have decided to divorce her, Father. Quietly, of course.”

I watched Father’s chin push forward, his mouth drop open. “Oh, Joseph,” he said. “Surely not. You cannot leave her alone in her circumstance. The law—”

I held up my hand. “Hear me out,” I said. “I have to free her from our betrothal so that when he comes for her she will not be bound to me. And he will return for her, Father. How can he not? There is none more beautiful—”

Father shook his head. “I disagree. If that was the case, would he have let her leave Judea in the first place?”

He stood. Extended his hand to help me up. He embraced me again and I inhaled his woody fragrance, always a part of him.

“Perhaps he needs to save money," I said to the air behind him as we made our way back to the house. "For the bride price, before he can send for her. Maybe there is more to this than we know.”

Outside the door my father turned to face me. Took my hands in his.
“Do not be hasty, my son,” he said. “Promise me you’ll sleep on this. Pray about it. Perhaps we should fast. For wisdom.”

I squeezed his hands and nodded. “I promise, Abba. I will sleep on it.”

“Awake! Awake, o sleepers!” Two nights later I practically sang the words to my parents as I shook them from their slumber. “The Lord, our God, the Mighty One, has done a great thing! He sent an angel. In a dream.”

Mother and Father stumbled into the common room huddled under a single blanket.

I stood before them, wildly gesturing. “’I will die this night.’ That was my first thought when I opened my eyes. I was sure the light of him, this being as massive as Goliath, would consume me.”

At the table my father rubbed his eyes as my mother brought out bread and water. Their brows were furrowed. With lack of understanding? Or disbelief?

“He said I am not to be afraid to bring Mary here as my wife. That the babe in her womb is from the Holy Spirit, the Most High God himself! Truly He has changed my mourning into dancing!”

I scooped my mother up into my arms. Spun her around the room. Clapped and grinned like a fool. I ran to the window and shouted to all of Nazareth.

“Mary, my Mary, is a virtuous girl. Call me a prophet for I say one day you will all call her blessed.”

I spun to face my parents. “I am to give him the name of Jesus,” I said. “That’s what the man from heaven told me, commanded me. Because he will save his people from their sins.”

            Mother fell to her knees. Lifted her hands to heaven. “Thanks be to God for he has taken your shame, my son, and refashioned it into joy.” Tears streamed down her face.
            Father clasped his hands together. Raised his gaze to the ceiling.
            “This is indeed good tidings. Our Lord is both gracious and compassionate.” He stood and beckoned toward the door. “We will need to finish the addition, Joseph. Quickly.”

Mother gasped and clutched at her chest. “A feast. I must prepare a feast,” she said. “A week from today?” She extended a hand toward Father. “Can you have their quarters completed in seven days? You and Joseph?”

My father and I were of one mind. We spoke in unison. “Surely, nothing is impossible with the Lord.”

*The Best Christmas Eve Ever--Part Two"

2011-12-23T05:08:00.000-08:00

The Christmas Eve house tour ended up back in the kitchen. “So every room has a fireplace and a Christmas tree?”
            “Just about.”
            “And nativities,” I said. “Do you collect them?”
            “We do.” She picked up a carved manger scene and placed it in my hand. “This one’s from

Israel

, like Jesus.”
I held it up to the light and examined it this way and that. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a bench in front of the fireplace. “I’ll make coffee.”

            I leaned close to the fire until my cheeks burned. I pressed my palms to my face. Hot. Dry.
            “Come here,” Mom said.
            I joined her at the island in the middle of the kitchen.
            She patted the marble surface. “Put your face here.”
            The coolness instantly soothed. I turned my head to relieve the other side. Caressed the chilly counter.
            “Let me guess. Italian?”
            She smiled and nodded.
            I peered at the soaring ceiling with its tic, tac, toe beams. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”
            Her eyes followed my gaze. “Do you get Metropolitan Home magazine?”
            My mouth fell open. “Whoa!”
            She pulled a stool out from under the island and I did the same. We sat. Neither of us spoke for awhile but it was fine.
            “When I grow up, I wanna be just like you.”
            I peeked at her from under my lashes. One side of her mouth was higher.
            I bit my lip. “Did I say that out loud?”
            The other corner rose.
            I returned my face to the marble. “Sometimes I think I have Tourette's.”
            She reached across the island and rested her hand on my hair. “You’re so much like your brother.”
            I sat up when Amy, followed by John, burst into the room, in song. “Here we come a-caroling . . .”
            Amy looked at Mom, then me. “C'mon. It’s time! To the music room.”
            “You didn’t show me that one,” I said to Mom.
            She shrugged. “I knew we’d end up there eventually.”
             Suddenly the side door to the kitchen opened and a sparkly wind whooshed a man inside. The crown of his fedora brushed the doorframe as he entered. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold.
            His eyes swept the room and came to rest on me. “John's sister, no doubt," he said. "You’ve got your brother’s eyes. Welcome. And Merry Christmas.”
            He turned to John. “The fireplaces are hungry,” he said. “We must appease them.”

            “I’ll get my coat,” my brother said.
            Amy and Mom led me down a back hall. I hung back so I could gawk to my heart’s content. You know you’re in a rich person’s house when there’s a music room. And, when just about every wall is glass and you’re not cold, even in the dead of winter.
            In the music room we gathered around the grand-not-baby piano and sang all the Christmas carols in the hymnal. Mom played beautifully. Her fingers had perfect piano playing posture, all high and curved. Amy’s voice was a sweet, clear soprano. When she hit the high note in O Holy Night, I almost wept. At some point I heard male voices behind me. I grinned at my song sheet.
            “It’s time,” Dad said when there were no more songs to sing.
            My eyes darted from face to face. “For what?”
            No one answered. Instead they followed him into the room with the biggest fireplace of all. The tallest tree. It shimmered with silver and gold pinecones and opalescent garland. The room was furnished with Shaker pieces—elegant but not soft. I opted for a floor cushion almost the size of my car.
            When everyone was seated and quiet, Dad spoke. “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.” He recited the whole thing from memory—no notes, no Bible.
            The fire warmed my cheeks. The story heated my heart. After he said, “But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart,” he reached into one of the baskets beside the hearth. He brought out a candle and lit it from the fire. I held out my hand. He repeated the action four more times, one for each of us.
            My cheeks ached. Because I couldn’t stop smiling. It’s perfect, I thought. I didn’t think this night could get any better, but it did.
            We sat there in our little circle for the longest time, each of us mesmerized by the moment. We watched as our flames flickered and bowed. I allowed a drop of hot wax to splash onto my palm. Pressed my thumb into it to make a print. I chuckled.
            Somewhere in the house, a clock struck. I closed my eyes and counted the chimes. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. A contented sigh escaped me. I opened my eyes to see if anyone heard. Saw Amy’s lips moving around the lyrics of “Silent Night.” One by one, we joined in. I lifted my gaze to the ceiling. Steepled my fingers. Adopt me. Please.

When I got out of the Toyota back at my apartment, I noticed a basket on the back seat. They gave me presents? My eyes stung and I sniffed as I carried the basket inside and put the packages under our little tree. Tonight, or tomorrow? After a few minutes I unplugged the lights and headed back to my bedroom.
            Five minutes later, I ran back out. Lit the tree and sat cross-legged beside it in my pajamas and robe. One by one I opened the presents. They’d given me the slippers I’d worn. And a pair of polka-dotted mittens. Nestled in a fist-sized box was the nativity from

Israel

. I stroked the smooth wood and shook my head in wonder.
The shine of the aluminum foil star on top of the tree caught my eye. I spoke to it. “Star light. Star bright.” I stopped. Picked up the little manger scene and held it against my heart. “Actually, I don’t need to make a wish. I want to say thanks. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, and I wasn’t. And Christmas in the country? It was different . . . and better."

*The Best Christmas Eve Ever--Part One"

2011-12-16T08:01:00.000-08:00

It was snowing for real now. Cottonballs from the sky. I sprinted over to Dart Drug for a bag of kitty litter—emergency traction for the car, just in case. Back at the apartment I filled my Jazzercise water bottle and grabbed a Snickers bar—emergency sustenance for my stomach, just in case. In my bedroom I threw my afghan over my shoulder—the one Mom made me when she learned to crochet.

“That should be good,” I told the door as I locked it.

Back outside my breath came out in little cloudy mushrooms as I scraped and brushed ice and snow off my blue Toyota. As I waited for the windshield to defrost, I examined the blackened palms of my French’s Mustard yellow gloves. They’re wrecked. My mouth pulled to the side for a moment, then up into a grin. There’s always after Christmas sales.

“Hello?”
“Sis, it’s me. I’m here in D.C.,” my brother had said when he called.
“Since when?”

            “I took the train from Charlottesville this morning. Thought I’d come up and surprise Amy and her family.”
            “Oh.” So you won’t be alone on Christmas Eve.
            “They want you to come out,” he said. “Amy’s family says no one should be alone on Christmas Eve.”
            I looked up at my bangs. “They said that?”
            “Yeah. I’m going to put Amy on. Get a pen and paper. She’ll give you directions.”

The Toyota crept from Route 50 to the Beltway. Past Fair Oaks Mall, then to an exit. Further still. I glanced in my rearview mirror. All I could see were the parallel black lines my Toyota tires had carved in the pillowy snow.
            “Usually I’m scared to drive when it’s like this,” I said to no one. “But that’s when I’m going to work. This is different.”

            I was headed for Christmas in the country. Surely, a country Christmas would be different. Better.
            I checked my odometer and slowed down. The turn should be— Oh, there it was. The private road wasn’t paved but it had been scraped recently. Bet they have a John Deere something or other for times like this.
            I cracked the window so I could hear the silence. Country silence is quieter than city silence. I imagined the world wrapped in Santa’s beard or in the wool of one of the sheep in the Christmas story.
            I shivered. Rolled up the window. The road seemed to go on forever.

“Am I lost?” I asked the windshield. “Maybe I took a wrong turn. But—”

            Then I saw the light or rather, the lights. Dim golden polka dots lined both sides of the road up ahead. I pulled over. To see what exactly would make that kind of glow. My boots made a squawnky sound on the packed surface. The light, I discovered, came from deep bowls made of ice. Someone had snuggled them down into the knee-deep snow, about one every ten feet. Each bowl held a creamy, chubby pillar candle. The flames shimmied and bowed in the snow sequined night.
            I stood and peered up the road. Where did that come from? At the top of the hill was a house, grand and lovely. Greenery and a red bow adorned the outside of every window. A candle flickered on the inside of each as well.
            I decided to walk the rest of the way so my tire tracks wouldn’t defile the perfect snow in front of their house. Before I set out, I brushed the snow from my pants and tucked them inside my boots. Puckered my lips and applied Cherries in the Snow lipstick. I flipped up the velvet collar of my dress coat to keep the back of my neck warm, plunged my hands deep in my pockets, and headed up the hill.
            As I neared the house, my brow scrunched. I’ve seen this place before. Then I remembered where. The scene reminded me of a snow globe I’d purchased at the Christmas Shop in Manteo, North Carolina. I smiled, at the thought of the Outer Banks. And summertime.

When I was about fifty yards from the house, I stopped. Watched the plume of my breath appear every thirty seconds or so.

            “What are you waiting for?” I asked the night. After a few minutes, it occurred to me I was wanting someone, the family who lived on top of the hill maybe, to lift the edge of the glass dome and let me in. Into their world.
            I was twenty feet from the porch when the front door opened. The silhouettes of my brother and a young woman filled the doorway. His buzz cut and her mass of flame-colored waves were backlit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t say a word. I hung back in the shadows by the side of the road watching them.
            “She’s here! She’s here!” I heard Amy say. “Her car’s out there. But where’s she?”
            “Hallo!” my brother called.

