A Memory

The dining room window is open wide.  The smell of summer wafts in on a breeze, fresh cut grass.   My mother is leaning out the window, hanging the laundry on the clothes line that stretches across our backyard. The radio is on in the kitchen and the song, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the old Oak Tree," is playing.  I start dancing around the dining room table singing to the radio and laughing.  My mother is singing with me as she reaches into our old clothespin bag.  I remember the feeling.  I remember how it felt to be in that moment.  The memory has come back to me now because the same song is on the car radio. I am on my way to visit my mother and am only a few blocks from the Memory Care Unit where she now lives.  Tears come to my eyes, because although this was once a memory that we shared, now it is only mine.

Chapter 3 - The Tin Box (Reposted)

Chapter 3                                                                     The Tin Box Secret

          My father sat in his chair reading aloud from the newspaper about the student protests that were sweeping the nation.  They were protesting against the war and organizing demonstrations for civil rights.  There were women burning their bras to protest the need for equal rights of the sexes.  There were marches in the south urging equal civil rights for all races.  College campuses had been turned into platforms for the anti-war movement.  At Howard University, the students had seized the administration building; students took over another building at Bowie State College in Maryland, and there had been an eight-day sit-in at Columbia University.  After thousands of students marched on the White House in Washington D.C. chanting, “L.B.J., L.B.J., how many kids did you kill today!” peace talks had finally begun between the U.S. and the North Vietnamese.  My father stopped reading and shook his head, "What is this world coming to?"

 I jumped at the chance to talk to him about what was going on in our own town.  "Dad, even here people are protesting. Walk-outs and sit-downs organized by the girls in our own high school, finally made the administration give permission for girls to wear pants in both the high school and junior high.  There are strict rules to follow, the pants can only be slacks, no blue jeans allowed.  We were warned that any girl arriving in school with a hole in her slacks, a hem that was dragging on the floor, or pants torn in any way, would be suspended from school."

"And are you telling me you are wearing slacks to school now?" Dad was surprised.

"Mom bought me two pairs of bellbottom slacks, one is orange and the other is a lime green plaid.  But the younger kids in elementary school still aren't allowed to wear pants."  After I said it, I realized I probably shouldn't have told him.  Now he would know that mom had taken the bus to go shopping for us.  He wasn't going to like that.  But before he could say anything, Mom called us in to dinner. 

Angie came downstairs to join us, excited to tell us something.  "I heard you talking about us not being able to wear pants.  Well, that all changed today!' she announced.  

"It was so unfair!  The sixth grade girls didn't care because in September they'll be in junior high.  We had to do something or we'd be walking to school again next year wearing those ugly itchy woolen leggings under our jumpers!"

Angie related the events that had occurred earlier in the day.  She had organized the fifth grade girls to march down to the principal’s office.  I wish I could have seen Mrs. Munson’s face when the fifth grade girls entered the office and demanded an audience with the principal.  Mrs. Munson was Principal McGuire’s secretary, but she was also Karen Munson’s mother.  And Karen also happened to be one of the fifth grade girls standing in front of her desk demanding to see the principal.   When Principal McGuire came out of his office to see what the commotion was about, it was Karen who spoke up first. 

  Angie continued, “The girls stood behind us and Karen told Principal McGuire, ‘We should have the right to wear slacks in school!’  Then I said, ‘This is an injustice!  What’s good for the high school and junior high girls should be good for us too!’” 

"Angie, you're so dramatic!" I exclaimed.

I had a hard time trying not to laugh.  Her face was so serious and she flung her arms about in excitement as she retold the story.   

“Then it was the best, we all started chanting, ‘These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!  These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!’” Angie held her head high, proud of being one of the organizers of this protest. 

“What did he do?”  Mary asked, amazed at our spunky little sister.

“Well, Mr. McGuire told us that he had to speak with the superintendent before anything could be done.  But later he called all the fifth and sixth grade girls down to the multi-purpose room and announced that we too would be allowed to wear slacks to school!”  

           My mother shook her head at this.

            Caught up in the lively dinner conversation, I jumped in next, wanting to share my story of the day.  “You have to hear what happened in our English class today.  I have the coolest English teacher!   Today Mr. Cabot had us all lie down on the floor in the aisles between our desks.  He told us to close our eyes and think calm thoughts.  Then he had us stretch and then relax each part of our bodies, starting with our toes and slowly making our way up to our neck and head.  It was so cool!  Then he said to think of something beautiful.  I thought of the bay.  I imagined there were two seagulls gliding down and then soaring up toward the sky again.” 

Angie started to giggle, “Now who's being dramatic, Juliana?”

I ignored her and continued, “He said, stretch, relax, we repeated the motions over and over.  I was dying to have Dr. Martin walk by and have him peek into the classroom, I don’t know if he would have thought that it was as cool as we did.”

“This Mr. Cabot sounds like a hippie to me.”  My father said with disgust.  “This is what we are paying taxes for?  This is teaching?”

At the same time, Angie reached for more mashed potatoes and my father took his fork and stuck it into the back of her hand.  She cried out and quickly pulled her hand back and gave me a nasty look.  My father ordered, “Don’t reach. Ask if you’d like more.”

          Dinners at our house were supposed to be “family time.”  But my father sat at the table with his strap laid across his lap waiting for any of us to misbehave.  Sometimes he would fold the strap over and hold the ends in each hand and then snap the strap to make a menacing sound of warning. 

I decided to eat the rest of my meal in silence. 

In my thoughts I reminisced alone about the unusual events that had taken place that day.  After our lesson in relaxation, Mr. Cabot said, “Your new assignment this week will be to develop a product or service and then present your idea to the class.  Explain why you think the rest of the class should buy your product or use your service.  After the projects are presented, the class will vote on which product or service they would most likely use.  You will be working with a partner, so please choose one and spend the rest of the period brainstorming.”  Everyone started looking around the classroom for a partner.  Then Mr. Cabot said, “Julie, I’d like you to partner with the new girl.” 

