Stunts My Mama & I Have Pulled

Today, my daughter greeted me with tears and a tale of wrong-doing on the part of certain employees in our complex's office. After walking home from school in the August heat of Texas, she had gone in for a little paper cone cup of water from the 5 gallon bottle the office keeps on hand, though apparently Reserved for Employees and Future Residents Only. The childless cow who guards the sacred bottle declined, in fact refused to dole out the 1/3 cup portion of water to my daughter on the grounds that if she supplied it to one kid, she would have to for all of them. The two then sat in silence and looked at each other, perhaps waiting for this flood of children to bear down on the water-keeper, for the 10 minutes it took me to fetch my girl.
I pondered this event in calm consternation as I altered my route home to include a trip to the grocery store. There, we purchased a case of water bottles and all the makings of a gift basket. My daughter watched from the air-conditioned front seat of the car as I cheerfully fashioned an elaborate display of thirst-quenching generosity, and she smiled politely when we delivered it to the aforementioned cow, whose nervous embarrassment was obviously at odds with her exclamation of thanks.
"Lady," I said, "I wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but if your daughter was thirsty I would give her a damn drink of water."

That was the second time in less than a week that I had seen my daughter gaze at me with pride and trust. While attending a school function the other day, we returned to our vehicle to find that another car had parked behind mine, effectively trapping us. My daughter was utterly perplexed, but I waited a few moments in patient meditation, giving the thoughtless driver a chance to return. When another car down the row a ways vacated a space, I told my girl to get in the car and buckle up. She paused long enough to watch me place the gum I had been chewing under the door handle of the car that had blocked me. Her shock and confusion escalated as I silently drove over the schoolyard to slip smoothly through the vacated space. Even I was impressed with our ability to exit with such grace from a difficult situation.

Tunes of "Harper Valley PTA" went through my mind as we drove on, smiling while the wind blew our hair and the setting sun glinted in the rearview mirror.

These things reminded me of an episode years ago during one of my little brother's softball games when Mama and I were watching from the car along the fencerow. A particularly hateful neighbor decided to try to pass through the narrow space with her epic-sized nachos and pickles rather than going around my mom's tiny blue Toyota. Her generous proportions made navigating the pass difficult for her, and she squawked loudly, "Some People just don't know how to paaarrk!" I don't think it was so much the remark as it was the sneering expression on the woman's face, all wrinkled nose and snarly lips, that motivated my mother to release the parking brake. The car rolled forward just enough to pin the hippopotamus-shaped woman against the chainlink fence, resulting in much waving of gelatinous arms, spilled refreshments, and ridiculous expressions that bent the snarly lips like a wire coat hanger. In case her shrill activities did not attract enough attention, Mama's boob pressed the horn for an extended amount of time as she craned forward to watch my brother catch a pop fly. It was hard to see around the spectacle.

As if sensing my nostalgia, my mom called me this evening. After our customary greetings and mutual assurance that we were doing okay and had talked to my brother recently, the conversation went something like this...
Mama: Well, I have to explain something before you find out anyway.
Me: ...okay...
Mama: Some neighborhood kids stopped by today, and I thought they were offering to mow my lawn for me so I told them I did not have enough gas in the lawn mower. They said they were just warning me that I would get a citation for my grass being too high. Since I don't want Another Citation, especially since the felony charges for assaulting an animal control officer have not been tried before a jury of my peers yet, I decided to try to mow it myself.
(Note - my mother is 61 years old and is bipolar, so get ready for the rest of the story.)
Mama: I mowed most of it even though it was getting dark, but then I realized that the keys I had pinned to my underwear had come loose and gotten lost somewhere in the yard.
Me: You have a key to the bathroom window? (Mama enters and exits the house only through her bathroom window with the assistance of an elaborate structure consisting of rusted bathtubs and cast iron stoves in the carport.)
Mama: No, no, these are keys to other things. Do you remember that cabinet I used to have?
Me: Uhh...
Mama: Anyway, I had been feeling all over and couldn't find the keys in my pants, so I took them off. Then, I got down on my hands and knees to look through the grass with my cigarette lighter.
Me: Oh, no.
Mama: Turns out, I had more gasoline than I thought I did, and that is why the fire department is here, and my turtle is dead. I love you, and I love you ... there is someone in an official-looking uniform who wants to talk to you ...

