One Wordless Hug

` Every Christmas season it’s the same. I drag my thirty or so eighth graders down to a public grade school in Cleveland to spread some holiday cheer. It’s the second poorest city in the nation; we’ve got our work cut out for us. We leave our land of suburbia and mini-vans where the biggest problem most of my students face is what color I-pod to own. Twenty-five minutes can take us far far away from our world. We enter the building through locked doors and a metal detector, shlepping our boxes of candy to make gingerbread houses and wrapped books to bring as presents. We always bring a snack. It’s a big deal for all concerned, and I forget each year how my head spins by the time all is said and done. There are always a few moments that dance on my heart and steal my breath. This year was no different.
I always say that life is about moments. Let’s face it, in a typical day I face drudgery, mundane chores, and the lather, rinse, repeat of the endless cycle, all the while pulling out my hair. We all do. But it is the moments, those brief glimpses in my classroom or my home, that make the whole day shine. Today it was the look on Diamond’s face when she learned she got to make a gingerbread house of her very own, and the playful exchange of Katie and Romello as she rubbed his brillo hair. But mostly it was Alexander. He tugged at my legs as I walked by his desk, like all of these students tug at my heart. I stooped to him to see what he wanted and without a word, he grabbed me in a huge hug. I think it was the wordlessness of it all that really got me. I’m not what anyone would term stoic or unbiased to start with. Straight news is not my game. And I don’t live in a world of quiet, that’s for sure. But in such a brief, silent encounter, with his skinny arms wrapped awkwardly around my legs, I definitely got the message.
Then it’s time to go and we leave in a whirl-wind of wrapping paper and smiles and hugs and high fives. We traipse back out through the metal detector and my kids are glowing from ear to ear. I get so discouraged, some years, leaving Junie B. Jones and Dr. Seuss to solve the problems while we hop back into our warm cars to head for home. It’s like emptying the ocean with a teaspoon, really. It seems like a really small gesture that will have little to no impact. Saving the world one gingerbread house at a time? It is a lot to imagine, but it’s all I’ve got. And for Alexander and I and this moment, it’s definitely enough.

Persephone's Fall

She sits where I sat on the hearth, roaring fire drying her kindling-straight hair. Could it be thirty years ago that this was I? My daughter flips her brown hair, the once sun-kissed blond tresses deepen as the weather plods now toward winter. And so do we. There is no mistaking, now, that the sun has slanted, her rays but half-inclined towards earth as the calendar marches on. Stubborn marigolds cling to life in my white buckets on the porch, and the red zinnia that my daughter planted so long ago blooms still in the back garden. All is not yet lost. But neither is there hope. They are frozen, the last blooms mocking summer and winter both. They belong in neither place these days. Like Persephone they cannot stay or move as they will. And the leaves are down, carted away by serpentine hoses that transform them into mulch. The grass has died, and the season’s first few frosts have tinged it brown. The light is stark and the clouds more grey. The winter is coming quickly now, like some spinning toy with centrifugal force that lumbers clumsily and fast.

Outside today, it is painfully clear through our reddened, chapped hands that winter is very close. Twenty-seven, forty-two, nineteen, HUT! I send her running. Stop on a dime at the garbage can. Turn and catch the ball. The football slips from my daughter’s grasp because her frozen hands are not nimble enough to receive it. And later I fumble Christmas lights atop the ladder, blue sky making way for the crispest of air above my head. The lake stays angry now, and the froth of its mood carries winds to those like us who live close-by. We will hole up very soon against the harshness of that cold.

I take one last trip around the yard to gather the trappings of summer and autumn for their winter sleep. The lawnmower and two-wheelers have the right idea: hibernation. My daughter and I would like that too. We talk often of calling in sick some day together to stay in bed and read our books. We would dine on chicken nuggets and bar-b-que chips while the wind and snow pound our windows, not caring if we dropped crumbs in the bed. Much later we would actually leave our fluffy-pillowed fortress and drink hot cocoa with giant marshmallows and sit by the fire we built in the afternoon light. We would wear our pajamas all day.

There is something here in this snuggling close, in making a fire and in craving the heat. There is something in this little girl drying her hair with the smell of smoke rich in her footie pajamas. There is something about the harshness of winter and the inevitability of its arrival that draws us in to one another and to the frothy tides of times gone by. There is something in my daughter. And in myself.

Earth, Wind and Fire

He runs like the wind, this son of mine,
Faster than the cheetah we visited at the zoo, he claims.
I know one thing for sure:
He doesn’t have any interest in walking. He zips through this house
And my heart without pausing.
Sometimes he grabs Ritz crackers off the counter as he whizzes by.
And eats them as he runs.
It’s a wonder he doesn’t choke.

He burns like a fire, this child of mine,
Hotter than the reddest coals in my fireplace, I see.
I know one thing for sure:
He has a temper that cannot be quenched with
The largest fireman’s hose.
Sometimes I think his head will explode right off his body
And spew shrapnel in my living room.
It’s a wonder he doesn’t ignite.