I looked at the new girl.  She dressed different from the rest of us, more colorful, even the material of her clothes seemed different.  Mr. Cabot waved her over to us before I could protest. 

She came over to my desk and Mr. Cabot introduced us.  “Petra, this is Julie, she’ll take good care of you.”  He said with emphasis on the word “good” as he squeezed my shoulder.

Not knowing what else to say, I blurted out, “Hi.”

“So, what do you think?  I don’t even know where to start.” I added as Mr. Cabot walked toward some other students.

Petra smiled, “I think it’s going to be fun!  And I’m really glad that Mr. Cabot asked us to work together.  Since I don’t know anyone in our class yet, I was nervous when he said we’d have to work with a partner.”  There was this soft hint of an accent when she spoke that made we wonder where she was from. 

“Maybe we can get together on Saturday at the library to do some research.”  I suggested.

“Isn't the library pretty far away?” 

“Yeah, it’s about two miles north of here.” 

“Well,” she said, “Maybe we could meet at my house instead.  My mom’s family has had a library in the house for ages.  And my parents just added a bunch more, the room is jammed with books about everything.”

“That would be great!  Then we wouldn't have to go all the way to the library.  Where do you live?”

 “On Willow Lane.” 

“Hey, that’s where I live!” 

“Do you know the old Victorian house?” 

I warily shook my head yes. 

“Well, that’s my house.”

“Are you Lydia Menlo’s daughter?” 

“Yeah.  But her name is Lydia Racine now.”  Cautiously she asked, “How do you know my mother?” 

“Well, I heard my mom talking with some of our neighbors after church a few weeks ago and they mentioned that she had moved back into her mother’s house.” 

Petra seemed to be weighing what I said.  “Did they say anything else?” 

“Well, they said she had a daughter around my age.”  After a moment’s hesitation I thought it was best to get it out in the open and let her know what I knew.  “And my mother told me that your grandmother committed suicide in the house when your mother was a girl.” 

Petra tilted her face down and closed her eyes.  I think she was trying not to cry.  I felt really bad and touched her hand. 

She frowned and said, “My mom doesn't like to talk about it.  I've asked her questions but she says she doesn't know what happened.  She moved away shortly after and hasn't been back until now.  I’m worried that now that she’s back, it will upset her again.” 

I thought again about the potholes along the Belt Parkway and how they kept being reopened, and then I said, “Well, if it does upset her, at least now she will have you to take her mind off of it.” 

Petra reached out her arms and hugged me, “And now, I have a new friend!”

Later, Petra joined Heather and me as we walked home. 

“What does your dad do?” Since Heather never knew her own father, she had an obsession with everyone else’s fathers.

          “He’s the curator at The American Museum of Natural History.” 

           Heather gushed, “Wow!  Groovy!”

          “What did he do before you moved here?”  I asked.

          “He worked at Le Museum National in Paris.  I was born in Paris.” 

          Heather screeched, “Cool!” 

          “So Julie, do you think we could work on the project tomorrow?”

          “Sure.” But I wasn't at all sure that my dad would let me go to her house. Tomorrow was Saturday and I hoped that my parents didn't have any plans that included me.

          When we got to Heather’s house I said, “How’s everything been with your mom?” 

          “She’s been going to work, so that’s good.  But she’s also been out a lot at night.  I guess things could be worse.”   She walked to her front door and said, “Well, I’ll see you guys on Monday.  It was nice meeting you Petra.” 

          “Hey, look, if you want to come and hang out with us while we work on this English project, you’re welcome to come over on Saturday too.” Petra offered.

          “That would be great!  Just let me know what time, okay?”

          “All right, see you tomorrow,” I said.  Heather entered her house with an extra bounce in her step. 

          Petra and I wrote each other’s phone numbers on our hands.  As I wrote down my number on her palm, I explained that our phone was on a party line.  “One of the people we share the party line with is our neighbor, Mrs. Conner.  Just a warning, she listens in on everyone’s conversations.” 

          Petra started laughing, and with a devilish gleam in her eyes, she said, “Well then, we’ll have to give her something to listen to, won’t we?”

          Now as I sat at the dinner table alone, I pushed the Lima beans around on my plate and tried to hide them in the mashed potatoes.  My mother was cleaning up the dinner plates. My father had already finished his dinner and was sitting in the living room in his recliner, reading the Daily News.  My sisters had gone down to the recreation room to watch T.V.  Only I still sat at the dinner table trying to swallow the detested Lima beans while I tried to think of a way to ask my dad if I could go over to Lydia Menlo’s house tomorrow.   Finally, my mother grew tired of waiting for me to finish, so she put her finger to her lips to warn me to be quiet.  She took my plate and scraped it into the garbage, before adding it to the dirty dishes in the sink.  She handed me a dishrag and I started to dry off the wet dishes and put them away.  We worked in silence; familiar with the routine, we performed our duties with efficiency.  I watched her red hands caress the dishes and wondered what it would be like if she ever touched me with those hands.  The familiar ache welled up inside of me.  The urge to reach out and touch her was strong, but I knew from experience that she would shrug it off with a nervous laugh.  So I held the rag, warm in my hand, and concentrated on the plate that she had just washed.  When we finished the dishes, I walked into the living room to talk with my father.

“Dad, I have an assignment for English that I need to work on.  My partner on the project is Lydia Menlo’s daughter.  She said that I could come over tomorrow, if it’s okay, and we can start doing some research.”

 “I don’t want you over there.”

“Dad, please.  I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

 My dad snapped, “I said I don’t want you over there and that’s it!” he shouted. 

“But why?  We have to do this project together for school!”

“Fine, then go to the library.”

I looked down the hall to the kitchen at my mother and pleaded silently for help.  She just shook her head.  My mother had less say in our house than I did.  Well, I decided that I wasn't giving in this time.

I gathered all of my courage and defiantly raised my voice, “I am going to Petra’s house tomorrow!”

You could have heard a pin drop, it got so quiet. 

