Lessons from The Thousand-Year Flood

          Beneath the photo of her flooded home, my friend DeeDee's Facebook status read:

"One day can change everything." 

          My heart sank. Over the course of more than a year, via Instagram, I watched DeeDee and Bobby Lewis build their dream home on the banks of the Elk River in Clay County, West Virginia--the foundation, the framing, the painting, the mounting of the giant caribou head over the fireplace. It was gorgeous.

          When the Elk River rose to an all-time high of over 33 feet, DeeDee and Bobby were an hour away in Charleston, West Virginia, at a concert. That night, nearly all their pets perished. Maybelline, their four-month old Bassett Hound pup, was the sole survivor.

Miracle Mabel

          Several times that weekend, I checked DeeDee's Facebook wall for updates. I prayed often for her and Bobby--comfort, strength. On Sunday, my friend Ashley Griffith texted: "I can't stop thinking about DeeDee and Bobby. Want to go down with me to help?" Yes!!! I answered.

          On Wednesday, Ashley and I, along with her husband Chad and his boss Dave, drove two trucks hauling heavy equipment down to Clay County.

          Dave and Chad went to work immediately, using the Bobcat to fill what I called the "Mud Puppy" with the silky black mud that lay 8-12" thick over Bobby and DeeDee's basement floor. Chad then steered the "Mud Puppy" to the property's edge and tipped the muck "back from whence it came."

          For most of the morning and afternoon, DeeDee, Ashley, and I sorted the extraordinary abundance of supplies generous friends sent from all over the United States. No sooner did we organize one mountain of Clorox gallons, multi-packs of paper towels, and bags of Kibbles 'n Bits, when another would arrive.

          Ashley had brought lunch and dinner provisions and twice that day, we and the other volunteers dined on the soft strip of sand the flood deposited at the back of their yard, a potted flower that somehow survived, our cheery centerpiece.

          The work Chad and Dave accomplished in the basement was invaluable. If not for them and the rented machines, it would have been back-breaking work for Bobby and others in the days to come. At one point, Ashley and I whispered together that it didn't seem like we accomplished much. But actually, we did. When someone is overwhelmed with grief, crisis, or a massive undertaking, sometimes the most important thing is that they not feel alone.

To stand with someone at the edge of their great darkness and tell them, "You are loved," may be the best thing you can do. 

          Hugs and encouragement, as well as your tears mingled with theirs, are every bit as important as Bobcats and "Mud Puppies."

          In addition to having the deep satisfaction of having helped friends, I learned two things that day.

Less stuff is a good thing.

          I'm pretty sure DeeDee and Bobby, when they built their beautiful home, only moved in what they loved. As I looked around, I sensed that. I felt acutely aware of my need to do the same. If I don't use (or wear) something at least a couple of times a year, if it doesn't bring me joy, why keep it around? That day, I learned something else. 

Lots of friends is a great thing.

          People by the hundreds have commented and offered their condolences on DeeDee's Facebook page. Dozens of people have prayed for and/or shipped supplies to the Lewises. Every day friends show up at their house to help. DeeDee calls them "angels." Clearly, Bobby and DeeDee are very loved. To help them say thank you to all that helped in one way or another, we took this photo:

          More than once I wondered about the people in the flood-zone who don't have a network of loved ones. Who will haul their countless loads of ruin to the dump? Who will hold them when they mourn their losses? Will anyone help them bleach-water-wipe the insides of their homes? I sure hope so.

          The next night, Tony and I had a blast with our home-group friends--first mini-golfing, then eating ice cream. We are a community that laughs, eats, prays, and does life together. Whenever any of us experiences grief or crisis, or merely disappointment, we stand together--hugging, praying, and encouraging. If my home flooded, I know these people would come running with bleach, shovels, and love. It is my fervent hope that you too have a community to lean on.

It's a Boy!