He settles close like the earth, sweet boy of mine,
Gentler than the caress of the softest, whitest sand.
I know one thing for sure:
He is the one who will care for me when I am old.
He has an empathy beyond his age
And treats the creatures of the earth with care and love.
He is a fiercely loyal friend and brother
It’s a wonder his heart doesn’t burst.

The Crackle of the Fire

It will be nine years, soon, since I bought this house. One of the selling points for me was the fireplace, nestled in the corner of an entire brick wall. But I have never lit a fire in this fireplace, until tonight. What is it about me that caused this to be so? How is it that something I wanted so very much could just get pushed aside for years and years? Maybe I waited so long because of my dad. As I was creating my life as a new homeowner, my dad was losing his. Although he drove by once, coming home from one of his many hospital stays, he never came inside. He died shortly after I married, and never got to see me in this home I have tried so hard to make. I’ve wished a million times that he could see my place, his grown up daughter as a mother now, and all of the intricacies of my life as a mom.

And tonight, it’s just another way to miss him. The crackle of the fire. That is what I forgot. I remembered the warmth and the smells. My olfactory memory taking me back to my days of girlhood, watching my dad in his lumberjack plaid pound the snow off of the logs before bringing them inside. It was the crackling sound that I forgot. Tonight the sounds take me back along the time/space continuum to the days that I was the little girl and my father the parent, crumpling newspapers and fanning the flames.

No matter how old I get I still cannot believe that it is ME stoking the fire and that the little girl drying her long golden hair by the fire is long-gone. I remember the Blizzard of 1978. One of my first real memories. I was seven, and the power was out as Lake Erie’s snow machine dumped over a foot of snow and killed the electricity for miles around. My dad hung a blanket on the family room door and spread our sleeping bags out in front of the fire. He stayed up all night to keep the fire going and keep us warm. I remember the pounding at the door, when the city’s police came to evacuate us to the shelter at the high school. My dad would not leave, and when the cop insisted, my dad brought him in to the family room where my two younger sisters were already sleeping. The cop finally understood and let us stay. My dad could keep us warm and fed no matter what the weather.

It is just so ingrained in my head, this picture of him in red flannel with raw hands to match. And the kindling and logs he split just outside the door and piled on the hearth. The way he took my sisters and I to the woods behind the elementary school to search for kindling, teaching us to snap the bigger branches in half across our knees. There was a horse-shaped tree we named Henrietta, and we would climb and ride as we gathered twigs. Of course you never realize it at the time, these seemingly little things that will become important and be the memories that you want to make for your own children. And it is impossible to know that in one glance and smell of a fire you can be simultaneously the mother and the little girl.

I’m not sure that I can parent like him, that my children will learn like I did and the memories will stand the test of time. I don’t know if I am selfless enough to stay up all night to stoke a fire while my offspring sleep, or trudge through a foot of snow to the woodpile out back. I am still new at this game and I don’t have all the rules down yet. But I am giving it my all, and I can light the fire at least. I remember to open the damper and tuck the crumpled paper carefully in with the logs. I bring the kindling inside from the rain to dry and use a homemade fan to help the sparks turn into flames. I’m not sure I can be the parent my dad was for me, but a fire is as good a place as any to start.

Thanksgiving in Disguise

He opens the fridge a hundred times a day. But I am thankful that his arms and legs work as they should, and that there is food within which he can choose.
He whines for snacks each hour on the hour. But I am thankful that he has a voice and I have a snack with which to quell it.

She flares her independence and rolls her eyes. But I am grateful that she is confident and her green eyes can see clearly.
She drives me nuts with her constant show tunes. But I am thankful for that voice of an angel and her desire to use it.
She wants to take her shoes off outside on the coldest of days. But I am grateful that she has shoes at all and the ability to play.

He refuses to nap and give me my afternoon break. But I am thankful his spirit is strong and he had a warm bed in which to sleep.
He runs circles around the house at breakneck speed. But I am thankful that he can.

All the blessings in my life that I forget, I will try to remember today.
All the behaviors that make me crazy are simply blessings in disguise.
And all the things my children demand, I am able to provide.

So Lord, today let me be thankful for the whining and the stomping and the strong-willed children in my grasp.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Age-Old Dramas I Can't Help but Experience

My heart is at it again, I’m afraid. This world is too much for me with its babies dying in fires and sons hacking their mothers to death. My heart breaks a little each time I watch the news. But it’s the close at hand reality that really gets me. Today at the library, the five little old ladies in their wheelchairs, shuffling feet propelling them forward. I flash forward myself, to see them back in their nursing home rooms by themselves, living out their days staring at white walls and only ever half reading the books they choose. Or later at the grocery store, the man in his wheelchair-stickered car, stuck halfway in and out of the parking space because his car won’t start. I stop and offer to help. He doesn’t need me and says it will start again soon. He sounds surprised at my offer. I wonder what he is going home to. See the two small blue bags on the seat next to his cane. I imagine what cold house or dark rooms await him tonight. And I wonder about myself. Will all the pieces of my heart be eaten up in these vignettes by the time I reach old age? Or does each encounter fill me up, make me speak more gently, love more deeply, and prepare me for the time when I will be alone, with only the memories of long-ago days for my companions.