Then he erupted, “What kind of name is that, ‘Petra’?  What kind of family are they?  I don’t like it!” 

He stood up and started unbuckling his belt, but this time, I walked right over to him.  I stood as tall as I could and said between gritted teeth, “You can hit me with that.  But I’m telling you, I’m going anyway.”  

          After a long moment, my father sighed.  He sat back down in his chair and moved his right hand through what was left of his hair.  For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.  He looked so defeated.

 More calmly this time, I explained, “She has all the books and information that we need at her house.  If we do the work there, then you don’t have to drive me all the way to the library and then come back and pick me up a few hours later.  I’ll just be right down the block.” 

Slowly a slight smile came to his face.  Perhaps, in some small way, he admired my courage.  He shook his head, took a deep breath and said, “What am I going to do with you?”  Silence again.  Then finally, “Okay.  But I want you home by five o’clock sharp!” 

“Thanks Daddy.” I went over to him and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.  His smile broadened.  I’m not sure what changed his mind, maybe it was the memory of how out of control he had been the last time he hit me.  Maybe it was simply that he had seen a bit of himself reflected in my own stubbornness.  Whatever it was, I felt like a slight wind of change had just blown through our house.

The phone rang and my mother answered it in the kitchen.  She called, “Juliana, it’s for you.” With a surge of pride born out of the small victory, I picked up the phone.

Petra was on the line, “Hi Julie!  Can you come over tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but I have to be home by five.”

“Okay, so how about you come over around eleven and my mom will give us lunch.”

I could hear Mrs. Conner’s nasally breathing on the party line and I heard Petra giggle as she realized what the noise was.

Then Petra added, “I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts! Because, you know, our house is haunted by my grandmother!”

A gasp escaped from Mrs. Conner’s lips as she hastily hung up the phone.

I laughed as I pictured Mrs. Conner hastily closing the curtains to hide from the ghost of Petra’s grandmother.

What is Success?

Anyone who has ever watched a reality show has seen passion.  Passion exists when against all odds, one continues to pursue something that one desires.  Passion for singing, passion for a new business idea, passion for decorating, passion for cooking, and it goes on and on.  The problem is that passion alone is not enough to make a person successful.  

In addition to passion, a person has to have talent or an ability to do something well.  Too often people are encouraged along the way because no one wants to be the bearer of bad news.   The look on some of those faces on television when they are told they aren't good enough can range from shock and disbelief to devastation. Unfortunately, no one had the courage to tell them the truth before they were standing in front of millions of viewers.  

If someone is fortunate enough to have passion and talent, then they still aren't necessarily in the clear.  They also need an understanding of how to navigate the waters to reach their goal.  Whether if it is practice, networking, education, investment of time and money, or any other requirement, they must be willing to do what is necessary.

Having passion, talent, ability and willingness to do the work is still no guarantee of success.  There are people who possess all of these traits and yet they never become successful in their pursuit, because luck plays a role too.  Being at the right place at the right time with the right people, cannot be overlooked.  

How success is perceived is relevant to one's perspective and a clear vision of one's goals.  Is it better to have tried and failed, rather than to have never tried at all? 

In 1976 I went on a high school field trip to McGraw-Hill Publishing Company in New York City.  I decided then, that I would work for them someday so that I could meet the right people and learn the publishing business so that I would be ready to publish my novel (which at the time was a science fiction novel that took place in the far future of 2010.)  After receiving an Associates Degree, in 1978, I was hired by McGraw-Hill as a secretary.  By 1981, I had worked my way up to Editorial Assistant in the College Book Division.  I managed the process of publishing from manuscript to final product.  (And we were really thrown for a loop when people started sending in manuscript on disks, because we didn't have computers yet!) I enjoyed my job, did it well, and got some great experience and an overview of the entire publishing process.   McGraw-Hill reimbursed their employees for taking college courses.  So at night, I attended college for English and Secondary Ed.  I left McGraw-Hill when I got married and worked for them as a free-lance Permissions Editor while still attending college.  A year later, I moved further out on Long Island and transferred from Hofstra to Stony Brook University.  I had several jobs after that, and finished my Bachelor's Degree along the way.  In my jobs I learned desk-top publishing and marketing and stored away all that I was learning for my future plans of publishing my book.  Then I had my children.  What can I say about that other than that they then became my focus.

For years now, I have had the dream of writing my novels and publishing them.  In my most grandiose hopes for the future, my books (www.thetinboxtrilogy.com) would be used in classrooms to help teenagers navigate life through those difficult years. I see myself going on book-talks to speak with students in schools and in bookstores about "potholes" and "generational dysfunction" and about making a brighter future for themselves and their future families.  

But after all of this time, there is one thing I still don't know.  I don't know if I have the talent to be successful.  This is why I ask you for your honest opinions when it comes to my writing.  Judging oneself only leads to an exaggeration of one's talent or an underestimation of it.  We cannot make unbiased assessments of ourselves.
So if  you have read this post to the end, I am asking you, before I send my manuscript out to be published and before I have to face the world, please tell me the truth.  Because if I am not good enough, I will be satisfied with "success" meaning that I completed writing the novels.  That in itself is success since I didn't know if I could do it.  

The Tin Box - Chapter 5

Chapter 5                                                 The Tin Box Secret

 The June sun warmed my skin, as I lifted my face toward the sky.  Sweat beaded on my skin and anger settled in my bones. 

Two days ago Bobby Kennedy had died, a day after being shot in Los Angeles, and directly after winning California’s Democratic presidential primary.  I thought back to five years ago and John Kennedy’s funeral.  Images had been caught on television of his children, Caroline and John-John, standing at attention as the cannons fired one by one.  Their small hands grasped in their mother’s grip, as she stood solemnly between them.  Instinctively, I shook my head trying to erase the image from my mind as if I was an Etch-A-Sketch.  Now Bobby was gone too. 