Road to Hell

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I witnessed such a path this weekend. As I was making my way back from the mailbox, I watched a sweet little blue-haired lady slow her Cadillac, roll down the passenger window, and helpfully advise the close-cropped (black) woman and child wrapped in colorful towels that, "In this country, we wear our tops back from the pool so that our bosoms won't show." In response, the noble lady kindly overlooked the cultural condescension and said, "This is my son, those are not bosoms, and I was born & raised in Haltom City." The elderly lady, surely trying to save face, said, "He needs to lose some weight, then." That is when the Haltom City lady threw her 44 ounce Slushie at the elderly dignitary's windshield.
I hid my laughter and shock in my own voluptuous bosom as I stooped to collect my dachshund's stool in a ziploc baggie so as not to foul the grounds. My private mind speculated upon similar collections elsewhere in the world.

Day 3

Happy Mothers Day!

The kids and I went to lunch (after an interesting drive through Northside, the Stockyards, Downtown, the Cultural District, an unidentified area, and University Park while looking for the restaurant at which I had a gift card) and then we spent a few hours browsing in the bookstore because that is something we all like to do.
First, though, I tortured them by making them behave in Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn. They got back at me back acting like dingbats at the Botanic Garden. I am quite sure I am the only mother there today who threatened to beat the hot pee out of her children (almost silently through gritted teeth, of course.)
I did say it out loud, however, when we were in the car and they were making chicken/Wookie noises all the way home. They pointed out that their racket could not be distracting my driving all that much since they had been absolutely silent while I parallel parked the car with the rear wheel 31 inches from the curb and the front tire slightly on top of it.
It was a very fun day, though, and since they are my kids, I really cannot expect them to behave any other way. Here is a bit of what our day looked like...

Day Two

Still WOOHOO!!!

Even though I am feeling much relief and optimism again, I have been very tickled by a couple of sour cherries here lately. One was an overheard quote, and the other was a photo. They just made me laugh...

Quote = "They seldom bite," said the three-fingered man.

Photo = Looks like this is about to get a lot worse:

Then there is the photo I found on Ivar Ivrig's blog (He always has beautiful photos! Check him out at http://ivarivrig.blogspot.com/ and see the amazing view he has from Trondheim, Norway.) The expression on this herring gull's face just cracked me up:

And since today is May 9th, Happy Birthday to Eric Golden wherever he is.

Sunday Snapshot

A night alone with myself in the dark, and I slept like a stone. The sunbeams peeping through the blinds politely woke me, along with my cat jumping into my solar plexus rather impolitely. Simple luxuries gilded the morning: brewing coffee with cinnamon sifted into the ground beans, sipping slowly in the crisp, post-freeze air, watching the steam rise and the feeding birds take flight. Finally feeling awake for the first time in a couple of weeks, I ripped the house apart in a cleaning frenzy. I scrubbed, laundered, dusted, swept, vaccuumed, and tidied myself into order along with my surroundings.
With all accounted for, I stepped out into the world and wandered. I did some grocery shopping and some price comparing, and I browsed through my favorite stores. My sister-in-law who lived in the Dijon region once told me the French word for window-shopping translates to "window-licking," and I think that is so much more accurate. I window-licked until my tongue felt nimble and my eyes were bright.
My daughter called for me to come get her. Her visits with her dad are usually shorter than the allotted time, and I will just enjoy it while I can. Someday, she will covet every moment out of my embrace, at least for a time, but for now I will hold her and love her all she wants.
We cooked Chinese food and lamented allergy season while watching cartoons and folding the laundry. When I brought out the camera to take a few shots of the hibiscus that sprouted in fond appreciation of being brought inside during the cold snap, she mugged and posed for me...hugging the cat, sniffing the flowers, looking goofy, and smiling her freckled face. Never have I seen such a tough and beautiful love than what lives in her. It is like going back in time and watching a world conquerer as a vulnerable youngling. The rest of the world will probably never see the tender, loving heart that I watch with joy and awe each day.
"I'll keep the door unlocked," she calls as I carry the trash out.
"No, go ahead and lock it," I shout back unexpectedly. I see the look of confusion on her face, but I will explain when I get back that I don't want everyone within hearing range to know she is alone with the door unlocked even for the 2.5 minutes it will take me to carry the trash to the bin. Every second counts in her young life.
As I round the wall of the bin, I surprise two boys. They are probably 12 years old and have tucked themselves away in this nasty crevice for the sake of privacy. I excuse myself demurely and look away while I toss the bags, pretending not to hear the tall one ask his cell phone, "Stephanie, which one of us do you love?" as his friend squats hopefully beside him.
The rest of the day will be harder, but good in a fought-for way. KW has finally agreed to divorce on good terms, and he will go over paperwork with me when he brings my son home. Earlier, I watched my son's tears fall when he asked, "So, you are going ahead with the divorce?" Either out of cowardice or kindness, I answered, "This is just paperwork, honey. Nothing is really different than it has been. Your dad has your house, and I have your apartment, and you are free to be either place any time you want. Your dad and I will keep trying to get along, and we will always take care of you kids and love you. Just paperwork, sweetheart." I did not explain how much hope and strength this paperwork would give me. My fortification is my business.