Her Forest Room

They run without coats today, so warm for the middle of November. I cannot fathom that I will have the windows open much longer. But today it is warm air that flutters in with the last of the autumn leaves. She lures her little brother to the forest room, a tiny space in the back corner of our yard, surrounded by good neighbors and their fences. This is her place, my girl. A sanctuary from her days of school and chores and brothers, she has named this corner of the world and takes her dolls there to play pretend. She has asked me to rake the leaves away. Bare dirt massages her bare feet and this is how she likes to play. She is so willing to lose her shoes and her inner critic as she dances and climbs the tree that makes a Y up to the heavens. Her brother spares his shoes, but dances and twirls like the somersaulting leaves. They are Indians, raccoons, Boy Scouts today. Each game of pretend melds into the next until neither one is quite sure where they are. They drum loudly on the overturned garbage can with bats and sticks. Good ear-plugs also make good neighbors. I marvel at these children and their personalities. So free in this back yard to dance and dream and be. Not constrained by shoes or peers or weather. May they always be as free as the leaves that tumble from my half-constructed pile.

Where I'm From

I am from charred wood and Pine-Sol,
From the smell of beef stew cooking on the stove
And the sound of football announcers on the t.v.

I am from oak trees and tire swings
And a conifer I planted myself on the back patio.
From a tiny house just big enough for love
And a Barbie Convertible and numerous changes of clothes.

I am from Charles and Rosemary and
The Kelly family from Ireland.
From “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”
And “The only thing boring about it is you.”

I am from Irish eyes and cousins picked up at the airport,
From endless summer days in the tomato patch
And nights chasing fireflies and jumping fish in the Bay.

I am from a culture of writers and storytellers
And stories about the one that got away.
From working hard first and then relaxing
With a good book or a good drink.

I am from a giant garbage bag full of photos
Sepia-toned and aging in my mother’s attic.
Some long-forgotten people and memories they made.
The moments of my history unknown,
That I am now condemned or convinced to repeat.

It's Not Nice to Rake the Dead

The sun sinks lower in the afternoon now, somehow brighter and closer to me, though I know that is not possible. And I stand in my yard, thinking that I have seen this all before. My rake is my pen and I write on the memories I keep. Another fall day. Another leaf pile. Another parent raking and piling just to see his work scattered all around the yard.

The children play hide & seek. I love the magic of the game. Wherever two or more are gathered, the game is renewed when neighbor kids and cousins come to play. They run through my yard on this bright afternoon, too warm for November. They tiptoe through grass in bare feet, toes amazed to be free. They hide in the leaf piles I create. I am careful about where I rake.

The stew cooks on the stove inside. Hearty potatoes and carrots that I peeled myself. The Italian bread lies waiting for butter and grubby outside hands to devour it. My knife is my pen and I serve these memories to my children at dinner.

The leaves are dead. As is my father. So much of what I knew and believed has also died. My rake churns on and scours the grass, the crinkling sound loud in my ears. Reminds me of a joke my sister told. “Are you raking leaves that have died? It’s not nice to rake the dead.” But I must. And I do. On this too warm fall day with the sun hazy and peeking through the trees, I haul these leaves to the curb. I pile the tarp high with crumpled leaves and worn out dreams. I try to pile on all the dead things, hide them in the leaves with broken promises and twigs and missing moments that I thought I knew. The tarp is heavy as I gather the corners, careful not to spill the funeral of my thoughts on my whitewashed lawn. My work goes on. And so do I.

The children run giggling through the yard. And I remember. The stew on the stove in the kitchen. The crinkling of leaves in huge piles. The fun of hide & seek and jumping in piles of leaves. And I wonder if she is buried in the tarp below the leaves: that little girl who dreamed like a queen so many years ago. And suddenly, I am not sure if I am the girl or the parent or the dream. Or maybe I am just a skittish leaf that is tumbling from the tarp today.

Things the Garbage Men Won't Take

I love the miracle of the garbage men who cart away the rubbish in my life. They arrive so early to my house each Monday they seem like fairies in the night. No running curbside in my pajamas with a forgotten bag; I can never catch these tricky goblins. Plus it’s Monday; who is at their best speed on Monday morning? So yes, the bags and bundles must be flailing on the lawn the night before or they will spend another week stinking up the garage.