To stave off the feeling of hopelessness, I continued to fuel my anger.  After all the talk of peace and withdrawing from Vietnam, soldiers were still dying every day.  I had hoped that Bobby Kennedy would bring this war to an end.  I thought with self-disgust, this was a real war, not a movie, and it was deadly.  How could I go about my daily life and not realize the extreme danger Joe was in.  The reality of the war had finally been driven home when my brother’s friend, Steve, had come home in a wooden box last week.  When Steve’s little sister, Tara, returned to school, I didn’t know what to say to her.  When I passed her in the hall, I just lowered my head, afraid to look into her eyes, afraid to see her pain.  It was becoming more apparent, each day; that even the ending of a war could drag on beyond the endurance of all patience. 

 As I looked at the sun, I wondered why everyone always drew the sun yellow when it was actually a blazing bright white.  I closed my eyes for a moment and saw the red blood vessels squish behind my eyelids.  The pounding blood sizzled and flamed into tiny explosions.  It reminded me of the large screen backdrop at school dances.  Blobs of colorful oils dancing on the screen would crash into each other producing a psychedelic scene for all to enjoy. The continuous liquid, flowing motion matched the beat of the drums in the band. 

At the last school dance in May, the pulse of the drums had brought an unconscious jerking movement from my body.  I thought of tribal dances and the raw communion an individual could feel with music.  It was such a release of spirit to dance in a crowd.  There was an anonymity that was produced by the pounding music, the flashing lights, and the colors on the pulsating colors on the screen.  To feel young and alive, with your friends around you, dancing in the darkness and laughing, was intoxicating.

I had been dancing in the crowd, rocking to the music, as my senses reeled.  In mid-dance, I opened my eyes to find Donny watching me from the side of the room.   He was casually leaning against the wall, but his stare was intense and burning.  At once, I felt self-conscious and all of the natural rhythm and movement of the moment deserted me.  Awkwardly, I bumped into Heather and almost knocked her over.  She opened her eyes as she shouted above the music, “Hey, what’s up?” 

“Nothing,” I said.  “I’m going to go get a cola.  Want anything?”

“No thanks,” she turned and started dancing with Petra.  I noticed another girl, Annie, swaying to the music on the dance floor by herself.  Even in the strobe light you could see the dark cast to Annie’s skin.  An Italian family had adopted Annie and her biological brother Mark, when they were younger.  When they first moved to Baldwin, Annie was in second grade and Mark was in third.  People started speculating about their natural parentage when it got out that they were adopted.  Mark looked more like the rest of us in Baldwin, but Annie’s hair frizzed when it wasn’t held back in a clip.  As her facial features matured, people started to whisper.   Although I had known her since second grade, it hadn’t occurred to me until last year that she was a mulatto.  The other kids had often teased her about looking different.  It must be difficult to be caught between two worlds, looking like she belonged to one world, while living in another.  Her adoptive parents had tried to cover up the truth, but truth has a way of forcing itself out into the open.  Poor Annie found herself suddenly shunned by her childhood friends as their parents’ prejudices suddenly prevented her from being able to play with their children.   Even Mark was excluded in spite of the fact that his features looked more like everyone else’s.

At the dance, I had walked over to the refreshment table and bought a soda from Mr. Hunter, my social studies teacher.  Then I took a seat against the wall and sipped it slowly, just so that I would have something to do.  Sheldon Levy sat down next to me and asked, “Do you want to dance?”  Sheldon’s skinny frame, rather large nose, and huge brain made him a target for the “jocks.” Earlier in the year, I had felt sorry for Sheldon, so I made a point of talking to him and smiling when I passed him in the hall.  Now I seemed to be his only friend.  I didn’t want to be nasty to him, but he really was a bit annoying.  I opened my mouth to say “no,” but he had these huge sorrowful eyes that were just pleading with me to say “yes.”  So instead, to my surprise, out came, “oh-h kay.”  We walked out to the dance floor and started dancing.  Someone produced a beach ball and we all started to pass it around, the crowd keeping it afloat as everyone’s hands reached toward the ceiling.  I was having a good time and even started to relax again.  But when I looked over to the side where Donny had been a few minutes before, I saw that he was gone.  I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.  I didn’t see him again that night; but the next week in school, I found a note in my locker.  It said “Good for you!  You made Sheldon’s night. D.”

Since Donny and I had never spoken to each other, I didn’t have the guts to ask him if he had left the note.  At first, I had hoped that he would say something to me.  But as the days turned into weeks, I had almost forgotten about the note. 

          As I walked toward the beach, and my special place, I wondered again if indeed it had been him.  I wanted to sit and just take a moment to think about things.  I kicked a stone as I walked up to the construction site.  Because I was concentrating on the stone I wasn’t really watching where I was walking.  Then I heard a voice yell, “Hey, watch out!”  I looked up to see Donny standing by the sand dunes.  Right in front of me, was the arm of a small bulldozer, the bucket just about at head level.  If he hadn’t said something, I would have walked straight into it.

Totally embarrassed and disconcerted to find Donny standing in front of me, when I had just been thinking about him, I blushed and started praying that a pothole in the ground would suddenly open up and swallow me whole. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

“Uh, just w-w-walking.”  Oh, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, I thought.

 My throat felt dry and parched as I noticed that he held a guitar in his hands.  I tried to speak again.  “Do you play the guitar?” Mentally, I kicked myself again, Stupid, there’s nothing like asking the obvious.  He smiled as I drowned in embarrassment, “Yeah.  I like to come here sometimes and play.  Usually, it’s deserted,” he looked at me and smiled, “but these tractors are getting pretty close to the beach now.  I guess this place won’t be peaceful much longer.” 

I walked past him to the sand dunes and down to the shore.  There was a little mound of sand with a flat rock on it that made a natural seat.  I sat down on the rock and picked up some pebbles.  Automatically, I started to toss them into the water.  I didn’t know how I felt about sharing my special place with someone else, especially Donny.  I felt kind of exposed and vulnerable, yet it was exciting to be so near him with no one else around.  He walked up next to me and said, “You have to make them skip along the surface.”  He picked up a pebble and threw it so that it skimmed the water and bounced three times before sinking.  I stood up and tried to do it too, but the rock just sank. 