All in a Day's Work

"Who cleans up the sidewalk after someone has jumped off a building?" The question took my therapist by surprise.
"I hope you are not thinking of leaving us, Stacy," was his quiet reply.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," I said as his head bobbed in approval. "I just wonder what happens..."
I was interrupted by his intercom. Another patient was waiting in the lobby, and the doctor was now 17 minutes behind schedule. He stood to shake my hand. Smiling, he said, "I am afraid our time is up, Stacy. Let me know if you have any trouble before our next visit."
"But you didn't answer my question..."
"We will begin our next session with it. Take care, and see Fay about setting up that appointment."
I found myself standing in the lobby with crazy people staring at me, and seeing Fay was the last thing on my mind. They must have been crazy or they would not have been there. The next guy bounced nervously on his toes when the nurse called his name, and I realized I was blocking the doorway. He kept his eyes aimed at the floor as he brushed by me, twisting his shoulder back awkwardly at the last minute to avoid physical contact. One seated woman craned her neck to get a glimpse of what was on the other side of the door. Maybe these people were not crazy, but were like me, just alone and in need of someone to answer the questions, the incessant questions. Maybe their realities were just a little bit flexible, too, allowing figments of their imagination to manifest and interact on that other plane where normal people were. It was the normal people who scared me most of all. Perhaps this was actually the safest group of people to be amongst. As I let my guard down and felt the chunks of my facade fall away, the seated woman began to rock and moan. I scrambled to pick the chunks back up, but they must have been in the wrong places. Her face distorted as the moans escalated to wailing gibberish. Her screams became my own, and I fled from the office and into the bustling street. Who was staring at me now was anyone's guess.
I ran blindly until the woman's howls were only an echo in my mind. I looked around me for something familiar, a landmark, and thrashed my arms as though something invisible might catch me.
Finally, I sighted a diner I had been to a few times before, and I scurried erratically across the street like a shadow among the crowd that walked at a regular pace according to the traffic signals.
I had not realized what a hot day it was until I stepped into the cool, safe darkness of the diner. Just the shelter from the sun's searching rays helped my mind think clearer. I found an empty booth at the back and slid into it with relief. I ordered a tuna melt and an iced tea, then settled back to organize myself. I took out my drivers license. The face looked back at me with its name and address beside it. It told me I was Stacy Renee Watson from 1325 West Arcadia Lane. The date of birth indicated that I was 22 years old, and there was a state seal on it. This was proof of my existence. It gave me an identity, a place to be in reality. It was shelter from the sun.
The waitress laughed when she brought my sandwich and said I was probably of age. I did not know what she was talking about until I followed her gaze to my drivers license. I laughed, too, as if I had made a joke and put it away.
Organization was at hand. I peeled the paper ring from my utensil wrap and placed it at the top left of the place setting I envisioned. It provided an absorbent resting place for the unnecessary sugar spoon in my tea. Without thinking, I flipped the knife to face the serrated edge out and placed the fork to its right. The napkin went onto my lap, even though stains invariably fell on my chest. I needed more napkins. I pulled from the tabletop canister (oh good, I would not have to ask the "funny" waitress for extras) one for my right hand, one for my mouth, and two for afterwards. A milisecond later, I pulled another one, just in case. The salt and pepper shakers were put in their proper places, and I disregarded the ketchup. It was inconsequential.
My thoughts turned again to the people who jump from tall buildings, and I recalled my therapist repeatedly mentioning my distorted view of reality. Whatever may actually be, I have thought of several possibilities. What is most likely is that the City has hired a unique individual to head this department, to operate it solely, in fact. He wanders the streets in search of suicides, a specialist. He is a funny little man, a solemn mixture of Charlie Chaplin and Groucho Marx. Bushy eyebrows obscure his eyes, and a bristly moustache obliterates his mouth. (What he sees will not be repeated.) They constantly twitch in amused grief at the tragedy he sees every day. He scrapes sorrows into a pail and rinses them away by tapping the nearest hydrant and sweeping, sweeping, sweeping. Swift and efficient are his strokes, and all is cleansed when he is done and goes on his way.
I finished the sandwich, sopped up crumbs with a corrugated pickle slice, and drained my tea glass. I tucked a five dollar bill under the plate. I always tip too much, even though I can't afford it. It is so condescending to do math and count out change when someone has been nice enough to bring you something. They are paid for their time, but the kindness they show me is priceless. And, maybe someone will see what I left behind and think, "Wow, that was nice. She did not have to do that."
Braving the sun like a hair-sprayed beauty queen in the rain, I made my way back to the bare efficiency that I called home. Who needs more than one room of their own? I had squinted painfully in the sunlight, but it was quiet and dim in the apartment. My eyes relaxed, and I saw that everything was exactly as I had left it, so still and changeless, almost in repose. I loved that...no, I did not love it. I found comfort in the consistency. No matter how many times I left, it was always the same when I returned. No one was glad that I was home. No one even knew I had been gone. No one is the most loyal and dependable loved one a body could ever have. And, it was mutual, a give and take situation. It would have been cruel to subject a pet or a plant to my god-like sensitivities. I had a fish once, but the city water burned its scales, and I flushed it so that it could be free. As the bowl cleared, a horrible thought crept in regarding the sewer system and the indefinite purgatory to which I had assigned the (surely) penitent fish. God, please save us from do-gooders. So often, their understanding is not our own.
I moved to the open window and listened for sounds of living, happy things; but, I found none. Instead, I heard the rattle of the street cars and the arguments of my neighbors. Accents distinguished their voices, but the tones were all the same. There were the sounds of hateful, pain-filled words, of objects being thrown or slammed, of someone being abused, and always a baby or two crying in the background, just waiting their turns. It never varied.
Slowly, the screams came together, merged, and became whirling eddies of sadness. They were the screams of my neighbors' anger and frustration, the bewildered screams of the woman in the therapist's office, and the silent scream of all the lonely and forgotten people in the world. They called to me and pulled me down through their crazy world until I heard the final thud as my body met the pavement.