            “Hallo!” the echoes multiplied through the woods behind the house.
            I stepped into the porch light shine and waved. “Merry Christmas!” I said. My greeting went far, in every direction, in the navy night.
            Amy waved excitedly like it would bring me to her faster. I climbed the steps and she threw her arms around me while I was stomping the snow off my boots.

“I’m Amy,” she said. “Merry Christmas to you!”

I smiled into her hair. I’ve never met you, but you sure do seem to like me.
Inside the front door, my brother lifted me in a bear hug. Beside him, Amy counted on her fingers.

            “Coat, slippers, cocoa.”
            I tilted my head. “Hunh?”
            She spoke slower. “Give John your coat. Change into slippers. Get cocoa from my mom.”
            I handed my brother my coat. Added my boots to the line against the wall. There was a basket of slippers, all colors and sizes, tags still on, behind the door.
            I stooped. “I’ll take . . . fuzzy and red, size small.”
            When I straightened, John and Amy had disappeared and there was Mom.
            “You’re beautiful,” came out of my mouth before I could stop it. Amy looks just like you.
            “And you,” she said, as she pressed an oversized mug into my hands.
            I stuck my nose close to the marshmallows and felt steam collect on my cheeks. I lifted my chin but kept my eyes closed. I inhaled.
            “What do you smell?” Mom said.
            My face squinched in concentration. “A peppermint at the bottom of the cocoa. Pine. A wood fire. Paperwhites. Wassail maybe? Or are there oranges studded with cloves?”
            I opened my eyes. She was still smiling. “You should be a sommelier.”
            “A some of what?”
            She chuckled and tucked her arm inside mine. “A sommelier—sort of a wine expert,” she said. “You have an excellent nose.”
            We walked down the central hallway. Suddenly she stopped and turned to face me.

“Where are my manners?” she said. She rested her hands on my shoulders and kissed the air beside each of my ears. I caught a waft of her perfume—peonies and vanilla maybe.

            “Welcome, and Merry Christmas, dear.”
            I peeked into a room. “Where is everyone?”
            “You mean, your brother? And Amy?” she said. “Probably under the mistletoe somewhere. We’ll find them. Sooner or later. Would you like a tour?”
            I nodded, my eyes huge. “Yes, please!”

The Gift Gap

2011-12-14T07:32:00.000-08:00

(Guest Post by Catherine Whitworth, MPA)

Some time ago, my husband Steve and I served as Peace Corps volunteers in the enchanting Central American country of Guatemala. It is often said that Peace Corps volunteers gain more than they contribute in the countries where they live and work. Some of the most important lessons I have learned in my life were from the children of Guatemala. One child, Maria, who visited us frequently, taught me the true meaning of giving.

Maria was 12 years old when we met. She was repeating the third grade for the third time in a rural school where I worked. She was desperately poor, owned no shoes, and both of her parents were tragic alcoholics. Maria visited our home frequently to chat or to bathe. She had no clean water in her home. In the indigenous villages of Guatemala, children do not play as much as children here. Each child works and contributes to the survival and well-being of the family. It seemed that many, especially the girls, didn’t even know how to play and were too self-conscious to do so, so when Maria visited, we usually sat around a table sipping coffee and talking.
We answered flurries of questions about North Americans. “Is it true that you steal children?” “Is it true that you only eat canned food?” “You gringos are all rich, right?” “Gringos don’t like tortillas, do they?” “How much do your shoes cost?” “What does it cost to go to the U.S.?” and “Why on earth don’t you have children yet?”
She described how her family was relatively prosperous at one time; they were weavers and operated twelve looms. But they had to sell all but one loom because of her parents’ drinking and they were “pobres.” Maria chatted about such things very matter-of-factly, her expressions conveying neither shame nor sorrow.

Every now and again, we passed along extra items of clothing or food that we did not need to Maria. We had been admonished by Peace Corps administration to avoid “paternalistic giving” and not create a “gift gap” that would make people in our communities feel uncomfortable. So we kept our gifts small.... chicken necks and backs we weren’t going to eat, an old sweater with a hole in it, old calendars from previous years...and we felt generous about this. I recall once giving Maria a cookie to have with her coffee. She broke it into 5 pieces and tucked it into her apron to carry home to her brothers and sisters.

While some who visited us, half-jokingly hinted that we should “gift” them our more flashy belongings such as our radio and toaster oven, Maria never expressed interest in such things. During our last days in Totonicapan, the one material thing Maria very shyly and tentatively asked us about was if we would take our “tinaja” (plastic jug for carrying water on one’s head) back to the U.S.. I told her that we didn’t need tinajas in the U.S. because everyone had running water and asked her if she would like it. She was very pleased with this shabby, battered gift. It meant her family could collect an extra gallon of water during the two hours a day that water was available in the village. Again, I felt generous.