“You have to pick the right rock; it needs to be flat and smooth.  Then you have to flick your wrist like this,” he demonstrated.  It bounced four times than sank.  I searched for a smooth flat pebble and tried again.  This time it bounced once before it sank.  “That’s it, you’re getting the hang of it,” he said.  We continued to bounce pebbles on the water for a while until I got pretty good at it.  I started to feel more comfortable and relaxed as I gazed out over the bay toward Jones Beach. 

 In the distance, I could see the mushroom-shaped water tower and the bridge leading to the small barrier island.  The seagulls were standing on the buoys out in the water.  Their cries filled the air as if to sound an alarm.  He said, “Do you know why all the seagulls are facing in the same direction?”

“No.”  I looked out over the water and noticed that, as far as I could see, all of the seagulls were facing west. 

“They always face into the wind because they are sniffing the air for food.” 

Seagulls were scavengers, wherever there was garbage there were seagulls.  In spite of the fact that most people found the seagulls to be pests, I liked them.  They weren’t graceful like other birds; they had to work hard to keep aloft.  Their wings beat continuously as they rose up toward the sky. They would soar for a short space of time and then they had to beat their wings again to keep from falling.  I watched as again and again they attempted to reach new heights, only to be reminded of their limitations. 

Noticing how many seagulls were nearby, I said, “A storm must be coming.”  I knew that seagulls flocked to shore when there was a storm out at sea.  

I could hear thunder in the distance.  The sound reminded me of the war.  I thought of Bobby Kennedy, of JFK, of Steve, and of my own brother, and my shoulders slumped. 

“What’s wrong?”  Donny asked.

“My brother . . . he’s in Vietnam,” I swallowed hard.  “We haven’t heard from him since Easter.” 

I pulled out a little troll doll from my pocket and straightened its yellow hair, holding it close to my heart.  “On the day Joe left, he gave me this.  It’s a Wishnik.  He told me that if you hold it close and make a wish, the wish will come true.  As soon as he drove away, I wished that he would come home safe.  But that was almost two years ago.”

“He hasn’t come home in all that time?” 

“He could have come home last year, but instead, he re-upped for another year.  I don’t think he wants to come home.”

“Does he write to you?” 

“Sometimes” I thought about the presents Joe sent to my sisters and me.  We didn’t have much, my dad worked hard but he didn’t have the money for extras.  Even at Christmas we only got one present each.  Getting gifts from Joe was a real treat for us.

“Joe likes to send us gifts from foreign countries.  He’s sent us banks carved out of coconuts that look like monkeys, dolls from different countries in Europe, and my favorite present, kimonos from Japan.” 

         

          “That’s pretty cool.”

I sighed in frustration, “I just don’t get why we have to fight this war.  When is it all going to end?”

Donny sat down on the sand dune next to me and started strumming his guitar.    

          As he played, I watched the tide beat against the shore, ever so slowly creeping closer to my feet with each surge.  I had taken my sandals off and squished my toes in the sand.  When Joe had left for boot camp three years ago, no one had realized how horrible this war was going to get.  I hoped that whoever was elected president, they would get us out of Vietnam in time to save Joe.  I wiped my naive tears away and knew that there was nothing anyone could do but pray. 

                  

           Donny reached out his hand and almost touched my hair before he let his hand fall back down to his guitar. 

He said, “You know, it’s only by living through the difficult times that we learn to appreciate the good ones.  When people around you are filled with hate, you learn to value love even more.”

“You sound like you know a thing or two about that” I said.

“Let’s just say, my family passes down anger and hatred like they are the family heirlooms. They fuel their own egos by hurting others.  What they haven’t figured out yet, is that sometimes, it’s only when someone is ground into the dirt that they finally get the courage to stand up for themselves.”  He started to grind his heel deep into the sand.   

His entire body seemed to have tensed up and it sent out the message that this was not something that he was ready to talk about.  As much as I wanted to ask him to explain what he meant, I felt like I was intruding on his thoughts.  There was this wall up all around him and I sensed that it was hard for him to let it down. 

Instead of talking, I focused my attention on a horseshoe crab.  It was crawling over a rock, but then it flipped off and fell on the hard shell of its back.  Its tiny legs wiggled in the air, as it tried desperately to right itself.  The mouth convulsed in the center of its soft underbelly when it found its vulnerable side exposed to the sun.  I used to think that horseshoe crabs were little monsters.  As a small child I had been afraid that they might bite or sting me.  But the menacing-looking tail that stuck out behind it was not a stinger after all, it only helped the horseshoe crab move through the sand.  The truth was they were harmless.  I stood up and walked over to it.  Gently, I picked it up and placed it on its legs.  It just stood still, terrified to move, trying to blend into the sand, and hoping I wouldn’t hurt it. 

“Poor little guy, there you go,” I said. 

 Suddenly, Donny’s mood lightened and he smiled as he started strumming on his guitar again, this time playing a happier tune.    

When he put the guitar down, he was watching me, “That was really nice of you to dance with Sheldon.” 

“Then it was you who left that note in my locker!” 

“Yeah, I just thought you should know that not everyone thought you were crazy for dancing with him.”

While we were talking, the wind started to pick up and the waves in the bay grew rougher.  The sun sank behind an angry-looking cloud and a chill ran up my arms.  I hugged myself and stood up.  It must be getting late; I’d better get going. 

“I’ll walk you home,” he offered. 

 I hesitated for a moment, but then said “Okay.” 

Donny slung his guitar over his shoulder.  His bicycle had been on the ground, so he picked it up now and walked it as we crossed the construction site together.   We had just made it to the road when the clouds unloaded their burden and the rain poured down on us. 

“Hop on the handlebars and I’ll give you a ride.” He saw me hesitate again, “It’ll get you home quicker if we ride.”