The radiologist’s face hovered an inch from the screen. "So," he said. "Do you want to know the sex of the baby?"
            My mouth fell open. "Really?"
            My husband's eyebrows rose. "Right now?"
            The doctor rolled his stool around to face us. He rubbed his thighs briskly.
            "This is West Virginia," he said. "I don't want to start a family feud. Do you, or don't you? Want to know?"
            I nodded. My husband shook his head. I huffed.
            My husband shrugged. "I like surprises. So does my family."
            I clasped my hands in front of my face and opened my eyes super wide.  "Pretty please? I won't tell anyone inside the state."
            My husband sighed. "Oh, all right."
            The doctor wheeled the stool back to face the screen. He tapped it with his pen.
             "See that right there?" he said. "That's what makes your little guy, a guy."
             I grinned and clapped. "I did it!  I made a boy!"
            The doctor gave my husband a little shove. "You okay, Dad?"
            My husband leaned closer to the ultrasound screen. His breath fogged it. 
            "It's a boy? Really?"
            The doctor smiled and clapped him on the back. "It's a boy, a healthy son. Congratulations.”

~~~~~

  

Fluid, surprisingly warm, gushed from inside me. I glanced down. A puddle formed on the back porch, between my flip flops. I shut my eyes and groaned.
            The girls were swinging. "Watch how high we can go," the older one said.
            The younger one squinted at me and slammed her feet down to stop. "What, Mommy?" she said. "Why's your face all funny?"
            I toed the splat on the porch. "Someone bring me the phone please."
            "Mommy, you wet  yourself."
            I shook my head and spoke louder. "Just get me a phone."
            "Right now?" my husband said. "It's coming right now?"
            I exhaled my answer. "Yes."
            "My dad's in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer and I have someone here in the office with me. It’s really right now?"
            I nibbled my lip. "Last baby was born 20 minutes after my water broke."
            "I'll be right there."

~~~~~

"You could stimulate your nipples," the nurse said as she glanced at her watch. "Since your labor doesn't seem to be progressing."
            My eyes bulged. I touched my cheeks. Hot. I crooked my finger to bring her closer, so the whole world wouldn't hear.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Stimulate your nipples," she said. "It makes the body release oxytocin which can move the process along. Just slide your arms inside your gown." She busied herself tucking the sheets around me, adjusting the monitor beside my bed. I tapped her shoulder.
            "Can you close the door, please?"
            "Sure thing, honey. Your doctor's been paged. He'll be here any minute.” She pointed at the control panel near the bedrail. "That's the nurse call button if you need me. Don't forget, stim—"
            I pressed my finger to my mouth. She laughed as she eased the door shut behind her.

~~~~~

I had my birth plan for my little guy all figured out. I'd asked for an epidural with child one, liked it a lot. On delivery number two, the nurses talked me into going natural.

“If you’re cracking jokes at seven centimeters, you should have no problem going all the way, sweetie.”

So I did the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar thing that time around, thought it pretty cool the way I could walk to the bathroom to pee right after. Even so, given a choice, I wanted drugs on my third and final labor and delivery.
            "Can you write it in my chart now?" I said to my doctor. "Put it in all caps: PATIENT WANTS EPIDURAL AS SOON AS SHE ENTERS HOSPITAL.”
            Dr. Davis had laughed. "We'll see."
            "What do you mean I can't have an epidural?" I said to my labor nurse. "It's in my chart. In all caps. Look it up!"
            The nurse fussed with my sheets, patted my hand, avoided my eyes. “They said the anesthesiologist has a more emergent situation right now." 
            My fingernails bit into my palms. I gnashed my teeth. "What is more emergent than a baby emerging from my body?"
            The nurse cringed. Her hands were like nervous butterflies in the air between us. She moved toward the door.

"Let me try to get a hold of your doctor. Again."

Within five minutes I was speaking in tongues, or so my husband says.  I'm pretty sure the Mardi Gras documentary on TV was to blame. I remember one minute focusing on the drums—their primal beat—and the next, how my head started flopping side to side, to match their rhythm.
            I began to chant under my breath. "I want drugs. I want them now. I want drugs—"

             When another contraction started, I stopped my head flopping. My stomach churned. My eyes wouldn't focus. I heard someone enter the room. I turned toward the door. The person seemed to be moving in mist. Something was in his or her hand. I squinted at it, wary.
            "How about some Nubane, honey?" It sounded like my nurse.
            I snarled my nose. "What's that?"
            She brushed a stray hank of hair from my face. "I think you'll like it," she said. "It'll take the edge off, help you relax."
            I shrugged. "Okay."
            Prick. Ow!  Warmth. Oooh! I collapsed against my pillows. A moment later a noisy breath leaked out of me.
            "That's nice," I told Nurse.
            I grinned at the corner of the room by the door, thinking that was where my husband was. 

"I'm the queen of Mardi Gras. And I'm floating. See? I'm on a parade float on 

Bourbon Street. That's in New Orleans, right? Want some beads?"

            I felt as if I might pour off the edge of the bed. I attempted to purr. Nurse’s teeth flashed white as she swabbed my arm. On the other side of the room she deposited the needle in a red box on the wall.
            "Hey!" I said. She glanced over. I smiled coyly, blinked a couple times. "Some more, please?"
            She chuckled. "Sorry, no.” She perched on the bench at the end of the bed and nudged my knees apart.
            I stuck my tongue out at her.
            "You're almost ready now," she said. "I'll call Dr. Davis. Again."

           "You sure you want me to stay in this chair?" my husband asked when she left.    

           "Yes, please. It feels like you're stealing my breath when you come closer."            