On our last night in Totonicapan, Maria and countless others brought us gifts to remember them by. One boy gave Steve a hat. An old soul in a droopy cowboy hat dropped 5 kernels of dry corn into my hands. Maria brought us some bread and a woven tortilla napkin. We knew this had cost her family either money or time, both in short supply for a struggling family. I explained that we didn’t want her to spend what little they had on us. She just smiled and said it wouldn’t be giving if nothing was given up.
Later, I pondered Maria’s words and thought about the generosity routinely bestowed on us by the people of Guatemala. People who invited us to dinner and served us their best arroz con pollo recipe as they and their children ate only beans and tortillas, or sometimes just tortillas and salt. The ancient ones sporting broad, toothless grins handing us apples, just because we strolled past their adobe homes.
It seemed that what Maria and many other Guatemalan people did without thinking was a foreign concept to us. They gave what they could not spare and we never gave away anything that we would actually miss. Talk about a “gift gap”.

~~~~~~~~

This timely post is by my dear friend, Catherine Whitworth. Catherine Whitworth, MPA, is a tobacco dependence treatment specialist and policy analyst at West Virginia University. She served in the Peace Corps in Guatemala from 1989 to 1992. There she met and married another volunteer, Stephen DiFazio. Catherine and Steve live in Morgantown with their two teenagers. In her spare time Catherine works to get smoke free laws passed in local communities.

Prelude to the Best Christmas Ever

2011-12-09T05:51:00.000-08:00

It was a Christmas Eve in the 80s, my first one after college. My roommate had headed home for the holidays at noon—his home being Moundsville, West Virginia. My boyfriend would celebrate the Feast of the Seven Fishes with his family that night, then he'd get up early the next morning and drive three hours, probably way too fast, so we could be together before noon on Christmas Day.

Around six that evening, I wiggled into my winter coat. Slipped my feet into duck boots which were knockoffs of the real ones you can order from Lands’ End. I tied the long laces in double bows, tucked a scarf around my throat, and ventured outside to inspect the silent night.

Out in the cold, I shuffled through the snow. Tried to make a solid line with my feet instead of a dotted one. As I balanced on the curb at the edge of Route 50 in Fairfax, Virginia, my breath seemed like a diaphanous megaphone. Go team, I breathed. I mean, go me. Nowhere. I lifted my chin. The street lights each had halos. Rainbowy. Shimmery.

            I faced left toward Fairfax Circle then right toward Washington D.C.. I began to count cars. One. Two. Three. Big gap. That one turned before it passed me. I waved at the fourth one. Five minutes later I abandoned the car count.
            I squinted across the way. Tried to see inside the slightly fogged windows of the Dart Drug. Only the manager was there. He looked lonely too. Even with a Santa hat on.
            I tilted my head back. Sighed. No stars. City lights and puffy snow clouds concealed any and all heavenly bodies.
            I glanced over at Dart Drug again. The lights on the Christmas tree in the window winked at me. Seemed to flash the rhythm of Jingle Bells--Blink, blink, bliiiink. Blink, blink, bliiink.
            The star on top of the drugstore tree was big. Too big really. It looked like it was fashioned out of gold foil, studded with yellow mini lights. As I stared at its five points, it seemed to shoot out light beams. I had a thought. Star light. Star bright. First star I see tonight. I wish I may. I wish I might. Have the wish, I wish tonight.

            I narrowed my eyes and focused intently on the star. "I wish . . . I wish I wasn't alone on Christmas Eve." I said it out loud, so whoever was in charge would hear me. I waited. I expected. Zilch.

I plodded back to my building. Outside my door I stomped snow and ice clods onto the coir doormat that proclaimed, "'Tis the season!" Inside the apartment I left a trail of hat, boots, mittens, muffler, coat. Who cares?
            In the kitchen, I watched my reflection in the window as it filled a mug with half water, half skim milk. The Times Journal cup disappeared inside the microwave. A finger pushed Beverage then Start. The image girl leaned against the cabinet. Drummed her fingers on the counter. Startled when the microwave dinged. Three scoops of International Coffee powder, hazelnut flavor, went into the mug. The reflection paused its stirring. Tasted. Added another spoonful of mix. Hummed a song from Mary Poppins.
            I tilted my head at image girl. She seemed tired. Or sad. Before she turned away.
            I opened the fridge and grinned. "You’re still here," I said to the can of whipped cream. I shook it then sculpted an ascending spiral on top of the steaming foam. I took a step toward the fridge, whipped topping in hand. I paused. Glanced left and right. As if. I giggled and opened wide. Aimed the whipped cream nozzle at my uvula and sprayed until it sputtered.
            In the dining area, I sank into one of the two folding chairs beside the card table. Hummed "I'll Be Home for Christmas" in between sips of fake coffee. When it was gone, I swirled my finger around the inside of the mug to collect the hazelnut dregs. Slurped my finger as I relocated to the sofa.

I plopped my feet on the Ikea coffee table and stared at our tiny flashing Christmas tree in the corner. It wore only two things—multi-colored lights and white snowflakes. I'd snipped the snowflakes out of a couple sheets of Xerox paper I brought home from work.

"Note to self, " I said to the empty room. "Get Christmas decorations for next year. Real ones." Maybe boyfriend and I'd order Poinsettias or Mimosas at Sunday brunch before we shopped. Cocktails always seemed to help us locate better bargains.
I stirred my bangs with a puff of air. If I went to bed now, night would go faster and morning would come sooner. I glanced at the VCR under the TV. Not even nine o’clock. Pa-thetic. I rocked myself up and off the sofa and headed back to my bedroom.

I was stepping out of my jeans when the phone rang. I straightened, one leg in, one leg out of my pants. The clanging ricocheted around the room. Sounded sort of like a Salvation Army bell being rung really fast, pause, really fast. I considered not answering it. Maybe I want to be alone on Christmas Eve, just to know what it feels like, just this once.
"Hello?"

The Worst Christmas Ever

2011-12-02T05:32:00.000-08:00

I knew I was in trouble when my husband questioned the pile of packages by the front door.

“I have a good excuse,” I said.

One of his eyebrows arched. “Really?”

Both of my eyebrows went up. “Really,” I said. “These are the Christmas presents I bought and wrapped for your mother to give the kids.”

“She already did that .”

My heart hiccupped. I squinted. “She did? Why?”

“’Cause she wanted to.”

“But, this is how we always do things. She buys. I fly.”

“Not this year.”

Inside me, my holiday spirit engine gasped. Shimmied. Chugged, then stopped. The Christmas carol soundtrack in my head ceased. The skippy spring to my step flattened.

And then it happened again. We stepped into my mom’s house less than a week later and her hearth was smothered with red and green packages adorned with smooshed and pointy pre-tied bows.

My breath caught. My eyes widened. The two shopping bags of packages I was carrying dropped to the floor with a thunk and a rattle.

“Uh . . . Mom? Did you forget how we do things—you buy, I fly?”

She beamed from her lavender recliner. “I don’t know what got into me. One day I felt a burst of energy. And there was this great sale at the mall and . . . “

For the second time in seven days my holiday spirit engine faltered. I stared at the fireplace for a few minutes—almost hypnotized by the blueish yellow flames that danced around the fake logs.

“They got double presents,” I said, without moving my lips.

“Excuse me?” Mom said.

I walked down the hall to the bathroom and washed my hands. Put on sweet pea-scented hand lotion. Tried on every shade of lipstick on Mom’s vanity. I lowered the toilet lid and took a seat. I counted on my fingers. They got presents from my mom. They got gifts from his mom. They got stuff that I bought them from my mom. They got stuff that I bought them from his mom. They got presents from us. They got toys from Santa.

I stood and surveyed my reflection in the mirror. Leaned forward and tugged my eyeskin to make the wrinkles disappear. I sighed. My mom was happy. Mother-in-law was too. The kids were ecstatic. And he was thrilled. Husband adores giving and receiving gifts. “Can’t take it with you when you die.” That’s one of his favorite sayings.
I grinned at myself. "Faker," I hissed. Everyone was giddy with holiday joy but me. All the stress I’d put myself through—making the lists, checking them twice. Shopping all over hell’s half acre and the Internet. Wrapping, hiding. I didn’t need to do any of it. Well, I didn’t need to do half of it. I’d put myself out, way out, for nothing. All that Advil gone to waste.

And that’s not all. The double presents thing? It fed the fear inside me. The fear that all the gifts, the mile high stack of gadgets and sweaters that no one really needs, would make Christmas Day into Stuff Day. I worried that the intense focus on buying, giving, getting, repeat, would take the attention off little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

Back in the living room, I sank into the sofa beside husband. He shushed me as I mumbled, “It’s gonna be Stuff Day, not Christmas Day.” He stroked my back. Massaged my shoulders. Murmured, “There, there. Everything’ll be all right.”

A few nights later we gathered in the foyer. Donned hats and coats, mittens and gloves. Prepared to go to the last holiday party of the season—Christmas Eve at my mother-in law's. One of our children dawdled. Or whined. I don’t remember which. I snapped at her. A little too loud, a little too mean.

All of a sudden the front door whooshed open. Frigid night air rushed the room. Husband slammed the door and turned to me, his eyes squinty and small.

“Shut. Up,” he said. “You’re going to ruin Christmas Eve for everyone.”

All three kids gawked at me, my husband, each other, then the floor. I winced and inspected my boots. I knew I deserved it. Not in front of the kids, but still . . .

Husband stomped out into the night to start the car. After a few minutes, the kids followed. I locked the front door and slunk down the steps. It was bitter cold with no snow. There would be though. Eventually. I could smell it.

I climbed into the SUV. Flipped my seat warmer on. The silence was too quiet, even on the Silent Night, so I pushed the stereo knob. Charlie Dodrill sang. To me. “I am under the impression that it’s all for me.” I rubbed my thighs with my Granny Smith apple green gloves and waited. For someone to say, “Hey, he’s singing your song.”

At husband's mother’s house, the kids raced up the sidewalk to get at the warmth, the seven fishes, and the gifts inside. Husband gathered my sour green apple gloves into his black ones. I lifted my chin cautiously. Noticed the solidness of my breathless diaphragm. His mouth pulled to one side. “Sorry,” he whispered. I blinked slowly. “Me too.”

I realized something. A few days later. That particular Christmas Day was not Stuff Day. It was Grace Day. The day three kids received way more than they expected, way more than they needed. And they rejoiced. With hoots and hollers and declarations that this indeed had been the best Christmas ever.

Time with Ann

2011-11-25T04:06:00.000-08:00

I must slow time. Or I will lose it. This a woman with twice my children tells me. And a three letter name to my five.

“What?” I say. “I don’t just pray, ‘Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom?’”

“Well,” she says, “that and . . . “ She pats the grass beside her. Leans back against the tree’s trunk. I lower myself. Pluck a violet. Twirl it.

She watches the clouds, not me, as she speaks. “To slow time, you must love it. Appreciate it. Notice it. Examine your ankles and imagine minutes swirling all around. You stand firm yet they continue on. And on.”

The key she says is thanks. And the giving of it. Over and over. All the blessings flow. They are given. Consider that. No randomness here. Only love. And generosity. A father extends an open palm, good gift revealed. A child grasps fingers around. Tight. The papa waits. For a corner of a mouth lifted. A word whispered. An enthusiastic hug maybe. The moment stretches out. Lingers.

A thousand times a day. No, a minute. Maybe even a second. Everywhere. All over creation. In every life. Known and not. Presents proffered. Presence.

If you acknowledge the giving, another offering appears. Many actually. Joy, not mere happiness. Awareness. A shimmering of the moment. A pause. You hear and feel your respiration. Record the realization on your heart or perhaps on paper. Resume breathing and discover another thing a blink later.

Beauty (and bounty) is all around. Immanent. Constant. The living of life, the occurrence of another breath even, is gorgeous. Replete with what ifs. All the more lovely with gratitude. Magnified.

Ann rises. Tucks her hair behind her ears. I roll my fingers as she moves away. Watch hers. Middle finger joins pointer. Then the ring finger. And pinky. Other hand . . .

In Search of Excellence

2011-11-18T06:38:00.000-08:00

I stood and faced the ten people gathered around our dining room table. Held up my pointer finger.

“Will you excuse me a minute please?”

I bolted upstairs and buried my head in a laundry basket. And screamed. When I lifted my head, there was my husband’s pant leg.

“Something wrong?”

I glanced up from my crumple.

“It’s not perfect.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be. It’s excellent. That’s enough.”

Last year my Thanksgiving hoohah was a bit of a fiasco. I decided to be cool and brine my bird. Nowhere in the directions did Martha Stewart say it would take the turkey three times longer to roast due to its forty-eight hour soak in salt water.

Thankfully, all the guests were polite about the extremely delayed entrance of the main course. We actually started out fine. The wassail was perfect, all simmery and cinnamony in the Crockpot I’d wrapped with fall foliage paper. It made the house smell like it had one foot in November, the other in December.

The appetizer buffet was stunning. I had to smack the kids’ hands with a wooden spoon to keep them from spoiling their appetite with shrimp butter on toasted baguette slices. My ma-in-law and I vied for the biggest glutton title with the Bon Appetit spiced pecans. The roasted bell pepper and havarti slices on fancy crackers disappeared in five minutes, thanks to dear husband.

When the oven timer buzzed, I clapped to get everyone’s attention.

“And now for the main event,” I said. “Give me a few minutes to get the turkey out of the oven, and we’ll get this feast started for real.”

My husband hoisted the steaming Tom Turkey out of the oven and onto my Granny’s cream ironstone platter while I got the side dishes squared away. Nutty green beans go in this bowl. Garlic mashed potatoes will live in there. These two trivets will hold my sister-in-law’s best-ever-she-won’t-give-me-the-dang-recipe sweet potatoes. And I’ll fill our wedding anniversary bowl with my modified Gourmet magazine stuffing recipe.

I balanced on tiptoe to peek over my husband’s shoulder as he sliced into the bird’s breast. I squealed. He jumped. The carving knife clattered on the stove top.

I waved my arms frantically. “Stop!” I said. “The juices aren’t running clear! The turkey package said the juices can’t be pink or cloudy.”

My husband looked from me to the bird. I pressed potholders into his hands.

“Quick! Put him back in the oven.”

I increased the heat twenty five degrees and used my Nan’s giant wooden spoon to shove the roasting pan all the way back and left. I crammed the side dishes onto the racks, hoping to keep them warm too. I stood, smoothed the front of my cute aqua and lime Anthropologie apron, and headed into the dining room. With a basket of cheddar pecan biscuits in one hand and a crystal bowl of salted Amish butter in the other.

“Everyone get a biscuit and butter. It’ll tide you over ‘til turkey time.”

My husband checked the bird thirty minutes later. He stood in the dining room doorway and shook his head ever so slightly. I choked on my biscuit bite. Wadded my pilgrim and Indian print napkin and threw it at my empty plate.

“Here. Let me take a look.”

My mother-in-law followed me into the kitchen. She touched me lightly on my shoulder.

“Why don’t we start with the side dishes?” she said. “While the turkey finishes up. It’ll be fine.”

I sighed. And sniffed. “Okay.”

She removed everything from the oven but the turkey. Arranged the bowls on the kitchen table. I placed a little calligraphied placard in front of each serving dish. The guests filed in, loaded their plates, and returned to the dining room.