I didn’t mind the rain and I didn’t want to get home quicker, but I couldn’t think of an excuse to say no.  So I hopped onto the monkey bars and we drove through the rain.  I didn’t even notice the rain anymore; his arms were on either side of me, guiding the bicycle.  I directed him to my house.  The closer we got, the more nervous I was.  Luckily when we got there, my father’s car wasn’t in the driveway. 

He pulled up to the curb and I jumped off.

 “Can I call you sometime?” he asked.

“Sure.”  I didn’t know what my dad would do when a boy called the house, but I decided I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. 

He took out a pen from his pocket.  “So what’s your number?”

I told him the number and he wrote it on the palm of his hand.

“See you in school on Monday,” he said. 

“Yeah, see you in school.”  I waved goodbye and ran into the yard, behind my house.  I didn’t breathe again until I got to my room.  I looked out the window, only to see the empty street below.  But for the first time in my life, my heart was full.  

Take off the Blinders

We have eyes to look out of so that we can see where we are going and what is happening around us.  And yet, how often do we choose to spend our time looking inward instead?  There is a world out there and it is a busy one.  Filled with both happiness and sorrow, smooth sailing and storms, bounty and loss.  But until something from the outside world shakes us to our core, we go on without paying it much attention.  We are consumed by our own hearts and minds.  Lost in our own internal struggles.  Preferring to wallow in our misfortunes and fears rather than to participate in life.

How many times do I speak to myself?  "Count your Blessings" and "Accept the things you cannot change, have the Courage to change the things you can, and the Wisdom to know the difference."  And yet, do I really listen?

In the last week I have heard the world cry out when innocent lives were taken by a senseless act of war against a civilian airliner. I have heard that a friend lost his house and almost his family to a fire and a few days later, survived an automobile accident with his pregnant wife and child that resulted in his unborn baby being born early (thankfully, healthy).  All of these things made me stop for a moment and drew me away from my inner sanctum, forcing me to look beyond the blinders that keep me focused on myself.  And then I heard that a boy from my son's High School, lost his battle against brain cancer and his single-mother and sister are trying to raise money for his funeral.

There are moments in your life when you wake-up and realize what you have to be thankful for and you sit there and look around you and let out a single shaken breath.  You take in all that you have, the gift of tomorrow and the hope that there will be more days for you and your loved ones.  But then one day goes into the next and before you know it, you are trapped inside your head once again.  Forgetting the lesson that should have been learned long ago.  As fleeting as first love, as fleeting as the joy of a new born baby, the realization that we need to take the time to enjoy today passes through our fingers like sand.  And we go on looking at our empty hands and forgetting that what we do have can slip through them so quickly.  Just because there is unwanted change in our lives, just because we don't have everything that we want, just because we have struggles doesn't mean our hands are empty.

Look around you, take off the blinders, and enjoy the day!

The Wishing Well

When I was a little girl, my friend had a wishing well on her front lawn.  Once in a while, I would drop a penny into it and make a wish.  We all  made wishes, but I don't remember anyone else's wish.  My wish was always the same.  Now I could have wished for world peace or a million dollars, but instead, I asked for the one thing I had always wanted, an Easy Bake Oven.  This was no secret, everyone knew I wanted an Easy Bake Oven, but each birthday and Christmas would pass and no Easy Bake Oven.  One Christmas, I got the packet of mixes for the Easy Bake Oven, but my mom and I made the little cakes and cookies in her oven.

In general, we didn't get a lot of toys when I was a kid.  I can remember one birthday when I went shopping with my Dad to a toy store so that I could pick out a gift.  He picked up a game called, Eye Guess, and told me that it was a good present.  I noticed that it cost $3 and that told me why he thought it was a good present.  Now at the time, I didn't appreciate that things cost money, I just wanted what I wanted.  It wasn't until many years later that I realized that my father, who was a child of the Depression Era, gave us what he always wanted as a child, a stable home.   I believe he moved nine times before finally, as an adult, he was able to help his parents buy a house.  As a boy, he had to sing on the corner or shine shoes to make money to help buy food for his younger siblings.  So as a father, his gift to us was a home, food on the table, and clothes on our backs.  But as a child, I wanted toys and parties like the other kids had.

So when I became a mother of a little girl, my weak spot (or as my kids would tell you, my "pothole") was toys and parties.  It was what I didn't have as a child, so I wanted to give them what I didn't have.  Even though the box said that it was for ages 8 and up, my daughter got an Easy Bake Oven when she was five. When my little girl was born, I decided to stay home and raise her which meant less money coming into the house.  I didn't mind not having things that I wanted as long as I could give her toys.  As she grew, our basement became divided into play centers.  An area for improving small motor skills, an area for improving large motor skills, an area for imaginative play, and an area for creative play.

Her little brother came along when she was five and he was born into a world of toys.  Before he could even read or write, he knew how to put stickers on images of toys in toy catalogs in order to make his Christmas list.  I remember how I would try so hard to get them what they wanted and would start shopping in September.  Long before the stores ran out of the popular toys, they were safely in a hiding place in our house.  But then the toy industry would come up with new must-have toys in November, and I would have to go scrambling again.  I didn't mind, really, as long as they were happy.

One year I went shopping early and bought my daughter this baby doll that she wanted that could eat food and wet her diaper called Baby Born.  She really wanted this doll, but it was expensive and now I had two children to buy toys for and I still wasn't working.  But when the toy catalog came out the weekend after Thanksgiving, she put My Size Barbie on her list.  She had added a little note for Santa Claus, saying something to the effect that this was the last time she was going to ask for My Size Barbie since she had asked for it for several years already.  My Size Barbie was even more expensive than Baby Born.  I spoke to my sister on the phone and told her about my predicament.  I was hesitant to buy the Barbie because my daughter was getting a little old for it and soon would be taller than My Size Barbie.  But my sister said, "You don't want it to become her Easy Bake Oven."  So I went out and bought My Size Barbie too.