They take everything, these guys, and last week they were cursing my name, I am sure. The pile of garbage covered the tree lawn and spilled onto the sidewalk. The detritus of so many years hiding in my garage and attic and basement. Two mattresses that graced the big boy bed of my son, hand-me-downs sagging and stained. A broken table. Another table, functional but ugly. Five bags of regular garbage, banana peels and coffee grounds spilling from their bags. Two baby strollers. One broken soccer net. One thousand little toys from McDonald’s Happy Meals that I snuck into the bottom of the cans. A broken mirror. Already had my seven years of bad luck. It can go too while the guys are at it. An iron fireplace grate given to me by my neighbor. He’s gone too, but it was a beautiful Arizona lady that lured him away. A broken lamp. A piggy bank with no lid, the money already spent anyway. A broken ladder, covered in peach paint. A pile of empty boxes. A tiny bassinet for a baby doll. The little daughter that played with it has also vanished. Yet another table stained with homemade red silly putty and the two matching chairs that were always being used to scale the desk to the fish tank. The puffy slip from under my wedding dress worn so many years ago.

But its what the garbage men won’t take that I am thinking about today. They won’t take tires or fire extinguishers. They can’t be bothered with my broken heart or the bruised ego or giant vacuum of emptiness that are eating up my vision and soul. I even try to trick them like I did with the paint cans. Wrap up these inadequacies, brokenness, unspent dreams and squirrel them away in a box criss-crossed with duct tape. Duct tape covers a multitude of sins I know. But the garbage men caught me that day and ripped the taped boxes open before spilling the cans and paint all over the lawn. It looked like a crime scene. I know better than to sneak things into the garbage these days. And duct tape doesn’t work so well when dealing with feelings and dreams.

And so these things stink up my heart. The books I don’t read to my children. The deeds I don’t do for my sweet mother. The kind words I don’t say to my students. And most of all these days, the pile of garbage is filled with the dreams I never tried for myself, the harshness and emptiness I let others impose on me, the broken pieces that I can’t quite fit back together of the woman I used to be and the one I want to become. And that refuse is doing much more damage than the reeking moldy bags of cheese in my garage.

After Apple Picking

So many, many rainy mornings and sunny afternoons, that window was my gateway to the field of apple trees across the country road. Like sentries guarding the stories that I taught, the seasons’ leaves budded and fell with Odysseus and Romeo and Huck Finn. I would stare out that window, poised at the podium while students scribbled and fretted, made connections and language. And in my million and one moments, I never once thought of you. I dreamed and pondered, but never once believed that you would be here, a wiry boy of five, clutching your sweating dirt-stained palm to mine.

And now we stand like sentries, action figures hiding from the bad guys in the apple orchard. And now I am on the other side of the window and the other side of the world, it seems. Perspective is a funny thing. You are what I didn’t know to wish for in those dark mornings when the mist rose over the apple trees or those warmest of afternoons when I could hear the shouts of children field-tripping among the apple rows.

And now it is you and I who run through these fields, reaching past our grasp to where the juiciest apples remain unpicked. Your brother and sister join in our game, but it is you that understands the beauty of the fall fields, the miracle of crisp air and worms in green apples and the sting of cider up our noses from the piles of rotting fruit at our feet.

It is you that pulls me back to my grandmother’s yard, so many years ago when I was a girl of your age. Sprawled not in an orchard, but under the one giant apple tree by the bay, I would flatten myself against the earth so the wind would not find me. The October sun beat sparingly, so busy playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. And as I lay, I watched my dad climb the ladder to reach the ripest harvest.

Now you are the sweet son playing peek-a-boo between Rome and Macintosh. And you are the window through which I can see the girl who used to be and the parent I miss so much. And you my son, the apple of my eye, reflect the lessons I sometimes forget: beating the bad guys, searching for honor and apples without worms, and breathing deeply on a sun-kissed fall day.

Matryoshka

My heart rips a little each time I drive away.
Although I suppose the holes in me leave more
Room for love and dreams and power.
That’s what I like to think anyway.
The longing is a puzzle that rips me up
And then sews me back piece by piece.

And the paradox is that each patch
Makes me stronger. Kiln-fired strength
To use in fierce arenas where I fight
The fires of my days and
The loneliness that snuggles close at night.

My heart is not used to being free.
And my spirit and intellect enjoy your playground too.
The wonder of your piercing eyes and strong hand in mine
And the dimple that dances with your words
Plays on my mind as the wheels roll on.

I drive and drive, trying to stuff the pieces of my heart
Back in the box, as if they can return miraculously, perfectly,
like those Russian nesting dolls.
But they never truly fit this way
And there is no room now for packing peanuts that
Cushion the blows in transit.
The bruises will be deep this time.

The road does not cleanse me as I wish.
The miles of flat fields cannot erase
The smell of you in my hair and
Your voice in my ear.
You stick to me like eyeballs to monsters’ hands
And cat hair to black jeans.
And even in my sadness you make me
Smile.

I love you with the fierce protection of a mother bear
Although I cannot take credit for any of you,
Except for your re-birth in my heart and
The dreams I hear when the lights are out and you
Let me chalk a door around your soul.