Before we dug in, my oldest brother prayed. "Lord, we thank you for this bountiful array of food. Bless it to our bodies, and please, comfort my sister in her time of distress."

A half hour later my husband inspected the turkey again. Then once more after twenty minutes.

“Think I’ll wait an hour before I look again,” he whispered to me before he sat down.

I took a swig of white wine. “You know what? Just leave it in there ‘til it’s black for all I care.”

My mother pointed her fork at me. “Actually, this is good for my hiatal hernia,” she said. “Small amounts of food throughout the day are much easier to digest than large meals.”

I tried to smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

When we were done with our stuffing and veggies, I stacked my plate on my husband’s and stood.

“Forget about the turkey,” I said. “I’ll give everybody some to take home. Who’s ready for dessert? There’s Praline Pumpkin Pie or Frozen Caramel Pumpkin Torte. Both with homemade hazelnut whipped cream.”

I flipped the toggle on the coffee maker and cut five pieces of each dessert. Dolloped them with whipped cream.

My husband set a cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of me. I started to take a drink, but stopped. I inhaled. Wrinkled my nose.

“What’s in it? It smells different.”

He grinned. “A shot of Bailey’s,” he said. “I thought you might need it.”

I felt my nostrils flare and my eyes start to burn. He patted my back.

“There, there. Think excellence, not perfection.”

I turned to face him, my hands on my hips.

“This won’t happen next year.”

He cringed. “We eating out?

I snorted. “Heck no,” I said. “I’m gonna cook the dang turkey the day before.”

The Silver Hurricane

2011-11-11T06:27:00.000-08:00

(Also known as, Things Ann Voskamp Prompted Me to Say)

For decades of days I have sensed the presence of a marvel waiting to be. A silver tornado. Twisting, hovering. At the edge of my existence.

What epithets have I been called? None. You can’t say I’m a failure. Because I never tried. I shroud myself in recycling, laundry, and recipes. Whisper the lie. This is all there is. It’s not all. But it is easier. At the end of the day—No, at the end of a life, does easy get you anything?

I dread my habit. Beginning another day I’ll just waste. Fritter away. Lord, please don’t think me blasphemous. That I want more than just my daily bread. I desire the silver hurricane. Its velocity. Passion. Urgency. And the sure knowledge that it was here. When I go, will anyone know I was here?

Every morning I lie in the trough, the culvert, of my bed. In between get up and you’re going to be late. I pray. Make this day special. Please. Mold it into something other than meaningless. Because my hands are useless. Snuggled in duct tape mittens. Ordinary is a paraffin dip of all of me, not just my hands. Warm, then not. Fluid, then immobile. I need you to dunamis significance into the humdrum white flatness of today's to-do list.

I’m fatigued. Tired of living carefully. Exhausted from waking in the night with a bottomless craving for (zoe) life. I don’t want tomorrow to be just another biscuit of a day. Pallid. Arid. Desperately needing a smear of salted Amish butter, raspberry jam, or Nutella.

Even so, I long for contentment. In all circumstances. While you’re at it, may I pretty please also have eyes that are more wide open? To the things of you. To the goings on in the spiritual realms. To my own possibilities. What did you place inside me eons ago that I have not yet discovered? What is the God destiny of me? I beg God. Don’t let me perish before I do the thing you formed me for. It's downloaded in my essence. Kissed on my DNA. I just have to find the file, the cell, or the strand, and press OPEN.

Out of the Box

2011-11-04T07:35:00.000-07:00

It has always been clear to me that you adored your folks and sister. That your life with them was one of faith, love, and charity. But then your sister went away. In sickness, not health. Her leaving left a pockmark on your insides. A small but permanent, life-will-never-be-the-same nick.

God holds your tears in a bottle. You know that, right? In my mind’s eye I see it. It looks like a cordial glass carved out of amethyst Swarovski crystal.

So I thought, as writers often do, what if? What if the “H” family had one more daughter? No, that’s not it. What if Mr. “H” walked out on the front porch to fetch the Sunday paper and there was a baby girl. Freshly hatched. In a lightbulb box, swaddled in a khaki cardigan.

Wait a minute. There has to be backstory. How exactly did this infant come to be?

Well, my birth mother was a young thing, and unwed. Her father, all Magic Marker eyebrows and flailing hands, accused her of wantonness. She insisted she was merely putting on weight. Consumed huge quantities of Wonder bread slathered in Parkay margarine to make it seem true. Every day she wore her father’s scratchy, mud-colored sweater. Tugged at it constantly to make her stomach seem more corpulent than expectant.

When my time came she made her beau bring me into the world. In the back of his dad’s car. She’d brought towels. Rubbing alcohol. And a library book on midwifery. He had a flashlight.

The windows were rolled up and steamed. My birth father said surely the folks closing up inside the hardware store would hear her screams. She didn’t care. “Get it out of me!”

“Now what?” he said. His face was pale and slick with sweat. He held me in his arms, but not close.

My mother wouldn’t look at my face. She cracked the window to release the scent of my beginning.

“Cut the cord,” she said. “My sewing scissors are in my purse. The outside pocket.”

My father’s face blanched as he balanced me on his knees and leaned to fish for the scissors. They rattled against his class ring. My mother struggled to sit up.

“Here! Give ‘em to me! I’ll do it.” She snatched them from him. Pinched the cord and severed it. I cried my first cry when the cold of the stainless steel fingerloops brushed my belly.
My mother made him drive to your house. Because she knew, was positive, that Mr. and Mrs. “H” would do the right thing. They did.

We three girls grew in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and man. Most of the time we could finish each other’s sentences. Every Monday Becky would pass her lima beans to me under the kitchen table and I’d lean forward and stuff the whole handful in my mouth and chew, chew, gulp. We watched The Brady Bunch every week on the living room floor and fiddled with each other’s hair. You were the only one who knew how to French braid though. Sometimes late at night in your all’s bedroom, we took turns kissing a handmirror, so we’d be ready for the time when Daddy let us car date.

Almost every evening at supper, he’d stare at each of us for a moment, and then he'd nod.

“Yes, indeed. Three is surely a charm. The good Lord knew what he was doing with our family.”

But then after college, your sister— our sister passed. And once again, back in our childhood home, you and I huddled under the covers. Only there did we dare to say, why and if only. We sobbed until we were ugly and had the hiccups. Finally the exhausted slumber of grief consumed us.

At the church, we sat thigh to thigh. In blue dresses because blue was her favorite color. You gripped my hand and blotted my face every now and then with a handkerchief our grandmother embroidered decades before.

“Hand me your purse,” I said (Lord knows I never carry one). “I think I have to throw up.”

“Breathe deep,” you whispered as you traced circles on my leg. “Remember what Daddy said. She’s absent from us but present with the Lord. And surely we’ll see her again one day. When the roll is . . . When we . . .”

            I let out a raggedy sigh. “I know. But now three's not a charm."
           Your breath stirred my hair. "Even so, God still knows what he's doing, right? Right?"

Nightmare at the Middle School

2011-10-31T08:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Journal:

Today is November 1^st. Yesterday was the craziest and scariest night of my life. Oh, yeah. I’m in the hospital with a broken rib. But anyway, last night I went trick-or-treating with Noah, Chase, Frank, and Ethan. Ethan and I were Ninjas. Noah was a Spartan. Frank was a devil, and Chase was an Aztec Warrior.

After we went trick-or-treating, we came back to my house and had a monster movie marathon. At about 11:30 pm, Jack K. called and told me that there were real monsters inside South Middle School. He was freaking out so, still in our costumes, the gang and I ran to South. When we got there Jack and about 20 other people were outside saying what Jack had said—that there were two monsters, a Hydra and a Lizard Beast, inside.

Andrew J. said that he saw two kids, one dressed as a Lizard Beast and the other as a Hydra, go in South and once they were inside, they turned into what they dressed up as. Since the gang and I had stayed in our costumes we decided that we should fight the monsters in South.

We walked toward the school and when we were through the second set of double doors there was a flash. Once it faded my senses were sharper. My fake sword had turned real. I was faster, stronger, and more agile. I looked around and saw that the same thing had happened to the rest of the guys. Since there were two monsters, we decided to split into two groups—Chase, Frank, and me in the first group and Noah and Ethan in the second.

Noah and Ethan covered the third floor since it is the smallest and Chase, Frank, and I took the first and second since there were three of us. Then Chase, Frank, and I decided to split up. Chase searched the band room, Frank looked in the auditorium, and I went to check the gym. I was about to open the gym door when I heard a spine-chilling roar behind me.

I turned around and saw the Lizard Beast. He was eight feet tall and had ten eyes. I could tell by his muscles that he was supernaturally strong. He also had green scales that glistened in the moonlight. The worst part was the way he laughed like a lunatic.

I tried to yell for help but I couldn’t. Instead of trying to fathom why my voice wouldn’t work, I charged at the monster with my sword drawn. I was much faster than that scaly monstrosity but it was way stronger. I managed to slash its arm but he almost killed me right after because I was dazed by his blue blood. Since he was injured I pressed my attack harder and managed to give him two more slashes on his arms and I stabbed him in the leg once. I was covered in his midnight blue blood but I kept fighting. Finally after ten straight minutes of dueling, I drove my sword through his heart and he collapsed, dead.

With the Lizard Beast Dead and the Hydra still missing, I went to look for the other guys. There was another roar. This one was much louder than that of the Lizard Beast. It came from the cafeteria so I sprinted there only to find the Hydra.

The Hydra was ten feet tall with six-inch razor sharp claws and teeth. The scariest part was that it had three heads. Noah, Ethan, Chase, and Frank were all fighting it, but right when I got there, the monster slashed Ethan’s leg and Frank had to drag him out of the way. Since only Chase and Noah were fighting it, I stepped in and managed to stab it in the side, but then it punched me in the ribs and I flew across the cafeteria.

I crashed into the wall and red stars flashed in front of my eyes. I knew by the pain that my rib was broken. The Hydra closed in to finish the job. It was right above me about to slash when two spears prodded from its chest and it dropped dead right beside me.

And that is how Chase and Noah saved my life and I broke a bone for the first time. It is also why Halloween 2011 will always be the most horrifying night of my life.

No-Hell-Boy

2011-10-28T04:58:00.000-07:00

I know some think he’s awful. That he’ll probably go to hell. After all, he says there is no such place. Insists there’s no way, no how a loving God would condemn all naysayers to languish in the lake of fire ever more. Proves his point with plucked phrases like "He desires none to perish” and “He’s making all things new.” Etcetera.

Let me tell you something. God can do anything. Use anyone. For his purposes. For his kingdom. When I listened to no-hell-boy teach the parable of the unmerciful servant, I was pierced. Crushed. For my transgressions. For the lack of forgiveness (and honor) I have shown my own mother.

After I said I do to the ultimate bridegroom, I went through the world doling out forgiveness to everyone. Like trick-or-treat candy. Freely. With a winsome smile. “Here. Take some more.” To everyone but the woman who groaned me into existence. Gnashed her teeth through my unruly and mean-spirited adolescence. So much almost-black, close to redemption-is-impossible in that house.

But the God of new mercies daily broke through anyway. Found the crack under the garage door only the pill bugs knew. Ascended to live with us. One at a time. Four down, two to go, except one already went. Away.

She was last. My mother. My sister in the faith. I extended my left hand to welcome her to God’s family. Grimaced when the fingernails on my right hand bit into my palm. Made a wound there. Which I ignored. I refused to drop the everything-bad-in-my-life-is-because-of-you rock. To the ground.

For years when the Spirit prompted, “You should—“ I interrupted. “I’m sorry, God. You can’t go into that one room in my heart basement. Seems I misplaced the key.”

Then no-hell-boy taught what he taught. And I wept. Through blind no more eyes. Fell to the floor. Slow blinked at the ceiling with drenched eyes. I held up my pointer finger.
“Give me just a second, Lord. To take off this mask. To wipe away this white paint.”

I stood. Wobbled. “I need to go downstairs. And outside. So I can hurl this stone. Far, far, away.”

Wonder Woman Was My Best Friend

2011-10-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

So there we were. Me and my best friend, Katie Lynn. Waiting in line to get into Spanky’s, the fancy new dance bar on Fourth Avenue. Per usual, we were decked out. In mini skirts and high heels.

Kent

had done our hair that day. Mine was so short it looked like a baby bird’s. Katie Lynn’s hair resembled Billy Idol’s in the front, except it was almost black, not white. But in the back it hung in waves almost to her bra strap. Guess that means she had a mullet, but back then it was cool.

I wiggled out of my shoes. “These heels have to go,” I said. “Least ‘til we get to the front of the line.” I sighed. “Looks like it’s gonna be awhile.”

All of a sudden, Katie Lynn whipped around to face the building. She grabbed my arm, taking me with her.

“Don’t look now, but your brother, Judas, and his pothead pals are headed this way.”

I cringed. “Aw, man! Maybe they won’t see us.”

Unfortunately, Katie Lynn is pretty hard to miss since she’s six foot one in heels and kind of looks like Wonder Woman. Judas paused next to us on the sidewalk. Slid between us and the wall. We brushed our fronts off. In case some of him got on us.

“Evening, lady,” he said to Katie Lynn. He sneered at me. “And girl.”

I glared. He curled his lip. I stuck my tongue out. He wobbled. His eyelids were flying at half mast. I knew what that meant. He fished a roll of Certs out of the front pocket of his Levi’s and unpeeled the wrapper. Bit off the top mint and held the rest out to Katie Lynn. She shook her head and opened her mouth to display her Bubble Yum.

He raised his eyebrows a couple times. “Lucky gum.”

I snorted and crossed my arms. “Ga-ross!”

Judas put one hand on the wall and leaned. A moment later he dropped his arm and straightened, probably because he figured out leaning made him a whole lot shorter than Katie Lynn.

“So, Katie,” he said. “I see you’re wearing your Western bra.”

Katie Lynn squinted. “My what?”

“Your girls,” he said, pointing at her chest. “The bra’s hitchin’ ‘em up and movin’ ‘em out.”

I smacked him with one of my pumps. “You stink, Judas,” I said. “You’ve got so much beer on you, I can’t even smell your Old Spice.”

Judas rubbed his arm and scowled.

I flicked his chin. “Haven’t you figured out yet that when you get high, you develop a mysterious hole in your lip?”

Judas burped and blew in my face. Dangled his pointer finger an inch from my nose. His eyes began to cross as he tried to focus on me and his finger.

“I’ll get you for this tomorrow, you know.”

“Hey, Jude,” Katie Lynn said. “Why don’t you do us a favor and get lost. And while you’re at it, take your Muppet Pals with you.” She flipped her long dark hair in the direction of his friends. “Go find some girls who actually want your company.”

I huffed. “Yeah, if there are any!”

In a second, something changed in Judas’s eyes. The ornery glint got mean. I heard his molars clack together. He took a step toward Katie. And another. I watched her lashes hit her brows.

“You know what I want, Katie Lynn?” he said. “I’ll tell you what I want.”

And he did. I thought I would die. Right there, in front of all those people waiting to get in Spanky’s. He said stuff so nasty my ears curled in on themselves.

Katie Lynn didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. I gulped. Nibbled a fingernail. After a minute of silence, Judas started jacking his jaws again.