One year my son's list was so long that there was no way he could be happy with what was going to be under the tree.  There was a holiday cartoon on called "Jeremiah Creek" in which a little boy sent a long list to Santa.  When Santa received the long list he said, "This can't be for just one boy!"  So Santa looked on his map and found a lost town named Jeremiah Creek and thought the list must be for the children of that town.  On Christmas morning, little Jeremiah Creek woke up to no toys under his Christmas tree.  But the television set was on and the news anchor was in the town, Jeremiah Creek, reporting on all the happy children who had received Christmas presents for the first time.  Little Jeremiah realized that they were his toys, but when he saw the happy children, he also realized he had been asking for too much and was happy that the toys had found homes with children who appreciated them.  So I sat down and watched this show with my son and told him that there was a new rule in the house.  The children could only ask for the amount of toys equal to the number of years they had lived up until they were ten.  Once they were ten, that was the maximum amount of toys that could be on their list.  This worked and it gave me a chance to also buy toys that weren't on their list but that I thought they would enjoy.

Now I want to go on record as saying that my children have grown to become the most loving, caring, interesting, and thoughtful people I know.  However, somehow I have harmed them by giving them so much. I seem to have robbed them of the chance to have something to commiserate with when they talk to other young adults who didn't have as charmed of a childhood.  Imagine my surprise when I went to take my daughter home after her first year of college and found that she had received Legos from her friends as a birthday present because she had told them that (the poor thing) she had never had Legos of her own as a child.  I looked at her and said, "Then who had those pink and lime green Legos that were for building a house with a little Lego family?  They didn't belong to your brother."  She hesitated a moment.  I think she did remember them but she wasn't going to let her college friends know that.  Instead she said, "No I didn't have any Legos."  So in spite of my efforts, it seems I gave them too much.  The lesson learned is that no matter what you give your children, they still want to complain about you so that they can feel "normal."  But she did have Legos . . . and Baby Born . . . and My Size Barbie . . . and an Easy Bake Oven.

Haunted Happenings

I was deep in sleep when I saw the light.  Through my closed eyelids the light was so bright that I thought it must be broad daylight.  But then my tired body told me that it couldn't be, I hadn't had enough sleep yet. So with a bit of foreboding, I opened my eyes to see the ceiling fan light blaring down at me in its brightest setting.  This has happened before, but usually it happens when my husband isn't here.  He knows my theory, but he is always trying to explain it away with a rational explanation.  Maybe the remote touched something?  Maybe it was the breeze from the fan . . . (really?)?  Maybe I touched it without noticing? Maybe I left the light on when I went to sleep and didn't remember?  But this time, he was there so I woke him up.  He got out of bed and walked over to the wall where the light switch is located.  Beneath the light switch, in a plastic receptacle attached to the wall, is the remote control.  Now when we went to bed, the light switch was indeed in the "on" position, as it still remained.  But the remote was set to have the fan at low speed and the light off.  He examined the remote and saw that nothing was touching the remote.  Yet, somehow, the light had turned on by itself . . .

We bought this house ten years ago from a woman I will call "Anne."  Anne and her husband, "Ken," had added a dormer on the upstairs when they were expecting their third child.  The dormer consisted of two additional rooms, the master bedroom and a smaller bedroom.  Ken was a handy guy and had done a lot of work on the house himself.  The only thing that had not been finished when we bought it was the ceiling fan.   In the master bedroom there was a hole in the ceiling with all of the wiring done for a ceiling fan, but there was no fan.

From what I have heard, Ken had a problem with drinking and that when he drank he got a bit rough with his wife.  By the time we were buying the house, Ken was no longer living here.  Instead he was living with his girlfriend about a half hour from here and he and Anne were going through a divorce.  A month before we closed on the house, Ken got into a drunken fight with his girlfriend.  He attempted to strangle her in her bedroom, she got away from him and ran to her kitchen where she picked up a knife.  When he came after her in the kitchen, she stabbed him and killed him.

A few months after buying the house, we had a friend of ours, who is a licensed electrician, put in a ceiling fan/light in our master bedroom.  The ceiling fan looked beautiful and finished off the room nicely.  But it wasn't long before strange things started to happen.  I would be in the bed alone at night and all of a sudden the fan would go from its lowest speed to its highest speed without explanation.  At other times, but less often than the fan speed changing, the light would come on in the middle of the night.  Just last week, a friend of ours was staying at the house (in a different bedroom) while she watched our dog for a few days.  We had left the fan in our bedroom on on the lowest speed.  When we came home, we found the fan whipping around like it was a helicopter about to take off.  But our friend hadn't touched it.

My husband says that maybe one of our neighbors has a similar remote and that when they press their remote, our fan or light changes.  I have my own theory . . .  So Ken, if you're listening, your wife doesn't live here anymore.

Trapped

She saw him walk by and her heart went bump.  Jesse looked so good and Blaze knew that she would do whatever it took to make him hers.  She was so blinded by the sight of him, she walked right into the corner of the hallway.  Rachel laughed, "What's the matter, Blaze?  Blinded by love?"  Blaze's best friend, Rachel, was the only one she had confided in about the huge crush she had on the new boy in school.  "Rachel, you have to help me.  How can I get him to notice me?"  "Don't worry, girl.  I know exactly what to do."

The girls made their plans and it wasn't long before Jesse did notice Blaze.  In spite of what others told her about Jesse, she knew that they had to be wrong.  Jesse told her himself that "no one understood him."  She knew she was the one who could make a difference in his life.  If she gave him enough love, he'd know what love was.  If she gave him enough attention, he would get over all the emptiness that filled his past.  If she helped him enough, he would find a direction in life and turn himself around.  So she loved him, she paid attention to him, she helped him.  She worked at the neighborhood grocery store and always had a bit of money to pay for the movies or lunch or even just a coffee.  She didn't mind that Jesse didn't work, after all, he had enough to do just to get through the day.  He worked everyday just trying to survive and to get past his messed up family.  He didn't even have time to get his school work done.  So she took care of him.  She loved seeing a smile light up his face when she bought him a gift.  She loved seeing him happy.