Basket of Dreams

The metaphor of the giant basket of socks does not escape me. This is my life. Unmatched. Ill-fitting. Dirt-stained. Tumbling out over the edges. Irreverent. And a lot like the whac-a-mole game at the county fair. Never ending.

I know that a pair of socks requires two feet. And when the feet are done wearing the socks, one would assume the socks could be gracious enough to stick together through the process of laundry and drying and folding. But it never happens.

I’m not sure if every house has a misfit sock basket, but I certainly do. I dump them all on the floor every once in a while and try to help them partner up. Last time I did that I ended up with 87 mismatched socks. Really.

Which leads me to believe that I live in a land of witchery. How is it possible that after matching all the socks in the house, I have so many left? It’s like the loaves and the fishes. They magically multiply overnight or anytime I turn my back, it seems. Considering that my children would wear the same socks every day if I let them, until the socks could walk without the feet, I wonder why I even have so many pair in the first place?

And I don’t know whether to focus on the extra ones in the basket, or the missing ones that are mocking me. Where do they go? It is common knowledge that dryers eat socks, a Venus fly-trap of sorts. Except without the need for the feet themselves. Or maybe the socks run for the hills sans occupant, afraid of the job that little boys have in store for them, or the adventures they might see. I once saw a man at a party with a sock clinging to the back of his sweater, but unless my friends really don’t like me, I don’t think my native socks are seeking asylum through sweater voyages.

So that leaves me with a giant basket of socks. And the biggest question is what to do about it. I cannot act on this sock basket and its contents, because I know as soon as I throw a sock away, its match will turn up. And it costs good money to buy all these pairs of socks, money which I do not choose to waste. And so they sit there, languishing between usefulness and irony. No more helpful to cold feet than the harsh plastic in which they rest.

And this is my life. So many things beyond use. So many piles and packages and bags full of memories and magic that might be useful some day or may be way beyond their prime. But they are shoved in dark corners in the basement and the garage and my heart. I light a match to my memories, not sure if to illuminate them or burn them to the ground. The fire doesn’t take, and those parts of me tumble like worm-filled apples piled in the orchard’s October sun. And I’m not sure how long I have until the tumbling apples turn rotten or the winter snows obliterate the view. And I’m not sure how much energy I have left to look under sofas and in the recesses of my spirit. And I just don’t know how the pieces will fit when the fire burns low and the ashes remain.

For the Birds

Blue heron standing, now fleeing.
Sandy feet and grubby paws.
Works to join the gulls in flight.
But not the ostrich.
Never the ostrich.

Sandful shovels, flying into eyeballs,
Buried limbs, torso, chin rising
Like the Phoenix from the sandy cage.
Ideas, traveling through air
Sandy particles fleeing wet towels.

Soon, blue heron perched again, stately
Grubby paws quiet, buried head in sand.
Not flying,
Like the ostrich.

Always the Stories

The room is buzzing. The energy in the air is palpable. It always shocks me, this picture I see. Forty junior high students fill my classroom. The bell has already rung to end the school day, but they are here for Power of the Pen, the writing team I coach. I marvel every year with the other coach; over two-thirds of our junior high turn out to tell stories after school. Teens have a lot of angst and a lot to say. It is a safe outlet for them to live out their dreams and nightmares through the characters they create. But I still marvel.

And this year there is another side story. My daughter, age seven and full of stories herself, is a de facto member of this team. But I didn’t really realize how much she understood or enjoyed story telling until this week. While I was busy explaining the machinations and inner workings of our club, she polished off her spelling homework so she could get to work on her own stories. I joke that she loves math too much, and has a mind like a naturalist, but apparently she has picked up a few things in the realm of verbal expression as well. She just needs a little more practice with that spelling!

Story one:
I am a aorfin my nam is kara.
I liv in a aofanij I am paor I war rags.
I et drt
I clen
I dot like it!
I got a doptdid I wish my paris wil come back.

Story two:
I am a indein
I liv on a i lid
I liek to clim on thes cocanoos
I love the wotr
Im a good sooimer
I like to drik coknoot melk

I love how language develops. I have been awed as my babies each in their turn made sense of nouns, then verbs, and adjectives and adverbs too. Words fly through the air first as mere repetitions, and then with life and breath of their own. I am amazed by what I do not understand: like synapses linking and thoughts developing. Children understand so much more than they can say. They know innately about character. They understand conflict and longing and the magic of happily ever after too. They can put together a story filled with suspense and drama long before they have the motor skills to do so.

But I feel bad for the legacy of our English language that stymies young writers like my daughter. I am almost jealous of the simple Spanish conjugations and spelling rules that make sense in other languages. I can’t remember a time that I didn’t know the difference between wear, where and were. Or the double consonants on words like will or the world of silent e’s at the end of words. But for a fledgling writer, the rules are cumbersome and awkward, the exceptions that prove the rule too widespread.

But the stories remain. Whether simple stories of Indians and orphans penned by my daughter with slanting lines and misshapen spelling, or more mature prose recounted by teens and egos forging a place in the world, the stories last. And that is what matters.