“And if you were real nice,” he said as his eyes narrowed to slits, “You’d let my buddies watch.”

My mouth fell open and it was like I blinked in slow motion, because when I opened my eyes, Katie Lynn had Judas pinned to the brick wall. His arm was twisted behind him, and she was forcing his fist toward his copper curls. Judas screamed like a ninny and cussed a blue streak, all at the same time.

Everyone around me started clapping. “Woo hoo!” they yelled. “Get him, girl! Kick his butt!”

I couldn't make out what Judas was saying because his mouth was crammed into the bricks. I leaned closer but was careful to stay out of punching range.

“Uncle! Uncle!” he mumbled. He tried to turn his head but Katie increased the pressure on his arm. A whimpery grunt escaped him. “Guys! Help me out here!”

I searched the area. Spied his buddies across the street. They huddled together and kept their eyes on Katie Lynn, ready to bolt if she decided to turn her superpowers on them. Finally, she let go of Judas’s arm. Gave him a shove. He flung his hands out to keep from busting his knees, but his right arm didn’t seem to work quite right and he hit hard. From the ground he threw Katie Lynn one more super dirty look before he scrambled across the street.

I put my fists on my hips and squinted at the pack as they made their way down the sidewalk.

“Run, ‘fraidy cats, run!”

I stepped back in line and adjusted my skirt. High fived the girls who gathered around, giggling and congratulating.

“Those goobers remind me of sand crabs at Myrtle Beach,” I said. “They come out at night, but when you shine a light on ‘em, they skitter back in their holes.”

Katie Lynn pointed down the block. My gaze followed her finger. One of the flannel-shirted guys had fallen off the curb into the street. Judas and the others gathered him up. I took a dozen steps toward them. Cupped my hands around my mouth.

“Losers!”

Judas flipped me off without turning around. I smirked and headed back to Katie Lynn. There she was. In conversation with a tall, good looking guy in a dress shirt with a skinny purple tie. I smooshed my lips together to redistribute my gloss and held out my hand.

“Well, hello," I said. "I’m Dana, and you are?”

He took one of my hands and one of Katie's. “I'm Jonathan,” he told us. “I’m the manager here. I want to personally thank you ladies for dealing with the riffraff. May I escort you inside? Get you a cocktail?”

I bumped Katie Lynn with my hip and let my shoes drop. Stepped back into them and ran my fingers through my hair to re-spike it.

“Why yes, Jonathan. That would be lovely.”

Bat Attack at 110 Green Oak Drive

2011-10-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

A crash of thunder destroyed my dream. It was a good one too. About a Kentucky Derby where the cast members of Gilligan’s Island were the jockeys. I scootched to the end of my bed and pressed my nose to the window. No rain? Then how—

“Bats! Bats! To arms! To arms!” All three of my brothers sounded the alarm in unison. I heard the thunder noise again. Oh, it’s just them. On the stairs.

I almost went back to sleep. Shut my eyes for a second. Then I sat up. Threw off the covers.

“Did someone say bats? Oh, my! I have to save Houdini. Else the bats'll suck his blood!”

I felt my way over to the hamster cage on my desk and pried the lid off. Plucked my little guy out of his Habitrail and snuggled him to my chest. I dove back in bed, careful not to squish him in the process. I buried us both in my Mary Poppins sheets and tulip basket quilt. The air felt close so I carved out a tee tiny air hole near the wall.

I stroked Houdini between the ears. But then my petting finger froze. “Oh, no!” I said. “The crack under the door!”

I flung the bed clothes down again. Positioned Houdini on my pillow. Pointed at him. “Don’t move! I mean it!”

I dug under my bed. “Where is it? I know it’s here somewhere!”

Found it! The beach towel I’d forgotten to give Mom to wash (last month). I crawled over to the door and stuffed it in the gap. The boy noise muted. Still, I could hear activity. The sound of it carried from the basement up through the ductwork. Wire hangers jangled on the coat rack bar.

“They’re getting their winter coats on,” I whispered to Hou. “Bat fangs can’t penetrate parkas, you know.”

I recognized the thump of snow boots on the furnace housing.

“They have to protect their feet,” I said. “I can’t imagine a bat drinking my pinky toe blood, can you?”

All of a sudden Dad’s voice boomed. “Men, don’t forget your gloves,” he said. “Don’t let any skin show. I guarantee those flying rats can smell exposed flesh.”

No one spoke for a minute. I knew what they were doing though. See, this wasn’t the first bat invasion at one ten Green Oak Drive. It happened almost every year, usually during leaf-raking season.

I cupped Houdini in my hand. “I bet they’re putting paper grocery bags on their heads. They always do that. Hear that rippy sound? That's them tearing out eyeholes.”

The noise shifted. To the metal shelves over by the fireplace. Clang! Clank!

“One for you,” Dad said. “And one for you. And here’s yours.”

I rolled on my side and put Houdini next to my belly. “That’s Dad handing out tennis racquets. They’ll use ‘em to shoo the bats outside. Least, I hope they do. Oh, goodness. I better say a prayer for the bats.”

I closed my eyes and put my hands together. “Dear God, I pray they only stun the little, grey guys and take them outside. Death isn’t really necessary, is it?”

The house shook again as the boys ascended. Holly, our liver-and-white Heinz 57 pup, followed them through the kitchen, then the dining room, belting out a Beagle howl all the while. Out in the living room, the guys paused. A moment later I heard the whap of wood on wood.

“Touche!” Mike crowed.

“En guarde!” Geof countered.

Someone threw open the front door with too much zeal. It cracked against the dining room archway. Dad took the Lord’s name in vain. Right before he blew Taps on his bugle.

“Good golly,” I said. “He’s gonna wake the whole neighborhood!”

“Women! Children! Abandon ship!”

Don’t have to tell me twice. With Houdini clutched against my sternum, I sprinted out of my room. Dang it! I backtracked to grab the shades of blue zigzag afghan Mom made when she learned to crochet at the YWCA. When I got to the living room, I collided smackdab into her.

“Move it, Mom,” I said. “Do you want to get rabies?”

Mom didn’t seem to have the same urgency as the rest of us. She stopped to gather her cigarettes and silver lighter from the coffee table. Then she sipped at the dregs of Tab and melted ice in her topaz-colored juice glass. In her shiny satin housecoat with her hair wrapped around prickly rollers, she looked like a Lost in Space alien—“Danger Will Robinson!”

Outside in the yard, Mom turned two lawn chairs to face the house. “We don’t want to miss this now, do we?” she said.

I plopped into the chair on the left and she took the other one. I busied myself wrapping every inch of exposed flesh and hamster hair with blue afghan. Mom smacked her pack of cigarettes on the chaise lounge arm ‘til a butt peeked out. Flicked her other wrist to open her lighter. Rolled her thumb down the little wheel. A flame sprang up, a tiny bright teardrop in the night. I inhaled through my nose. I know cigarettes cause cancer but I love their fragrance in the moment right after they catch fire. Mom sucked in until she could hold no more, then she huffed out little grey halos. I watched her mouth go from flat line to smile.

We were out there a good half hour while the guys raced up and down the stairs, whooping and hollering. At the bottom of the steps Dad gave orders.

“Men! Watch out! There’s one above your heads. Swat it! Shoo it! Someone open the door! Dagnabbit, Michael! Geoffrey! Whichever boy you are! Get out of the way!”

Mom moved her head side to side so her smoke stream made an 's.' “Hear that? That’s his Navy voice.”

I squinted and listened close but he sounded like plain ole Dad to me. I leaned back and shut my eyes. Maybe I can catch a nap. A minute later Mom tapped my wrist. Nodded to the wall over to her right. I held my breath as I saw movement in the shadows. Slowly, elegantly, our cat Ginger emerged from the darkness.

Mom dropped her non-cigarette hand into the grass. Snapped her fingers.

“Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, girl.”

Ginger slunk over then sprang into Mom’s lap. I watched as Mom smoothed her white, black, and pumpkin fur. Then I screamed. Mom jumped up and Ginger went flying with a yowl.

Mom turned and glared at me. “What?”

I pointed a shaky finger at Ginger’s face. Ginger opened her mouth and deposited something, a small furry grey something, onto the sidewalk beside Mom’s chair. It didn’t move. Awww!

I covered Houdini with my hand. “Don’t look, sweet boy.”

Without flinching, Mom cleared her throat. “Yoo hoo! Oh, men,” she said. She waved her cigarette hand. The little orange beacon bobbed.

The guys all gathered out on the porch. “What?” Dad said. His voice had a snarl in it.

Mom nudged the little dead guy with her slippered toe. “Looks like Ginger did your job for you.”

The boys came down the steps and into the dew-dropped grass. “Aw, man!" John said. "She killed it before we did.”

Dad took the paper bag off his head and used the bell of his bugle to sweep the little grey guy into it.

“All right then,” he said. “Our job is done here. Men, escort the women back inside.”

Mom tucked her arm into the loop of Mike’s. She glanced back at me and winked.

“I feel so safe having all these big, strong men in the house, don’t you?”

I rubbed Houdini’s soft warm flank against my cheek. “Actually, I feel safe having Ginger around,” I said.

Back in my room, I returned Houdini to his Habitrail. Put the lid on and draped the cage with the beach towel that needed washed. Just in case. Then I crawled back into bed and carefully tucked myself in until all that showed was my forehead and eyes. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. At the Kentucky Derby. With Ginger and the gang.

When Pigs Fly

2011-10-07T04:43:00.000-07:00

It would be a good day to bury someone. Or some thing. The ground is soaked after days of drizzle. Will share its moisture if you but step on it.

I head for the basement. To me, it smells like death but then, it often does. Could be the inch of water on the floor in husband’s workroom. Might be a juvenile rodent in some advanced state of decay, its head like a walked on brussel sprout, thanks to one of husband’s traps. Long ago I relinquished my insistence he use Havahart cages. The day he displayed an incarcerated rat (as opposed to the usual mouse) outside the kitchen window, I nearly dropped my wine glass.

When he came back inside, I moved away from the sink so he could wash his hands. I spoke through clenched teeth.

“Get the real traps. The killing kind.”

I empty the dehumidifier. Fill the bunnies’ water bottle. That’s when I notice what’s wrong with this picture. I take in the cages of our guinea pigs—Trixie Juniper (sassy and sleek) and Sweetie (humble, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web, and tousled).

Something seems familiar. I picture the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the witch’s feet poke out from under her house. Only here in our basement, it's Sweetie’s butt that sticks out from under her purple pigloo. I make a hummy noise. That’s when I notice the silence. Consider she is not whistling and chuttering her usual high-pitched alarm. Ever since she learned basement light equals human equals food (at least a fair amount of the time—intermittent reinforcement and all that), she has proved our most vociferous beast.

I slump. Exhale loudly. “Did he not see her?” I ask the basement. The boy child. When he fed her. Didn’t he question the absence of squeaks?

I move the purple dome off her waist. Do my spot on imitation of a guinea pig vocal. My Indian name, after all, is Talks with Animals. I called myself that for months after I watched Dances with Wolves. Sweetie does not reply. Doesn’t stir in her aspen bedding. I make my eyes squinty. Will her to waddle her knocked-over-bowling-pin body to the side of the cage. To where she always begs for raisins. Every morning. She doesn’t today because she isn’t today. She cannot, will not, catch her breath of life ever again.

I text husband the sad news. He replies. Says he will lay her to rest tomorrow. I nod. Permit myself a small smile. Under the chestnut tree with all our other beloved pets, no doubt.

Moments after I return my cell to my hoodie pocket it does a jig against my belly. I take it out again. Hold it at arm's length to decipher the words.

“Prepare her for burial please.”

My eyes bulge. I swallow nothing. Me? But I thought that was on the boy list. Along with taking out the trash and relocating almost-big-as-your-hand spiders.

Preparing her for burial would mean I’d have to touch her. Make contact with death. Don’t tell anyone but part of me thinks it’s contagious. Being dead. I lay a hand over my heart. Feel its increased cadence. Work my tongue in my mouth in search of moisture.

I lower myself to the floor next to the line of animal cages. Dry my palms on my skinny jeans.

“This is why I could never be a single mom,” I tell the pets. “’Cause I don't know how to load or unload a mousetrap. Can’t bash a rabid raccoon’s brains with a shovel if need be. Don't have the guts to scrape a roadkill off the street in front of the house.”

One of the rabbits thumps a big back paw. “Oh, fine!" I say as I heave myself to standing. "I’ll do it!”

I walk over to the pile of old but clean towels next to the washer. Select a small purple one. Pick at the dried white paint next to the embroidered-in-gold reindeer. It’s soft. She’ll like that. I sigh. Even though she’s dead. I return to her cage and crouch beside it. Feel the splintering start. In my nose. At the corners of my eyes.

“I hope you didn’t suffer, little friend,” I whisper. “I hope you closed your piggy eyes and . . . And nothing. Just . . .”

I reach in and touch her gently. Tentatively. She’s so soft. I imagine she’s warm. What if she’s . . . I poke her. She’s not. I admire the rosettes on her rump one last time before I roll her in the terry shroud.

“You always looked like you had bed head all over your body, sweet girl.”

I scootch over so I can get both arms inside her cage. “Remember how I wanted to change your name to Pigsley after we rescued you, but I couldn’t? Because you're so sweet, no name but Sweetie would do.”

I wrap and tuck the cloth around her. Remove her much heavier in death than life body from the white wire house.

I snuggle her into an American Eagle shoe box. “Get it, Sweetie?” I say. “I picked this one ‘cause it reminded me of that old hymn—I’ll Fly Away.”

A sob breaks out of me like a cough. Right after I put the lid on.

“Why does this never get easier?” I ask the question of Trixie and the bunnies. The rabbits are side by side, watching me. Trixie sprints up her ramp. Cocks her head. I hold Sweetie’s coffin inches from Trixie’s nose.

“She’s in here. You never liked her though. Always gave her a hard time. Now she’s gone. Who you gonna talk to now?”
Trixie whistles. Puts her front paws up on the bars.

I bite my lip. Whimper. “I’m sorry, Trix. That was mean.”

I place the burial box on the floor where she and the bunnies can see it.

“Here you go. I’ll leave her down here a little while. So you all can pay your final respects.”

I climb the stairs to the kitchen. Take a seat at the table. Sip the last bit of my morning coffee. It’s cold. I spit it back in the cup. Get my phone out of my hoodie pocket and slide it open. Hold it at arm's length and type.

“Piggy prepared for take off.” Send.

Playing Favorites

2011-09-30T05:08:00.000-07:00

I follow Mom out to our car. When we're both in and buckled, she glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“We’re not going to stay long,” she says. “Maybe five minutes. He’s bound to be exhausted.”

I nod, blow on the window, and draw a smiley face in the condensation. Then I sit back and consider how the five minute visit might play out.

I want to show him how much I love him. How much I miss him, even though it’s only been a week. A void happens when seven days pass without someone you're used to seeing every day. Feels like there’s an empty bucket in my belly. And it’s blue.

My plan is to show him my fingernails. How I stopped biting them. Just for him. I haven’t nibbled all week. They don’t yet touch the tips of my fingers, but I painted them anyway. Borrowed Mom’s Avon polish—Peppy Poppy—without asking her. The color reminds me of the cherry hardshell coating you can get on your twisty cone at the Dairy King on Route 60. I lick them. To see if maybe they taste like-- Naw. They're bitter. Chemically. Shiny though.

Hopefully, Mom'll leave us alone. In the hospital room. So I can hiss to John, “I hate them.” The boys who did this. Because of them, I’ll never sit behind him on his motorbike again. My arms strapped around his midsection. My cheek flush with his shoulder blade. I never really felt safe there and where I hadn’t had a tangible excuse before (besides I’m chicken), now I do.