~~~~~

A half hour later I scooted myself up on my elbows. "I want more Nubane. Now!" I glared at the med student behind my doctor. "And I want Doogie Howser to go away, immediately."
            "Be nice," Dr. Davis said. "He's just observing. I won't let him touch you."
            I snorted. "Is he old enough to hear cuss words?"
            The med student cowered. Dr. Davis gave my ankles a squeeze.
            "You ready to do this?"
            I winced as another wave of pressure and pain seared me.
            "Can't you just grab its head and yank it out?"
            "Easy," my doctor said. "Don't hold your breath. Breathe. That's it."
            When the fire started in my girl parts, I headed for my pillows, determined to escape it.
            "Will whoever has their hand on my— Dang it!  I can't even say the word 'cause Doogie—"
            Dr. Davis stood. "Keep pushing!  You're so close!"
            The med student approached me from the side. His hot breath steamed my cheek.

“Ma'am? Do you want me to pull the mirror down, ma'am?" he said, "from the ceiling? So you can see?"

            I took a swing at him. "Ew! No!"
             A fresh more urgent pain arrived. I fell back on the pillow stack and sobbed. Doogie slunk back to his corner. I wanted it over. Now. I heaved myself forward once more and clenched all my muscles and shoved, forced everything inside of me down between my legs. The skin on my face felt tight. And I was so hot. The sprinkler system would trigger any minute, surely it would.
            I panted. "Someone fan me!  Fan my face!  I’m serious! And where is Nubane Lady? Get her back here this instant!"
             Suddenly the pressure in my groin dropped, diminished. I squeaked, attempted to sit up.

             "What happened! What's going on?"

           "We have a head!" Dr. Davis said.
            I felt my nose drain, then my eyes. When the stretching sensation returned, I arched my back and moaned, dug my fingernails into the mattress. More flesh of my flesh slipped out of me.
            "And we have a baby, a perfect baby boy."
            Everything in me softened, went limp, as if I had no bones. I hung in the moment, concentrated on the freedom from pain, listened to the pounding in my ears slow.
            Dr. Davis brought my boy child to me, still slick with his white icing of vernix.
            "Tell him, 'hello,' Mom. He's a little blue. He needs oxygen."
            I stroked my son's face with my pointer finger. Tears spilled onto my cheeks.      

"Hi, little guy."
            "Gosh, he looks like his dad," Dr.  Davis said. "Dad, come over here. Check this little guy out." After a minute Nurse gently pried him away from my husband. "He needs oxygen and a belly button, Dad."
            "I made a boy," I declared.
            Dr. Davis laughed from across the room. "You get what you get, you know."        

I shook my head. "Nope," I said. I tucked my husband's hands inside my own. "I made a boy, with some help, just a little."

*Prince of a Guy*

           Some gal wrote a book claiming every girl wants to be swept off her feet, rescued, a bride. That wasn't my wish. There's a picture of me when I was small, at a toy ironing board, in a dress-up wedding gown. Mom must’ve made me do it, probably tickled me at the last minute to get me to grin. That was never my dream. I was like the dentist elf in “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.” I wanted to be in-de-pen-dent. I didn't need anybody, least, that's what I used to think.

            I always told my girlfriends, the ones who were husband-hunters, "You'll never meet Mr. Right in a bar." Like I knew. Heck, I could practically count the dates I'd been on with five fingers. For some reason guys seemed scared of me, maybe because I could hit hard and burp loud. That's what happens when you grow up with three older brothers.

            I wasn't with my gal pals that night. I was with my buddy, Dave. We were on the prowl for guys to dance with. He and I spotted you at the same time, through a Kool and Camel haze, through the Purple Rain.