Mining for Gold

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. Huge, world renowned tomes, like the epic narrative Moby Dick, whose history and lessons far surpass simply staying away from giant whales. Or smaller works like Dahl’s Witches, which weaves a clever tale spooky enough to keep my children awake long after dark. There are the family stories of my history students: the Polish baby born on the boat to America, the great-grandfather with one glass eye as a result of a war injury, the great-great grandmother that owned a speakeasy in the Flats during prohibition. And my own family stories, like my grandpa playing at FDR’s inaugural ball and having to leave his sax as collateral at the hotel when the banks all closed, or the day my dad rescued some boaters from their sinking dinghy in Lake Erie.

They move us, these stories. They make us who we are. And I’m beginning to think that life is a constant dance of getting the story told, a search for voice and genre and meaning. Maybe we all have a STORY and our life is the fight to figure out how best to express it. And a fight it is. The surface is too easy and the story is too deep. I find the digging complicated on the best of days; mining has always been a dangerous occupation. And the soot and avalanches keep only the bravest from the task.

But really, everyone has a story to tell. I hand pen and paper to reluctant teens and with a little time and effort they mine diamonds from the muck. My offspring recount stories at the top of their lungs with eyes wide as saucers and mystery in their smiles. I have told stories through drama with battered women hiding and re-building, each line a link in their chain to breaking free. And I have witnessed the closing lines of stories cut abruptly short.

And oh, how I worry about these stories that might not be told. The pictures haunt me: a slight boy in a typhoon-ravaged arena, or an elderly man eating dinner alone, glancing endlessly at the wedding ring that he still reverently wears. The young man orphaned early, but too proud to beg or run the streets, or the little girl I know who wants nothing more than to go to school without the burden of the side effects of her disease, and its cure.

But mostly it’s just about me. Stories show me who I am in the dark of a powerless night with only candlelight to illuminate the way. Themes and conflicts spin me as gently as a jackhammer unearthing a treasure. Characters play out on the page and learn lessons far beyond my scope of teaching. My spelunker’s helmet holds just enough light to illumine these nuggets of gold. And they are mine, these stories. Musty, encrusted, none-too-pretty sometimes, but singularly, powerfully mine. What a gift. And I would be a fool not to exhume them.

Can-Do

No offense to Peter Durand. I’m glad I can enjoy canned foods. Who doesn’t love the metallic taste of peas, or chili that has spent a few months convalescing on a grocery shelf? I love his lack of foresight though; he figured out how to seal food in, but patrons needed a hammer and a chisel to get it out. It only took 48 years to find a solution. That makes me laugh. My praise goes to Ezra Warner, who in 1858 figured out a way to open cans less forcibly; the only problem was that each can had to be opened before it left the store. And so that is why my heart belongs to William Lyman, who in 1870, developed a can opener that could open cans in the comfort of one’s own home without the threat of shrapnel. Sweet William, I thank you for the pleasing taste of peaches in the middle of Ohio’s dark iciness, for soup that melts my snowman children, and for refried beans straight from sunny Mexico in the dead of winter.

And while we are on the topic of cans, I cannot fail to mention America’s favorite, beer in a can. January 24, 1935, the Kruger Brewing Company of Richmond, Virginia sold the first canned beer, “Krueger Cream Ale”. One week to the day before the birth of my father. I hardly think that is a coincidence. I think I speak for my dad when I say we are both grateful for the pop top tab and its unmistakable sound and refreshing taste. Just wonder what took them so long!

Things I Don't Know How to Do

I don’t know how to bake a clam or make a cake from scratch.
I don’t know how to assemble Tranformers with speed and accuracy.
I don’t know how to drive a stick shift or stick to a topic.
I don’t know how to watch movies without falling asleep or fall asleep without dramas racing through my head.
I don’t know how to French braid or twist pretzels like an Amish girl,
But I do know how to make a tangled mess of things.

I don’t know how to fire a gun or build a fire in my living room,
or my heart for that matter.
I don’t know how to do a front roll dismount or
Get myself out of these tasks that spin me
Endlessly.
I don’t know how to tie knots in rope:
Only in myself.
I don’t know how to water ski or balance on a beam,
Or pet dogs and horses without cringing.

I don’t know how to juggle bowling pins or torches or the myriad tasks
that each day brings.
I don’t know how to run without being chased or
Catch up to the moments in my life that I should cling to.

And I don’t know how to live without spaghettio kisses and crumbs in my bed from
The midnight snack that chased the monsters away.

Autumn Dark

The grey storm skies of fall
Remind me of that man
Shuffling through the discount store
Counting out his pennies for a half jug of milk.
And the bloated girl whose tumor-ravaged brain
Finally gave up the fight.
And then again the harvest.
Rotten pumpkins and gourds twisting
In the tired soil.
And the moldy apples you pick off the ground
To feed me for my dinner.
The grey suffocates like a too-thick blanket
That never covers my feet.
And so it goes.