~~~

A week ago, a whole car, a Lincoln Continental, had slammed into John and his Honda. Tossed them both into the air—him left, the bike right. When I picture it in my mind’s eye, I imagine he bounces, then falls back to earth. The black top receives him none too gently.

The Lincoln was stolen. The driver ignored the red light. All the guys in the car were drunk. High too.

~~~

I change my mind. I'm not going to hiss. I intend to yell.

“I hate those boys!” Maybe even, “I wish they were dead!”

My mad words'll ricochet off the almost pistachio green walls (or will they be make-you-squint-bright-white?) and he’ll be satisfied. John will. That I'm on his side. When ninety per cent of the time, I'm nothing but a pain in his butt. That’s how he always introduces me. Never, “This is my little sister.” Instead he usually says, "Her? She's just a pain in my butt. That’s all.”

After “I hate them,” I 'll say, “It’s too bad.” That he won’t get to do his Steve Martin imitation at his high school's talent show. Not too long ago I’d stood outside his bedroom door, my face smooshed to the wall just out of sight, while he practiced in the mirror. I peeked in and saw him flop a pillow case on his head. He watched himself sing. “King Tut, Tut. Funky Tut, Tut.” I stole another look. Giggled into my hand as he shimmied and crowed. “I’m just one wild and crazy guy.”

When he finished, I pounced through the doorway with a grin. “You’re the funniest guy ever! For real! They’re gonna love you.”

That earned me a beating. For being a spy.

Maybe I’ll apologize too. For the whipping he’d taken that night on account of me. And for all the other times. More than once I’d lied. To my dad. I told the truth that night, but I didn’t always. Sometimes I squealed just because. Truth or no, it didn’t matter. Daddy believed me without fail. For no other reason than I was the only daughter, the youngest child.

Dad’s face would get super red, especially his nose, and his eyes would go all squinty.

“How could you do that? She’s just a little girl for crying out loud.”

John would glare at me. Mouth two words. “Spoiled brat.” That was his favorite thing to throw at me. Besides a fist.

Whenever I tattled, Dad would grab John in a Vulcan nerve pinch and steer him to another room. In the minute before I heard the siss of Dad’s belt speeding out of its constraints, I’d grin. Snicker. Enjoy a certain satisfaction. But when the thwack sounded--cow skin on boy butt--I winced. Regretted. Power didn’t seem so cool then.

~~~

John isn't my only brother, but for some reason, I like him best. I have no idea why. He did, after all, try to kill me once. On the chocolate milk-colored sofa in the basement. After I told him no way he was going to my ninth grade prom. He was too old (two years and three months my senior) and besides, it was my school dance, not his. And did he not know what Tammy Carter did with Joey Howard behind the Convenient Mart? Did he really want to go out with a girl like that?

He launched at me, hands all T-rex clawed, his metal mouth gleaming through a froth. Crammed my head into the arm of the couch. Choked me until I saw stars, then nothing.

“Mom,” I yelled after I came to. “John tried to murder me. I blacked out. I’m serious.”

She didn’t answer. Turned out, she was out back picking zinnias and cherry tomatoes.

~~~

I think maybe John and I are like Dad and our cat, Ginger. Dad's forever grouching about what a nuisance she is. All the time honking into the handkerchief he keeps in his front pant's pocket.

“That blankety blank cat is single-handedly making Benadryl rich.”

Whenever Ginger perches on the sill outside the living room window, I take the screen off and let her in. Not Dad. He talks to her real nice so she thinks maybe—Then schwing! He cranks the window open super fast and she goes flying into the yard with a yowl.

And when she sits by the front door, daintily grooming her pumpkin paws, Dad'll stroll up to her and point to his Hush Puppy oxford.

“Here, kitty, kitty. Let me introduce you to the number nine shoe. I don’t believe you all have met.”

Once again, she goes flying. With a yowl.

Ginger loves Daddy anyway. She arches her back under his hand whenever he falls asleep in his Ethan Allen wing chair during the nightly news. She's not stupid though. When he's awake, she holes up under his chair, her twitching tail the only evidence of her presence.
I think he must like her a tiny bit because one time I saw him give her an empty tuna can to lick. When he thought no one was looking.

So, yeah. Ginger's just like me. Wants to be around the person who likes her least. Is okay with getting one pat on the back for every hundred times she goes flying with a yowl. Doesn’t make a lick of sense, but she doesn’t care and neither do I.

I pull out the picture I brought of Ginger. To show John. In case he misses her.

~~~

On the elevator Mom tells me John's right arm will be in a sling and his left leg will be casted and in a pulley gizmo over his bed. I roll my eyes. I know, Mom. You’ve said that a hundred times this week.

“He may be out of it,” she says. “What with the pain meds and all.”

My lower lip pushes forward. “I sure hope not.” I glance at my hands. “I want him to see my manicure.” Want him to hear me say, I hate them. And, I’m sorry. And maybe if Mom leaves the room, I’ll grip the side rail of his bed and lean close. "Don't tell anybody," I'll whisper. “But you’re my favorite brother.” Then I'll watch his face, especially his mouth. To see if maybe, just maybe, he'll say . . .

+Like Salt to French Fries+

2011-09-23T02:23:00.000-07:00

I live to hear the words, "Can you fill a food order, please?" In my mind, I see myself going down into a lunge. Left knee touches the ground.   Right arm comes back like I'm starting a lawn mower. "Yesssss!"
            I run up the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor. I stand in front of the shelves and fill old grocery bags with pasta, peanut butter, soup, and fruit cocktail. I can't stop grinning because this makes me happy.

It was almost four years ago.  I was headed to BB&T. I watched my feet on the sidewalk. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back." After awhile, I looked up and instead of being in front of the bank, I was in front of a building that said loving in big letters and furniture in little letters.
            I reckon it had something to do with Isaiah 58:7. It'd been on my mind for almost two years. "Share your food with the hungry. Clothe the naked." The words were a shish kebab skewer that poked me under the ribs every time I heard or read them.
            I'd been praying. Waiting. Looking for a burning bush. All of a sudden, there it was.    But it wasn't burning, and it wasn't a bush. It was Christian Help, Incorporated, founded in 1975.

Every Tuesday, more often than not, I drive down Grand Street to town. To Christian Help. I look through the blue part of my windshield. "A parking spot right in front would be awesome, God." Usually it's there. Especially if my trunk is full.
            I walk in the front door and say, "Howdy," to whoever's at the front desk. Used to be Glinda, before she had a stroke and went to assisted living. I always hugged her and whispered into her steel-colored curls, "Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?"
            She'd cup one of my cheeks with her cool, dry hand and smile up at me. "Good to see you, girlie."