            We liked that you were dressed up, wore a skinny leather tie and dress pants. Dave and I agreed that was way better than a t-shirt and Levi's. Your mustache was pencil-thin and beneath it, you had a puffy half-smile, lips like Angelina Jolie before anyone knew who she was. I couldn't tell until we slow-danced that your eyes were the color of Kraft caramels. As I played with the hair brushing your shirt collar, I wondered if maybe you curled it around a Popsicle. 

            Later that night, per your request, I wrote my phone number on a cocktail napkin with my aqua Maybelline eye pencil. One day and night came and went, then another. I thought I remembered your last name and I was flipping through the phone book looking for it when you called. My heart forgot to beat, then remembered.

            After we went out a couple of times, I decided you were some kind of fairy tale prince. I liked the way you opened and closed doors for me and how when you reached across to buckle my seatbelt, the citrusy freshness of your Drakkar Noir cologne came off your warm golden neck in waves. You had a habit of picking up trash and arc'ing it at garbage cans. You always laughed whenever I said, “He shoots, he scores!” The day you helped that dowager-humped lady across Walnut Street, I went all wooshy-gooshy inside. It didn't take me long to figure out you always did what you said you would. Always. I liked that fact every bit as much as your curly hair and puffy mouth.

            But then you didn't kiss me on the first date. Or the second. I started thinking maybe you weren't a fairy tale prince after all. Maybe you were just a... And then you did kiss me, and once again, my heart forgot to beat, then remembered.
           That night it was cold in the hallway of my third floor, over Rite-Aid on High Street, apartment. I was leaning against the frame of the front door and you said maybe we should go see— Suddenly the heat of you pressed against the heat of me and it was so very nice I thought my knees would give out then and there. It was like the ketchup commercial said: Anticipation. You could’ve asked me anything and I would’ve said yes, but you didn't because you're a gentleman. That's what happens when you grow up with four older sisters.
          Later on you said you wanted to marry me even though I wanted to leave West Virginia and never come back, even though I didn't want kids, even though I didn't need you.
          After three years of living in D.C., we decided we wanted a smaller city, a safer one, so we closed our eyes, stabbed a map, and that's where we moved--Cincinnati. I worked downtown in a fancy brownstone. Your insurance office was up north, outside city limits.
          One day I said, "Oh, all right. I reckon I can have one baby. For you.” When she was born, I fell in love instantly with her and her full, cherry mouth. 
          A couple years later at Forest Fair Mall, you stunned me when you said, "I want to move back to West Virginia.”
          As we stood next to the children’s sand pit where our daughter was filling up and spilling out her pastel pink Stride-Rite shoes, I threw a quiet fit. Finally I faced you with sob-squinty eyes. "Don't you remember me saying I'm a big city girl?" 
          I watched you think hard before you answered. "If you hate it at the end of the first year, we'll go someplace else." I didn't want to squash your dreams, plus I knew you always kept your promises, so I agreed.
          Not long after we moved back, I decided our only child needed company. A few years later, I thought, wouldn't it be wonderful to give you a son? Funny, the way having kids can stir up things inside you. When my childhood caught up with me and you at last learned the details, you cupped the shards of my broken littleness in your hands. 
          “Everything'll be all right,” you said. And it was.
          One morning after you left for work and before the kids woke up, I sat at the kitchen table in our hundred-year-old house and pondered things in my heart. I held my thumb and pointer finger in front of my eyes, noticing how they almost touched. I spoke out loud even though there was no one to hear.
          "This much. I might just need you this much.”

The Last to Know

“Your dad’s tennis partner introduced us. He told George there’s someone you have to meet. That someone was me.” Mom’s face was wide and open, lit by the after lunch sun.

            I felt my nose scrunch up. “Why did no one tell me Dad played tennis? I played tennis.”

            “After our first date, I told my mother, ‘I’m going to marry that man.’ Mother said, ‘What? You can’t know . . . ”

            Mom laid her head back against the recliner’s grayed lavender upholstery and stroked the cat in her lap, the one that hated me. I tried to imagine the pretty that Mom once possessed. It was my pretty now.

            “The first time I met Granny and Grandad, your uncles Bill and Wirt too, was at Holly River State Park. As soon as we were inside the lodge, Granny grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me to the ladies’ room where she proceeded to take off all her clothes.”

            I gasped. Granny stripped? The first time she met Mom? I didn’t believe it. She was way too proper for that.

            “She had a rash all over and was wiping cream everywhere. She told me, ‘You have to use arnica.’ She was a real health nut.”