Soundtrack of my Life

A Play in Perpetual Acts
September 30, 2009
7:00-7:15 a.m.

Mom: Get dressed.
Maura: Can we get apples next time we shop? I want to get Jonathan.
Mom: Get dressed.
Marty: Mo-om!!!
Mom: What?
Marty: Help me inside in this.
Maura: (singing at the top of her lungs) Shalom, my good friends. Shalom my good friends. Sha-
Marty: (nearly screaming) That’s the one that gets me scared! It’s like a ghost singing.
Mom: Get dressed.
Maura: No, it’s God’s praise.
Marty: You’re getting me scared.
Mom: What would you like for breakfast?
Maura: Spheres! I told you I wanted spheres, not flakes!
Marty: Maura, Sam Baker is really real, but he losed his eyesight.
Maura: Mom!
Marty: He was riding on a train and some bad guys blew it up.
Mom: Marty, put your shoes on.
Sean: Mom, picken me up!
Marty: (noticing Mom pouring juice which we have not had in a long time) Mom, it’s like old times!!
Mom: Finish your breakfast and brush your teeth. Marty, put your shoes on.
Maura: Shalom, my good friends….
Marty: STOOOPPPPP!
Sean: Mo-om. Shoes on. Two shoes. Open door me.

Theater of Justice

A field trip like no other. Sixty kids in plaid skirts and belted blue trousers enter the courtroom of Judge John J. Russo, trying to be invisible. Kind of like elephants trying to do ballet. We do not belong here, and are conspicuous in every way. We have come for the drama of real life in the city of Cleveland, currently the nation’s poorest. It’s like a play; we audience members wait nervously for the actors to get in place.

Instead of the curtain, the pounding of the gavel and “All rise” bring us to attention. Scene one: one defendant and his defense attorney share a whispered conference, and incongruously, a giggle. Case 525655 rises to his feet, and the tag he forgot to remove from his new shirt flaps under his arm. Drug trafficking the charge, a fifth degree felony, but he was merely complicit. Trying to make his life work on his eight dollar an hour job at Brown’s Stadium, and trying to help a friend without a driver’s license. Got caught in the driver’s seat and the web of justice. It was his nephew who ran from the cops that night. They both get another chance. He notices his audience and takes a moment for a monologue to the crowd: “This incident was a bad choice. Shows you how a quick bad decision can lead to trouble.” I’ve said it to these students a million times. Maybe they will learn it better from a man who just avoided a year in jail.

The next character was not so lucky. There is nothing inconspicuous about a man in an orange jumpsuit with his hands handcuffed behind his back. I can see his id bracelet, like the kind they give newborns to keep them from getting mixed up; unfortunately, this man is already lost. Case 526428 is convicted of attempted rape of a five-year old boy. I can see my girls across the courtroom wince. Took the breath right out of us to see this monster in real life. A tier-three sex offender, he will report to authorities every ninety days for the rest of his life. I can’t believe that he didn’t even say he was sorry. Like some strange audience interactive theater, I find myself sitting between the now nine-year old victim, and the rapist’s sobbing lady love. Her flowered shirt pops into my line of vision as the judge hands down six years in the Grafton Correctional Facility. The sentence for young Andrew will not be so brief, I’m afraid.

Scene three opens with a large man stuffed into his pin-striped suit; white tube socks and ripped up black shoes complete the ensemble. Case 5171817 is charged with 134 counts of pandering and child pornography, and has previously pled guilty to 16 second degree felonies. Today he wants to change his plea because, as his lawyer claims, he just didn’t understand what pleading guilty meant. The judge doesn’t buy it. I watch the grimaces of my students as the prosecutor outlines the sordid details of pornographic assaults on minors that the defendant was accused of disseminating. The defendant apologizes and cannot stifle his sobs. His children at home need a daddy; there is a baby on the way. And he has been married for seventeen years. I cannot help but notice that she is not in the courtroom today. As he pleads for his freedom a deputy walks in, a dramatic tool of foreshadowing. I marvel that he is sentenced to two years in prison in front of a room full of the same type of children he victimized. This dramatic irony is a ghastly final scene for us.

Back on the bus the students joke and giggle to let off steam. But we don’t get much done for the rest of the day. Even eating our lunch is difficult this afternoon. We are caught in a new web of understanding; the play was a little too vivid, and our lives just a touch too sheltered. But this is not like Halloween and its fake costuming. The world houses some real-life monsters that we have just witnessed. My students seem very thankful somehow to be back to familiar scenery. But I think it is a play that will long be remembered.

Living in Dirt

Dirt. Grime. Earth. Loam. Mud. Muck. Soil. This is all I think about. Really. It overwhelms me. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that this topic takes up my entire life. Little boys covered in slime, dirt in their fingernails and ground into heels. Worm farms planted in the sand table, oozing onto the patio like lava bubbling from a mountain. A girl with grimy socks from her antics at gymnastics, and sometimes slimy teeth from only pretending to brush.