I love 'em. All the ladies. I'm going on year four of volunteering and they've put in twenty five or more. I work two to three hours a week. Some of them are there every day. They're all in their seventies, at least. And Spud, who moved here from Jersey, to live with her daughter? She's ninety something. Looks like a grey-haired Jack in a deck of cards.
            There's also Rose and Annie. Sis and Carol too. Ethel and Erlene come on Tuesdays, like me. Glory hallelujah when Ethel brings one of her pound cakes. Thank you, Jesus when we have a pot luck lunch and Erlene brings her sauerkraut with little, tasty shreds of pork.
            I love the shining, antique faces of the ladies. The way their eyes and teeth flash white when I spring through the doorway of the clothes sorting room. Their smiles say they're as glad to see me as I am to see them.

I've seen staff come and go in four years. That's the nature of Americorp Vista, usually paid a pittance, workers. But Cheryl, the executive director, has been there since before me. God bless her because running Christian Help requires managing chaos. Reassessing the greatest need, the greatest good, Monday through Friday, plus the first Saturday of the month.
            Cheryl's radiant. Maybe she goes to a tanning booth. Or she could be part Native American. Just between you and me, I think it's because she loves the Lord. Moses glowed when he came down from the mountain of God, you know.
            I stopped asking the younger volunteers why they're at Christian Help. Usually it's because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. In this town that means community service--bummer to them, blessing to us. Now whenever I see them, I just smile real big and say, "Welcome! We're so glad you're here."
            One time a handsome guy, who filled out his t-shirt sleeves, asked me why I volunteer at Christian Help. I'd been waiting for this. For the chance to give the reason for the hope I have. I had paragraphs prepared, but they evaporated. "'Cause I love Jesus." My voice sounded tiny. He looked at me, head tilted. "Cool."

To me, serving, volunteering, whatever you want to call it, is like that line in the Jerry McGuire movie. It completes me. For years, I went to Bible study every Friday morning. Learned all kinds of neat stuff. But one day, someone's opinion changed my life. "Bible study is all well and fine, but sooner or later, you have to start doing what Jesus told you to."
            I think serving is to life, what salt is to French fries. I understood that the first time I filled an emergency food order. It was a religious experience. Spud's the unofficial queen of the food pantry, but she wasn't there to hear me say, "I'm doing it. I'm feeding Jesus' sheep."

I sure hope I'll still be driving down Grand Street to town, to Christian Help, for another couple decades. After that, much as I love to hear, "Can you fill a food order?" or, "Can you help someone with an interview outfit?" what I long to hear is, "Well done, good and faithful servant." But not yet. Not until I'm at least as old as Spud.

No Longer Certain

2011-09-16T04:10:00.000-07:00

It confounds me how your love can exist so comfortably beside your secret. A radiant warmth snuggled next to an abysmal darkness. A pool of green water. Still. Absolutely unaffected by earthquakes all around.

Eyes wide, I peer into your shine. Try to gulp it in. I’m almost blinded. A moment later, off to the right, the shadow of your mystery arrives to abduct your brilliance.

I think I can live right here. In this space—between my karate chop hands held a foot apart--if I pretend the lack of light is a lie. A miscommunication. Soon after though, I become sure of your misdeeds. They nip at my ankles. Draw my feet (and heart) down like quicksand.

I could not for the life of me stop thinking of Adam and Eve. Eve mostly, though I wondered why Adam didn’t rise up. Be the man. Do the right thing. Stop. Eve.

I felt, for the second time in my life, a bit like God. Foolish, I know. But similar still.

We were perfect, weren’t we? But really, we weren’t. The lie, the what if, had already slipped in. Tainted paradise. Infected glory.

Now I understand how the worst thing that can happen is doubt. Mine. Yours. And now I live as though someone stepped on my eyes. That shape on the horizon, is it beauty, or evil? And the form to the left of it. Tell me. Is it kindness or deception?

I think that’s what I miss most. The certainty that what I know is what I know.

And yet I love you still.

'Tis Better to Give Than Receive

2011-09-10T06:36:00.000-07:00

Did you ever hear the saying,

“It’s better to give than receive?”

Let’s find out if they’re right.

See, today’s my birthday.

But instead of you giving me a present?

How ‘bout I give you one?

To enter the birthday party,

Do one of two things.

Become a new follower.

(Yay me!)

Or leave a comment on one of the posts in September.

(Yakity yack. Please talk back.)

Then approximately one month from my birthday,

I’ll put all the names in my aqua fuzzy bag

And have my Sandwich Child
(She looks like Audrey Hepburn, you know.)

Draw a name out.

That special person will receive:

A butterfly bag of beautiful butterfly bounty

(Yay you!)

To Make Her Smile

2011-09-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

Tawny was rolling silverware when the two of them walked in. Mother and daughter. She'd watched their white Honda Civic circle the diner three times, looking for the door. She rolled her eyes.
            "Smile, Tawny," Sue Ann said. "You get way better tips when you smile."
            The mother tapped the point of her big, rainbow-striped umbrella on the floor as she and her daughter walked beside the row of booths. They didn't sit until they found a clean one. Tawny kept rolling.
            Sue Ann bumped Tawny with her hip. "Tawny, they're in your section."
            Tawny winced. "You want 'em? It's five minutes to close."
            "Nah. I gotta do the bathrooms. Now get on out there."

Tawny tossed two menus on the table.
            "Evening," she said.
            The mother beamed. "Howdy."
            The girl smiled too.
            "My name's Tawny. The specials are on the inside front of the menu."
            The mom tilted her head. "Tawny? That's a neat name. I like it."
            Tawny resisted the urge to sneer. "What can I get you to drink?"
            "Do you all have sweet tea?" the mom said.
            Dumb question. Tawny clenched her teeth and nodded.
            "Oh, boy! You know you're in the south when you can get sweet tea."
            Tawny turned to the girl.
            "Water, please."

Tawny headed back to the kitchen. Tawny's a neat name? No, it's not. A long time ago she'd looked it up. It meant a light brown to brownish orange. Nothing about her was tawny. Her hair and eyes were the same color as the used coffee grounds she dumped out of the Bunn coffee maker umpteen times a day.
            She filled red plastic glasses with ice. Let the tea and water overflow. I should tell them how I got my name, my whole name.  Tawny wished she didn't know. Wished her mom had never told her. Her mom had seen "Tawny Port" on a bottle at the liquor store and that's how Tawny Port Blevins came to be.
            Tawny went to the library a few years back and checked out a baby name book. Someday when she got the time, she planned to change her middle name to Portia. Tawny Portia Blevins. Sounds classy. Like a movie star.

Tawny took her order pad out of her apron pocket and headed back out. The mom and girl were leaning across the table. Their foreheads almost touched. Tawny cleared her throat.
            "You ready?"
            The mom looked at the girl. The girl shook her head.
            "Give us a minute, Tawny," the mom said.
            Tawny huffed and returned to the kitchen. She grabbed a bus pan, rag, and the bleach water spray bottle. She walked back out.
            "Country ham or pot roast?" the mom was saying. "I can't decide."
            "Me either," the daughter said.
            Tawny folded the rag in half twice. She sprayed and wiped a two top and its chairs. You rich chicks are killing me. If I'm not home by nine o'clock, Mr. Skoal Bandits, spearmint-flavored, will have my butt in a sling. She refolded the rag. Sprayed and wiped again.
            --Do you know how beautiful you are?--
            Tawny stopped wiping. She let go of the rag and held her hand up to her mouth. Again?
            --Do you know how I dread each day coming and going? Knowing it makes the day you'll be gone forever come faster?--
            Tawny looked at the two of them from under her lashes. The girl didn't answer. Tawny knew why. The mom hadn't spoken out loud.
            It was the one thing special about Tawny--her ability to sometimes hear people's thoughts.  She couldn't do it until two years ago. Until Randy drove his fist into her right ear.
            Everything had felt slow motion as she crumpled to the floor. The room seemed tunnel-like. The lights far away and small. The noises all echoey.
            --You're nothing special. Never will be. I'd treat a good woman better. But you're not, so I won't.--
            Tawny had struggled to prop herself up on her elbow. Her head wobbled.
            "What?"
            "Shut up! I didn't say nothing. Get me another Bud."
            Tawny squinted over at her mom. She didn't look up from her People magazine. Tawny pulled herself up using the coffee table. Headed for the fridge.

Tawny stood in front of their booth, her pencil an inch from the pad. The mom grinned and pointed to her selection on the menu.
            "I'd like the pot roast, green beans, and mashed potatoes, please. I'd also like an order of coleslaw. I don't care if it's extra. I love coleslaw."
            Tawny gritted her teeth, nodded, and wrote.
            --I'm sorry you're so sad, Tawny.--
            Tawny didn't look at the mom. She bit her lip and turned to the girl.
            "Open-faced turkey sandwich please. Mashed potatoes and gravy. And mac and cheese. Thank you."
            The girl looked up at Tawny. Tawny pursed her lips.
            --Why don't you smile? Ever?--
            Tawny took their menus and walked back to the kitchen.

"Order in," she said to Hugh.
            She got the coleslaw container out of the walk-in cooler and scooped some into a side dish bowl. She wiped her nose with her wrist. I'll tell you why I'm sad, Mrs. Wear All Black and Lots of Rings. My mom's lived with us ever since the roof on her place sprung a leak back in October. Do you know how much that woman eats? And Randy comes over every night 'cause we have cable. Says he'll leave at eleven, but he never does.
            Tawny spooned macaroni and cheese into another side dish bowl and stuck it under the heat lamp. He's there beside me at midnight when my daughter comes in to tell me she wet the bed, again. And he's there in the morning when I wake up.
            Tawny walked along the stainless steel work surface, pulling a washcloth beside her. And my daughter? She won't ever go to college like your girl there with her perfect curls and shy smile. I won't ever hear her say, 'Mom, I'm scared and excited all at once. I'm gonna miss you a lot, except for your annoying habit of talking way too much to people you don't know.'
            Sue Ann came over and put her arm around Tawny's waist. Tawny sniffed and pulled away. She looked to see if Hugh had put their plates in the window yet. He hadn't.
            She crossed her arms and stood with her back to the dining room. That'll never happen to me, 'cause my baby, she'll probably have a baby. Just like me. Just like my mom. And they'll all live with me forever, and I'll have what? Five mouths to feed?
            "Order up," Hugh said.

Tawny unloaded the tray, dish by dish.
            The mom rubbed her hands together. "Thank you so much," she said. "It looks delicious."
            Tawny put the empty tray on the booth bench behind them and started spraying and wiping the table.
            "Good food. Good meat. Good God, let's eat."
            Tawny paused her wiping, then resumed.
            "Oh. And thank you so much that we didn't have to go over the New River Gorge Bridge."
            Tawny fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.
            "Oh, and a little less rain tomorrow, please?"
            Dang! She talks to him like she knows him.
            Tawny turned around. "How's your supper?"
            The mom looked up. Stopped chewing. Swallowed.
            "Oh my goodness," she said. "This is the best pot roast ever. I don't even need a knife. You are such a good cook."
            --Will you smile now?--

Tawny went back to the kitchen. She glanced at her watch. Won't be long now. She emptied the coffee pot into a go cup and pressed on a lid. She walked back onto the floor and over to their table.
            "You all want dessert?" Please say no.
            The daughter shook her head. Tawny looked at the mom.
            "Oh, my heavens, no," she said. "I'm as full as a tick on a bear's back."
            One corner of Tawny's mouth went up. Ever so slightly.
            --There. I almost got you.--

Tawny picked up the empty side dish bowls and carried them into the kitchen. The coleslaw bowl looked like it had been licked clean. That's when she got the idea. Maybe I can do it back. She rested her elbows on the work surface and squinted at the mom across the divide.
            --Your eyes twinkle. Like the crystal thingy I have hanging on the rearview mirror in my Dodge. Randy says all the flashing is gonna make someone wreck some day, and they'll sue me. I don't care. It makes me happy and well, not a lot does these days.--
            The mom's eyes searched for and found Tawny.  She smiled and the room seemed brighter. Tawny put her hand over her heart because it felt like it was coming out of her chest. She pretended to look down, but then she peered at the mom again, from under her bangs.
            --And I wish-- Never mind.--

Tawny walked out and handed the mom the check. "You can pay at the register."
            The mom's eyes narrowed, but not in a mad way. "Thank you."
            Tawny gulped and looked at her shoes.
            --Thank you? For what? Did you hear me? When I looked at you? And thought real hard?--
            She lifted her head slowly and looked at the mom. "For what?"
            The mom put her mouth on the straw and sucked the dregs of her sweet tea.
            "For making us such an awesome supper."
            Tawny looked over her shoulder, toward Hugh and the grill.
            "I didn't--"
            "I know," the mom said. "I'm just teasing."