            “Arnica?” I said. “That’s like, the most well-known homeopathic remedy ever. Granny knew about homeopathy?”

            “Every day she’d crack open all the windows in that big old house, didn't matter how awful the weather was. And in the winter, she’d make those five boys march around in the snow barefoot. Who knows why.”

            “To toughen ’em up, I bet.”

            “She was a big fish in a little pond when they lived in Mill Creek, but once they moved to Charleston . . .  She didn’t like Charleston much.”

            After that, Mom’s memories seemed to peter out so we sat in silence for awhile. I considered getting up to turn on her fake fire but I was heavy with too many Fig Newtons.

            I patted the sofa next to me, clucked my tongue at the gray tabby cat. “Here, kitty, kitty.” She showed me her fangs.

            “She likes you,” Mom said. “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have come out of the bedroom at all.”

            I glanced at my hands. Man, did I need a manicure. I used my pinky nail to nudge back my cuticles, remembered how Granny taught me that when I stayed weekends with her.

            “Push till you see little half-moons at the base of your nail bed,” she always told me after my bath, after she towel-dried me and turbaned my hair. “Do that after every bath or shower while the skin is soft and pliable.”

            “Can we have strawberries dipped in cream then sugar for breakfast?” More often than not I’d ask her that.

            “Is that the lady-like way to ask that question?”

            “May we please have strawberries dipped in cream then sugar for breakfast?”

            “Much better, and yes, we shall have your favorite breakfast. I’ll set your tiny table with linen and silver, with tea in your little China tea set, and plenty of cream and sugar.”

            I braced myself when Mom lifted the television remote, cringed at the roar of The Weather Channel’s Local on the 8s. Mom stabbed at the volume down button until I uncovered my ears.

            “Snow on Friday,” she said. She clicked the TV off.

            I checked my phone, no messages, glanced at the clock on the wall—one thirty. The kids would be getting home from school in an hour. Darn it, I forgot to leave a key out. I did the math in my head. I can stay nineteen more minutes, maybe.

            Mom’s eyes were closed and her hands weren’t massaging the cat’s neck anymore. Is she asleep? Should I tell her my news? What if she thinks me foolish, selfish, a spendthrift?

            I cleared my throat. Her eyes stayed shut but her fingers dug into the cat’s ruff once more.

            “I’m going back to school,” I said, “for a master’s degree, in creative writing.”

            Her eyes emerged from their pillowy surroundings, blinked.

            “Really? How? Where?”

            I explained the program I’d applied to. “It’ll take two years then I’ll have an MFA—Masters of Fine Arts.”

            She straightened in the chair, scrambled to find pen and paper in the drawer of the side table.

            “M, then what?” she said, the Bic pen poised.

            Write it down, Mom, so you can tell your girlfriends.

            “F. . . A,” I said. “It’s like a master’s degree in writing. And that’s not all, I’m pretty sure that once I get it, not only will I be able to write better, I’ll also be able to teach, maybe.”

            Mom’s hand looped and lined.

            “The kids think it’s a bit strange, me doing this when I’m almost—”

            Mom’s hand stilled. She peered at me over her smudged reading glasses.

            “Well, they’re wrong. I think it’s wonderful. Why, think how proud your father’d be!”
             I felt suddenly soft and hungry once more for air. “Yeah, you’re right. He really valued education.”

            She ran her hand, over and over, from the cat’s head to the tip of its tail.

            “I think this is great. Good for you. I mean it.”

            I leaned forward, nibbled my lower lip. “Actually, it’s not a done deal yet. They have to accept me first.”

            When Mom snorted, the gray cat hissed and geronimoed off her lap. 

            “What do you mean, if they take you? Of course they’ll take you! Why wouldn’t they?”

            I rubbed my thighs. “Well, it’s been two weeks. I haven’t heard a peep yet. Maybe . . .”

            Mom gripped the recliner arms and hoisted herself to standing, shuffled across the carpet to flip the switch for fake fire.

            “How I wish your father was alive to hear this. He’d be so proud.”

            I reached behind me for my coat. What about you, Mom? Are you . . .

*All in the Family*

My oldest brother rested his hand on my shoulder. “Want my paper route? Since I leave for college in August? The tips are great.”

            I nibbled a fingernail. Regular spending money? Something to do besides watch Gilligan’s Island every afternoon, Monday through Friday?