A short while after Stacy Watson's death, a little man wearing white overalls and pushing a biohazard trash bin on a dolly turned the corner of her street. His visits to this part of town were never fruitless. His moustache snickered with sorrow as he washed the sidewalk clean of Stacy and her distorted view of reality. He shook his head sadly, and then moved on. It was all in a day's work.

The 6th Photo Challenge

The RULES: 1. Go to your pictures 2. Take the 6th folder 3. Choose the 6th picture
Here is mine:

Like Pearls of Time are Bones

Earth and salt could not be more real
Than the old woman in her garden.
Her old bones and her old eyes -
Aged, cultured -
And so, I say, like pearls,
Though not quite as lovely.
Still, death lends refinement
(Immortal lustre, in fact)
And silence is golden.
Her memories are collected neatly
And stored away like treasure
In a solid pine box, sealed by the earth
And the flowers and the vines.
They will be safe here,
These secrets in the sun.
The old woman will never tell
Another living soul.

Mothers Day Present

By chance and destruction
Came the birth of the moon
Torn mantle from the earth's crust
Struck by a foreign body
And flung into space

The young satellite is wicked
in the violence of her own existence,
as is the rib of Adam.

Spinning through the darkness
Skidding, swirling to a stop
Looking back in defiance
And watching from a distance

Anger matures to resolution,
and she becomes cool comfort.
Her beams reach through the night
to find us, to show us the way.

She draws the eyes of women,
and we all see
ourselves.

Wooden Maturity

Autumn, poignant season
Trees, once full and lush
Letting their vibrant colors slip away in a death rattle
Some are already stark silhouettes in the November sky
Naked in the rain that washes away
Deserted bird nests and empty insect casings

Calmly, the trees stand alone together
Facing the harshness that lies ahead
Only their rough bark protects them
A family of experienced cynics

Acorns are buried beneath the leaves
In the earth's somber, secret womb
At some mysterious hour, they will rise up
Pushing their heads through the folds of soft earth
Crowning, then craning their young necks
To feel the warmth of the sun on their new, unfolding leaves

For ages, they will stand in the shadows of their mothers
Receiving second-hand drops of rain
And only the light that shines through
But, the earth is softly tilled with roots that have gone before

A sapling has few hopes of ever viewing life unshaded
Meddling men might chop away the mother
And transplant the sapling and its root ball
Or, the young tree might finally surpass the matriarch
Growing taller and stronger, rising above her
And stretching out its limbs
To grasp the world for itself

Wings

They rest there in the warmth
of the sun as it smiles.
They are at peace and are
content to be alone together.
Their movements are a somniferous hum,
comforting reassurance
of the presence of like souls.
They would stay there forever,
alone together,
blinking in the sun;
but, the wind rustles their feathers
and whispers its secret call.
They can do nothing but answer;
for, they belong as much to freedom
as it does to them.
They are lifted in flight
by the wind's voluminous arms,
and there, they fly.