They were alone in his house when he told her what would make him really happy.  She wasn't so sure about this though.  Jesse pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck as he whispered, "I love you."  Blaze felt a tingling sensation where his lips brushed up against her skin.  She replied, "I love you, too."   He coaxed her, "If we love each other, than it's alright."  She still wasn't sure, but she didn't want to lose him either, so she said, "yes."

It was three months later when she told him she was pregnant. She told him that now she needed him.  He promised he'd be there.  He said he'd take care of her.

It was a year later when she sat up all night with the baby, wondering where he was.

It was two years later when he told her that she had ruined his life.

It was three years later when she hushed her newborn crying in her arms while her hungry toddler pulled at her shirt.  Blaze was waiting for Jesse to get home so that she could take his car to the local supermarket. They needed food in the house.  Her cell phone rang and she hoped it was him.  It was Rachel calling from her college dorm,  "How are things going?" Rachel asked.  Blaze cried into the phone.  She told Rachel that there were bills to be paid.  Jesse had a job at the gas station, but it didn't pay enough, especially after he spent half of it on his car.

It was four years later when Jesse told Blaze, "Shut-up! You are nothing but a fat piece of sh_t!"  The words didn't hurt her anymore, she was immune to the abuse.  But she would never get immune to the look on her children's faces as they heard their parents argue.  She wanted to take them and leave.  She wanted to go far away from Jesse and never see him again.  Her light had been snuffed out and only years of darkness lay in front of her.  Blaze was trapped and her children were trapped with her.  

Exposure

When taking a photograph, the amount of light that is let in determines how clear the image will be.  Too much light and the image appears washed out, too little light and the image is dark.  

I attended a college orientation this week for my son, but what I found out was that it was really for me.  The college did a great job of bringing the parents together, not only to find out how the first year would be for our children but also for us to connect to each other.  In one of the sessions, we sat around and talked about what we expected, what we hoped for, and what we feared.  Listening to the others in the circle and gathering the collective feelings of the group, helped me see my own thoughts in a better light.  An image of what the experience will be like for both my son and for me became clearer.  I learned that some parents were sending their very independent children off far from home and were worried about the distance while others were worried because their children wanted to commute and stay at home instead of living on a campus.  Some of the parents had other children at home and this was their first child to leave while others were sending their last or only child off to college.  But it didn't matter what the circumstances were, we were all worried about our children . . . and about ourselves.

The orientation program took the time to help us develop an image of what college life will be like for them.  We could see the support program that would be in place for the kids and for us.  We had a chance to bond with each other and develop friendships while our children did the same.  We all came away with a better understanding of the experience and of ourselves.  

Our children aren't leaving us behind, we are going to a new place together but taking separate paths to get there.  They are taking one path and we are taking another, but we will meet again at the next crossroads.  Each of us will be a little different by then, but the love that we have for each other will never change.  In the meantime, I will capture the images along the way by taking lots of pictures and hope that my son will do the same (That's a Hint, Son!) so that I/we will never forget the journey!

Country Morning

Before I even open my eyes, I hear the birds singing outside.  There’s a breeze coming in through the window.  I think how unusual that is for July, but I’m not complaining.  Daisy is stirring, she wants to go outside.  My husband calls to her and he takes her out to her favorite spot.   A moment later, I hear the door open once again and the sound of her prancing happily back to the bedroom.  She always makes a beeline on these mornings when he is the one to take her out.  She needs to make sure I’m still there waiting for her.  Her cold nose is nudging me now, telling me it’s time to get up.  “Okay, okay.”  I reassure her and pull on some warmer clothes before going to the kitchen.  She follows behind, waiting for her breakfast and hoping for a treat. 

A replay of the Country Music Awards is on the television in the living room.  I watch Miranda Lambert and think “it’s time for Blake to start worrying.”   She looks amazing and I’m happy for her.  She has just become an inspiration for millions of mom’s who struggled with those child-bearing years.  “Good for you, Miranda!”

I put the teapot up on the stove and look outside and see the mountain beyond the clearing in the trees.  It’s so quiet up here now.  Just a few years ago there were neighbors on both sides of us, each with children running around.  The kids had plenty of adventures up here, finding salamanders in creeks, imagining and building camps, walking along dirt roads, forging friendships with kids they only see during the summers and experiencing a simpler life than we have back in suburbia.  Most of the homes in this community are vacation homes.  The families come here to get away from the cities and the crowds.  But now, although both properties are still owned by the same owners, one family has divorced and moved away while the other has moved to a bigger home for their growing family.   All of the children are grown now.   Even our own are not with us this weekend. 

I take my tea outside and sit on the deck watching the chipmunks navigate the treacherous route through the trees to the bird feeder.  They hang like trapeze artists and stealthily fill their cheeks with seeds.  Some trickle down to the ground below but the chipmunks will make sure the surplus does not go to waste.

We decide to take a walk through the woods to the place where my husband’s trail camera is stationed on a tree.  It is activated by a motion detector and it has taken some amazing photos of deer, bear, and coyote.  We want to measure a tree that a bear stood up next to so that we can determine how tall the bear was.  As we walk through the trees, we pass by the old 1940’s car that has been silently decaying in the middle of the forest.  How it got there and why it was left there is a mystery.  But I like that it is there, I like imagining it’s story and have come up with some fantastical explanations.  We pass the old car and come to the tree in front of the camera.  By our estimation, the bear must have been about six and a half feet tall.  That is a decent size for a black bear of the region but not as large as it had seemed in the photographs. 

I walk a little further and look down the edge of a cliff to the peaceful stream below.  It bubbles and meanders slowly through the woods.  The leaves around me flutter in the breeze and I take in a deep breath.  There is nothing like standing in a place that is so isolated from the rest of the world and feeling yourself become one with nature.  After a few precious moments more, we return to the house.  Daisy greets us with joy and relief that we have returned. 

The weekend is over.  It is time to leave and return to the real world.