            I grinned. “Sure.”

~~~

The next day, my brother stood so close our shoulders touched.
           “Fold the left side of the paper over two to three inches,” he said, “crease it, then roll the right side toward it a couple times and tuck it inside.”

            Mike stopped in front of our next door neighbor’s house, squinted his right eye, and arced the paper roll onto Mr. Waugh’s porch. I whistled in admiration.

            He gave me a thumbs up. “Rubber bands and plastic bags are for sissies.”

            He heaved the big canvas bag with the wide, bright orange strap off his shoulder and held it out. 

            “You carry it, so you get used to it.”

            Two weeks later he left for Concord College. 

~~~

I perched on the arm of Dad’s recliner as he made his usual Sunday night phone call.     

           “May I talk to Mike a minute?”

            Dad handed me the phone.

            “How often do you miss Ms. Thorn’s paper box?” I said.

            Mrs. Thorn lived on North Queens Court. She had at least eight dogs. Eight dogs and their poo piles, and the reek of their poo piles. There was a chain link fence all around her yard. So the dogs wouldn’t shred her newspaper, you had to lean against the fence and try to throw the paper into a two foot by two foot wooden crate on her porch. If you missed, you had to go into the yard and fetch it. The dogs weren’t mean, you just had to navigate your way through the poo-pile landmines and the gauntlet of wagging tails. I’d pet the pups with one hand and pinch my nose with the other.

~~~

“Can I speak to Mike again?” I said to Dad the next Sunday.

            He held out the phone.

            “Guess what, Mike? Mr. Perkins on Green Oak Drive said he’ll give me his antique Karmann Ghia, the robin’s egg blue one not the Atomic Fireball red one, when I grow up.”

            Mike huffed. “Don’t believe it for a second.”

            I pooched my lower lip out. “Really? 'Cause I love it. He says when I get my license—”

            “Does he hold your hand a super long time when he pays you?”

            My eyebrows flew up. “How’d you know?”

            “Be careful with him, okay?” my brother said. “Maybe take someone with you when you collect money. Promise?”

~~~

In the summertime, on really hot days, Mrs. Fitzgerald always let me spray myself with her garden hose. 
            “That’ll cool you off,” she’d say.
            When it was super muggy she’d offer me a glass of sweet tea and while I drank it, we’d chat in the breezeway between her house and garage. When I was done with my tea, I’d cut through her yard to make my way over to Locust Street. Four boys lived in the house behind hers.

            “Woo hoo!” the youngest one would say if he was out. “Wet t-shirt, I like it.”

            When his mom was on the porch with him, he wouldn’t make that remark. At least once I week I’d give her a free newspaper. She always tried to pay me for it. 

            I’d swat at the air between us. “Don’t worry about it. They always put an extra one in my bundle.”

            Sometimes in the fall she’d give me a brown paper Big Bear bag. 

            “Get you some chestnuts, honey. I know how you love them.”

~~~    

“Hey, Dad,” I said one Sunday, “let me tell Mike about the dogs that almost ate Holly last week.”

            Mike growled. “The black and white Great Danes over on Linden Circle?"

            "Yeah, how'd you know? The lady came outside to write her check but she didn't shut the screen door good. The dogs tore out of the house and they were on Holly like rice at a wedding." Holly was our Heinz-57-mostly-Beagle dog.

            I heard Mike inhale through his nose. “How’s Holly?”

            “Her tail might be broke, but she’s okay. I beat the tar out of 'em with my rolled up newspapers and they backed off. I think the lady felt bad 'cause she gave me a five dollar tip and a popsicle.”

            “Cool.”

~~~

“You calling Mike tonight?” I asked Dad.

            He dialed and pressed the receiver into my palm.

            “I busted my lip on the route on Friday,” I told Mike.

            “How?”

            “You know the last house on the route? The one at the bottom of Locust, before Norway Avenue? And how there’s that bent over fence in between it and the house next door?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I pretended like I was a horse jumping it, but my foot got hung up and I fell, really hard. I busted my knees to beat all, and both my hips are black and blue now."

            Mike groaned. “Bummer.”

            “Oh, that’s not the worst part,” I said. “My bottom teeth went all the way through my lower lip. Mom wanted to take me to the E.R. for stitches but I talked her out of it 'cause I hate needles.”

            “You’re doing a great job with my route, you know,” my big brother said. “I’m proud of you.”

