Levels, Shame, and Joy . . . Oh, my!

To Do List

Clean (really clean) the first level

Straighten the second level

Bank

Gas

Consignment Shop

Espresso Beans at A New Day Bakery

Drop note with tin of cookies at Blatters

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Blatter:

            I’m writing to apologize for the time last fall when I refused to let you use the bathroom in our house even though you had a long drive ahead of you (six hours, wasn’t it?), even though you  both really had to go.

            I spoke the truth when I said the second floor bath was gutted, but I wasn’t entirely honest when I intimated there was no other bathroom available. Remember? That’s when I suggested you try the Circle K down the street.

            If my friend Beth still lived close by, she could explain everything but she and her family moved overseas more than two years ago and her husband just signed a contract to work four more years Down Under. Beth’s the one who introduced me to the idea of levels.

            “Chances are,” she’d said, “most people will only see the first floor of your home so you should definitely keep it tidy. You know, for those folks who drop in when they’re in the neighborhood.” She’d made little scratch marks in the air when she said in the neighborhood.

            After her first visit to my house, Beth amended her theory.

            “Since you don’t have a half bath on your main level, folks will have to go upstairs to pee. If I were you, I’d keep the second floor moderately clean or, you could just keep the kids’ bedroom doors shut and straighten the TV room each morning.”

            “What about the third floor?” I’d said.

            She smirked. “Don’t worry about it. All that’s up there is your master suite. People’d have to be nibby to insist on going up there. Heck, if my bedroom was on the third floor, I wouldn’t bother to make my bed half the time.”

            So there you have it—Beth’s Theory of Levels—but wait, there's more. I have another theory for you. The other day I was on Facebook and I clicked on a link for one of those TED Talks. You know, lectures on Technology, Entertainment, Design? The one I watched featured this gal, Brene` Brown. I immediately loved her because she is hilarious and informative. Know what she talked about? Shame and guilt. Who knew shame and guilt could be hilarious? Shame is when you think I am bad (or, I am not enough, or, you wouldn’t like me if you knew X about me). Guilt is when you think I did a bad thing. Duh!
          Mrs. Brown’s talk made me realize I suffer from shame which made me think of you two. Allow me to explain. In the split second it took to decide not to take you up to the third floor, I determined you all would be appalled because a) I hadn’t made my bed and b) the last person who used the commode did not flush and c) there were not one, not two, but three bras cast hither and yon on the bedroom floor and that was just on my side of the room. I couldn’t bear for you to think I’m less than perfect. That's why I lied and shooed you out the front door. Do you think I'm awful? I hope not. I wasn't even going to apologize, then I remembered how Mrs. Brown said people who share their shame stories have more joy than people who suffer in silence. That’s why I’m here, so I can feel joy. Thank you so much for hearing me out. I feel better already!

            
            Sincerely, 
            Me

P.S. Also Mrs. Blatter, I wanted to let  you know, if you’re one of those people who was raised to always return containers with something in them, make sure you ring the doorbell when you swing by. I’ll make a pot of coffee to go with your cookies and we can have a nice chat. Then before you leave, with all that coffee, you'll probably have to use the restroom and I'll let you use either one, I promise.

Flying Fan Day

Because I was with her nearly every day, I stored more love in my heart for Gracie than I did for my own grandmothers. Her living room, and often her kitchen, was a refuge to me when things got crazy at home which was often. Like the day my middle oldest brother hurled a  fan at one of my other brothers. It yanked the outlet cover and the metal box behind it out of the wall as it sailed across the room.

           My mother squeezed the sides of her head. “Call your father at work,” she said, her voice all quivery. “Tell him the boys have gone wild. Again.”

            I did what I always did. Dialed the number for time and acted like I was talking to Dottie, my dad’s secretary.

            We had fans instead of air-conditioning. Because Dad was cheap. That’s what Mom said. I didn’t mind too much except when bedtime rolled around and the soaking sponge of humidity would squish me flat against my pillow and steal my breath.

            “Come on in, Pet,” Gracie’d said as she opened the door on Flying Fan day. “Things rough at your place?”

            I nodded.

            “You hungry?”

            I said yes, even though I’d just had lunch, the usual—a fluffer nutter sandwich, Charles’s Chips, an apple from my other next door neighbor's tree, and Kool-Aid made with half a cup a sugar instead of a whole. Because like Mom said, Dad was stingy. When I tattled on Mom, Dad told me he was careful with money because his daddy was a banker and also because he’d lived through the Great Depression. He called it being prudent.

            “I baked a strawberry rhubarb pie this morning,” Gracie said.

            My eyes bugged and my mouth watered. Behind my jean short waistband, my lunch moved over to make room for more.

            I rubbed my hands together and grinned. “Oh, boy!”

            In the living room, Gracie clicked on the TV and while we waited for it to warm up she reached inside Dicky Bird’s cage, her hand in the shape of a pistol. Dicky daintily transferred himself from his perch to her pointer finger.

            “Do you want him on your shoulder or hand?” she said.

            I held out my finger.

            “You tell him everything, Pet,” she said. “Talk to him as long as you want, long as you need. I’ll be back with your pie in a jiffy.”

~~~

I was licking my plate when Big Mac came in. His face brightened when he saw me. I stood carefully so as not to panic Dicky Bird. I tucked him in his cage but left the door open so he could come and go. Gracie’d trained him to only do his business on the newspaper that lined his house.

            I ran to Mac and inspected him head to toe. He worked at a meat packing plant and I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any yuck on him before I strapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. That day, finding him blood and guts-free, I launched myself at him. I knew he’d swing me around in a circle so I wound my legs around his so they wouldn’t fly out and knock my TV tray over.

            “I brought you something,” he said after he set me down.

            I grinned and clapped. Stuck a finger in my mouth and nibbled a cuticle in anticipation.

            He held his fists, big as beefsteak tomatoes, in front of me.

            “Put out your hands and close your eyes and I will give you a big surprise.”

            I felt something heavy and smooth in my palms and when I opened my eyes, I saw two objects that resembled shiny silver fingers.

            I squinted up at him. “What are they?”

            “They’re magnets. You see, when one of the guys thinks a cow swallowed a nail, he’ll drop one of these down its throat. It’ll attach itself to the object in the digestive tract and the animal will . . . You know . . .”

            My face broke open. “Poop it out?”

            Mr. Mac studied his workboots, then the ceiling. “Yes. Exactly.”      

            "That is so cool! Wait until my brothers hear this!" Off I ran.