Tawny watched the big, rainbow umbrella protect the mother and daughter as they walked out to their Honda. She couldn't hear their thoughts through the glass. When they got in their car, she moved to bus their table. The tip was twice the bill. Under the girl's plate was a note. "You are special, Tawny. You are." She'd underlined are both times. She'd dotted the i with a heart.
Tawny looked out into the night. The Honda was there. Right outside the window. They were looking in at her. She put her hand over her mouth. The mom grinned. Flashes of light came into the diner, even though it was night. Even though there was glass between them.
The mom and girl waved. Tawny rolled her fingers. Her eyes filled and spilled over. Then she smiled.

In the Beginning . . . Again

2011-09-02T06:17:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t sleep. For the voices in my head. One voice really. One voice plus two words equal insomnia.

“Start over.”

I clenched my teeth. “No.”

“Start over.”

I set my face like flint. “I won’t do it.”

“Start—“

I made a head sandwich with two pillows. Silence. At last. I removed the top one.

“Start—“
I whimpered. “Are you kidding me? You seriously want me to flush 92,000 plus words? I’d rather—“

“You’d rather what? Write less than your best? “

I applied the pillow to my face again. Huffed. It’s right. He is. The voice. I’d heard it before. More than once. Several times actually. For what, one year? Maybe two? Always stuck my pointer fingers in my ears. Na-na-na-nah. Unstopped them. Is it gone yet? Good.

I lifted the pillow a half inch. To breathe. But I love the part where . . . And how I wrote that one scene . . .

The voice found me. Inside my down-alternative hiding place.

“You’re better now. Different. I’m doing a new thing. Trust me.”

I slipped my hand under the top pillow. Wiped my nose with my wrist. Mouthed one word--how?

“What did you tell that young man last week? The missionary?”

I scrolled through memories. Found that one. Spoke inside my mind. How is a faithless question.

“What are you afraid of, really?”

I tossed the pillow to the floor. Rolled onto my side.

“I’m scared it’ll take years. That I’ll be old before it’s finished.”

“So?”

I pictured Sarah, Abraham’s wife. Her papery, age-spotted arms cradled a chubby-faced baby boy. She’s too old to—

“Let me ask you this. Would you rather your hands be empty? Do you want a babe that ceases to breathe in its second month?”

I shook my head. Pressed my knuckles into my eyes to stop the burn.

“No, sir. It’s just . . . It’s so big. Huge really. I’m—“

“My grace is . . .” The voice paused.

I opened my eyes. Waited for him to finish. Oh, he wants me to say the rest.

I listened to my quivery exhale. Tried to find something to focus on in the darkness.

“Sufficient. Your grace is sufficient. ‘Cause your power’s made perfect . . . in weakness.”

A breeze blew across the bed. Even though no window was open.

“Get some rest, beloved. Tomorrow’s a big day. The day you’ll—“

I shivered. Pulled the covers under my chin.

“I know. The day I’ll start over.”

Hospitality Lost and Found

2011-08-26T07:29:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember if I trembled when they asked. I’m pretty sure I did. The question came in an e-mail but would’ve been cooler if it arrived via telegraph.

“Coming to your town for five days –(STOP)-

Can we stay with you –(STOP)-

Or at least share one good Italian meal”

I held my hand under my mouth to catch the excuses as they flowed. Mostly buts. But I think Big Girl (their three-month missionary nanny and then some) will be at college by then. But we have a softball tournament that weekend. But we don’t really have enough room; folks will have to sleep on the floor. And the sofa. But I’m intimidated. ‘Cause the wife mommy’s a food blogger. And freaked. What if she’s also a white-gloved dust inspector? The house hasn’t been cleaned, really spiffed up, in so long.

And yet, how could I say no? Big Girl had lived with them for three months. In a compact casa in Honduras. They’d shared their every meal, their children, and their vision with her. I couldn’t say no. But I wanted to. Was ashamed that I considered it.

I tried to say, “Mi casa es tu casa,” but I couldn’t get my Irish, German, English, French lips around the words, much less the concept. The only way I can achieve a really good Latin accent is to mimic the Verizon recording, “Para Espanol, marque el dos.”

Where did they go? My gift of hospitality? My spirit of generosity? I grew up. Little Me (“Wanna figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Lollipop with me? Here, you go first.”) was cannibalized by Grown-up Me (“Me, my, mine. That’s all I have time for. You, your, yours? Stay in your own yard. Don’t come knocking on my door. And certainly not at the one around back. That’s only for a small number of folks. The ones I can count on my fingers. The names at the top of my phone list on the side of our refrigerator.”)

Honk! Honk! Honk!

Big Girl clambered down the stairs. “They’re here.” I heard jubilation in her voice. Does she sound like that when she speaks of us? Her real family?

The wife mommy’s hair was like cotton candy with one drop of yellow food coloring. But her eyes weren’t blue. With hair that Swedish looking, I would’ve thought they’d be glacier, no, fjord, blue. If I took two glass prep bowls and filled them with good quality, Italian olive oil and whisked in vanilla, they’d be the color of her eyes. She was smaller than me, with an elegant slice to her deltoids.

Now he, the husband daddy, was a Mr. America leprechaun. He had fabulous hair and just-bonked-a-tuning-fork-on-a-brick energy. I have that vitality too, but somehow, while they were here, I felt subdued. Calm, not jangly. Hot chocolate instead of espresso.

All three offspring had blue, surprised eyes and banana-colored hair. Baby boy buried his face in wife mommy’s neck. The two girls catapulted into Big Girl’s embrace.

“We missed you! Tell us a story!”

I observed the reunion. Waited to face plant into an invisible ice-cube structure I was sure would lie between us. I know. I’ll get my crème brulee torch. But I didn’t need to. I never even got goosebumps. All that lay between us was a puddle—warm, organic, inviting.

I confess. Weeks ago I had crafted a plan, a schedule, to keep them busy. Out of our house. ‘Cause really, how could ten people in a hundred-year old house for five days be good? Send 'em sightseeing. Somewhere else. Go, go, go. Vroom, vroom, vroom. Then they’ll pass out every night by nine, right? It worked. On them and me.

And then came the day they didn’t want to go anywhere. They just wanted to be. Here. Everyone went upstairs but me and the wife mommy. How do two sleep deprived female foodies spend three hours? Peel, pour, season, sauté, taste, sigh. That’s how.

I sliced strawberries into thin, red halos. Wife mommy showered them in balsamic vinegar. Sprinkled them with raw sugar. We ate. And smiled.

I peeled and chopped roasted, golden beets. Vinaigretted them. Rained down toasted pecans and tiny diced feta.

“Add that to the list,” wife mommy said. “Of recipes you have to send me.”

I handed her the menu from Italian Feast Night. “Mark all the things you want recipes for.”

She circled almost every item then turned her attention to the shitake mushrooms from the farmer’s market. She sautéed them in golden green olive oil with heaps of garlic, minced by me. She flicked in a speck of Silafunghi, my favorite Italian hot pepper concoction. Stirred. Lifted the wooden spoon to her lips.

“Wait!” I said. I pressed the spoon back into the sauté pan. “Don’t taste it yet.” I held up my pointer finger. “I have to do one thing.”

I sprinted outside to my herb garden. Used my fingernails to nip off the largest sage leaves I could find. Brushed the soil flecks away. Thought of my mom’s philosophy—You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die.

I came back in. Floated the silvery leaves in hot oil. Flipped them when they became see-through. Used my grandmother’s thongs to hold them up to the light.

“See? Don’t they look like stained glass? Now put some of the mushrooms on your fork. Top them with a sage leaf. Taste it now.”

I held my breath and watched. Her tongue worked. Her lids fluttered. She grinned. I laughed.

As she prepped another bite to eat, I whispered. So she couldn’t hear me. Turned away, so she couldn’t see me. My mouth. She’s hearing impaired, but boy howdy, is she awesome at reading lips. She can talk great too. Just like Marlee Matlin.

“I wish you lived here. Then we could be friends. We could eat like this over and over. Not one Sunday afternoon and never again.”

The next day, Big Girl and I watched and waved as their van drove away. The morning sun glinted off her tear tracks. I didn’t cry. I was working on my accent. In my head. Trying to get it just right. In case they went around the block and stopped in front of our house for one more Big Girl hug or kiss. But they didn’t come back. If they had, I would’ve run down the steps to the street. Pecked on the husband daddy’s window ‘til he rolled it down.

“Just so you know, mi casa es tu casa.”

No More Messes

2011-08-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

The dog got sick last night on boy child’s bed. He took to the stairs, all hands and feet, to tell us. Sliced through a dream I never would’ve remembered had I not been wakened in its midst.

The beautiful blonde boy who lives three doors down in the castle-looking house? His folks fussed him out for making his like-Drew-Barrymore-in-E.T. little sister have bad dreams.

“Give her good ones,” the parents said. “Of silver and gold unicorns and pastel pink lollipops.”

Weird with a beard, I remember thinking as I sat on the back porch in my Me-Jane nightgown, sleep still wrapped around my head like gauze.

It was probably the anchovies. That made the dog hurl. No one but me knew they were in the substance that bathed the Cavatappi Nicoise. Gave it a mud-colored hue. The hairy slabs hid in the bell of the immersion blender, but I found all four of them. Whirled them into an omega 3-rich, silken sauce. Daisy, the not yet dead dog, received the rest of the fish on top of her kibble. Maybe one got stuck in her craw and she couldn’t stop the plunger action of her digestive system ‘til it evacuated.

The back porch light blinked Morse code messages into the night. Its motion sensor has never worked right. Not in the sixteen years we’ve lived in this house. I splayed my fingers on either side of my belly button. I was pregnant with the sandwich child the day we moved here.

I raked the mosquito bite on my neck and squinted out at the yard. In lightness and in dark, the dog snatched great mouthfuls of grass. Puppy Pepcid. After a bit, she disappeared over the hill. I waited for the sound of heaves but it never came. I’ll be mopping in the morning. Least she’ll be gated in the kitchen. Vinyl’s way easier to wash than quilt, sheets, and mattress pad.

I watched a leaf make its way to the ground, unable to resist gravity, all but a hint of green drained away. It’s almost time. Fall. Cooler weather, thankfully. Kids gone, all day, Monday through Friday. And then some. One down the hill to high school. Another a mile away to middle. The oldest off to college. Not here. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Reckon the others will say the same.

I counted on my fingers. It’ll be this way for the next seven years. Someone departing every autumn. Me mourning. Then a one-year break before boy child ventures out into the world. Five minus three will equal two.

I should’ve had six kids. That would’ve postponed the solitude. The quiet. The piercing. Right? Right?

The dog won’t even be here. She’ll be gone by then too. I’ll have no more messes to clean. Except for my own. Laundry baskets heaped with soaked handkerchiefs for sure.