            I handed the phone back to my dad, wrapped my arms around my waist and grinned.

~~~

I kept the paper route for years. Blew pretty much all my profits on Certs, candy cigarettes, and wax lips at the Convenient Mart in Gallaher Village. Mr. Perkins never did give me the cute blue Kharmann Ghia. His wife gave him a divorce though.

            Then one day John, another one of my big brothers, said, “Want my job at Tudor's Biscuit World? Since I’m starting Marshall soon? You can take over as the official sausage gravy taster.”

            I tapped at my front teeth with my fingernail. A weekly paycheck? Air conditioning? All the made-from-scratch-biscuits I can eat?

            I smiled. “Sure!”

(Pilgrim's) Progress Report

Looking back, it’s a blur, a filmy orange streak. Thanksgiving Day 2012 is. I thought I was ready, that this would be the year I’d achieve my goal. I didn’t want much, just to get everything on the table at its appropriate temperature. I was on track too, until they arrived, the invited guests. Then everything went SHABOING, like one of those trickster cans of peanuts you open and out shoots a cloth-covered spring, wild with potential energy.

            The problem wasn’t that the guests were in the house. The problem was that they were in the kitchen. I’d arranged all kinds of awesome appetizers elsewhere to keep people out of the kitchen, away from me.

            My brother was the first invader of my domain. “Whatcha doing?” he said.

            I kept chopping. “Before I forget, I meant to tell you last night on the phone, we can take Mom home afterward,” I told him. “If you all wanna go Black Fridaying.”

            He peeked over my shoulder as I transferred garlic chunks into the green bean pan.

            “I’m over that idea,” he said, “after what happened on the way here.”

            My heart skittered and I stopped stirring, turned to face him. “What happened? Did you all hit a deer?”

            “Close. A big dog.”

            My eyes filled and I placed an oven-mitted hand over my heart. “That’s terrible!”

            He nodded. “Yep. We came around the corner and there it was, in the middle of the road, licking its butt. And then it wasn’t.”

            My son burst through the door, skidded to a stop in his stocking feet. Held out the empty cracker basket.

            “I, I mean we, need more Nut Thins.”

            I glanced at my watch. “The shrimp butter’s been out all of ten minutes and you’ve already polished off a whole box of crackers?”

            He cowered. Took tiny steps backward.

            I glared. “You know what this is, don’t you?” I handed him another box of Nut Thins from the snack cabinet. “It’s gluttony. Pure and simple.”

            He grabbed the box and ran. My brother followed him.

            Moments later my sister-in-law sidled up next to me. “How can I help?”

            I motioned to the pan of rolls. “Put ’em in the toaster oven please. It’s preheated.”

            “You want me to brush ’em with butter? My mom always did.”

            I squinted at my to-do list. “Sure. Whatever.”

            Right after the toaster oven door rattled shut, I felt her breath ruffle my hair.

            “Are you making gravy next? Can I watch? ’CauseI can’t make gravy. Gave up trying years ago.”

            Her confession gave me pause. I gathered in a deep breath. Be in the moment, I told myself, here. Connect. Share.

            I faced her with a grin. “It’s easy,” I said, “if you know the secret. Gravy needs to be shaken, not stirred.”

            She watched intently as I measured equal parts flour and cooking sherry into a jar. I screwed the lid on tight and handed it to her.

            “Shake it like crazy.”
            As she shook, her face glowed. “I remember now!” she said. “My mom used to make gravy like this.”

            “You’ll never have lumps again,” I said as I poured the slurry into the pan juices. I pressed a whisk at her and glanced at the stove clock. Despite all the interruptions, everything was running pretty close to schedule. The dining room table was set. The votives lit. All the side dishes were arranged on the kitchen table. There was only one thing left to do.

            “Men!” I yelled. “Time to carve.”

            My husband and brother bonded while they devastated the turkey, trying and rejecting a variety of knives.

            “I thought you all had an electric knife,” my brother said.

            I surveyed the pile of pale shreds. “Bring yours next year please.”

            When no one was looking, I stuck my pointer finger into the center of the mashed potatoes. They were warm, not hot. I closed my eyes and growled. Dang it! I missed the mark, again.

            Without being told, my sister-in-law removed the rolls from the oven, slid them into the bread basket, and covered them with a clean dishtowel.

            She smiled when she caught me watching her. “I’m really excited about the gravy,” she said.

            Something inside me unfurled. “Me too.”

            “Maybe I can make it next year,” she said.

            All of me clenched, but then I willed all of me to let go. “I think that’s a great idea.”