Dirt covers the floor of my kitchen. And my family room. And the garage. I sweep it and it reappears; the elfin magic only works one way. I have yet to teach the leprechauns how to clean. Filth tumbles from my cupboards and hides under my couch. And don’t even get me started on the closets. The pile of dirty clothes could build me a stairway to the attic, but why would I go up there? It too is filled with grime.

The bathroom is its own abomination. I’ll never understand the irony of the shower and how someplace that is supposed to get me so clean can end up so disgustingly filthy. And little boys don’t have much aim when dealing with toilets, either. The toothpaste is smeared on the wall and the sink.; no wonder their teeth aren’t clean. And for show, the toilet paper is unfurled like an (extra-long) symbol of freedom that is a royal carpet of sorts.

And that is just my house. The yard is a mess in its own right. A giant serpentine mound of Aztec delight lies over my new million-dollar sewer pipe. There is nothing children don’t love about a giant mound of dirt. (Hence the dirt in my house I suppose). My driveway’s a mess from the endless nights of raccoon-spilled garbage cans and dribbling popsicles and snacks. The garden, although ALLOWED to be filled with dirt, is a hodge-podge of trails and random hills where the worm farmers have been working. The swingset is covered in spider webs and the sandbox is blanketed in muck.

And although I do not lay claim to a dirty mind, or at least no dirtier than the law allows, my noggin is filled to the brim with clutter. There are lists unwritten and letters not sent. There are plans for dinners and birthday parties and time frames for cleaning the actual dirt. There are soccer schedules and reading books and Magic School Bus and building rockets out of cups. Sometimes there is quiet. But even the quiet is pretty messy up there and it jumps from reading to grading to writing and then naturally ends with me in a huge mound of crumpled humanity on the floor. Now who is going to clean ME up?

Emotional Outlets: Must Sing and Dance

I never thought of myself as necessarily that unenthusiastic, but lately I have begun to wonder. It started at Beauty and the Beast a few weeks ago. I took my daughter to see a local production, and it seems I have somehow unleashed the musical theater muse into my house. I just love a life where you are filled with so much emotion that the only option you are left with is breaking into song. When you’re sad you must sing. When you are happy you must sing. And kudos to you when you can get the townspeople to join in with you. My daughter has caught the bug. She sings in the car when her brothers hit her, at the top of her lungs of course. She sings to request her Lucky Charms and milk. Hunger is a catalyst for singing I suppose. She sings in the shower. Oh there are endless concerts as she runs up my water bill. Funny that you can have emotion that bubbles over your regular spoken voice; you MUST sing!

Call me unexcitable, but I feel the same way when I watch my six-month old nephew play. When I smile at him he stares back at my with his toothy grin, and he starts working his little feet a mile a minute. He kicks so excitedly that he rocks his chair on the floor. I suppose I should take it as a compliment. His little body is just not big enough to contain his joy at a smile from me! He’s just gotta’ move! I can’t say the same for myself. I don’t recall the last time that a smile or a bit of news moved me from my seat. I just can’t see myself getting that excited and kicking and kicking. Although I’ve never been on fire in my recent memory, so I guess I can’t really say for sure.

And then there are the countless shivers and shakes of my children, when their whole body flays in revulsion, usually at something I’ve cooked. They don’t just roll eyes or turn up their noses; they have a whole technique that looks like something halfway between catching a chill and doing a breakdance. They save the best physical gymnastic maneuvers for lasagna. No offense to Italy, but they really hate it

So perhaps I need to work on my excitement level. I need some practice in whole-body non-verbal communication, I suppose. And throw in some singing lessons on the side. If you’re not careful, though, I just might turn up when you least expect it to get you involved in a chorus of sorts, filled with high kicks and body shakes of all varieties. Then we will really prove how enthusiastic we are!!

The Python's Squeeze

I don’t believe what they say. Dark is just dark. I don’t subscribe to the notion that it is darker before the dawn, or that every thorn has a rose. There are no silver linings in these clouds that pelt my head with rain. The inky black of night settles in, oppressive fingers wrap me in their grasp. Pythons do not release their grip; they simply squeeze tighter when the victim squirms. And squirm I do, to no avail. When they find my lifeless body I will have clawed that snake to bits.

This too shall pass is a misnomer, I think. Oh it might pass, but then like a merry-go-round it will pass this way again and again. All good things must come to an end, and all bad things will begin anew. My glass is half empty and filled with poison. These are things I know for sure. Don’t ask Oprah; she and her zillions of dollars can look on the sunny side of the street. But I know the truth. When it rains it pours. And the water pounding my parka is cold and acidic. There will be no rainbow today. I can think positive and reach for the stars, but the deluge clogging my gutters does not lie. And, oh, my sump pump just broke.

My Intensivist

There really is not a good way to describe him and what he means in my life. I have tried to name this in my head and my heart, and always come away speechless. And that is no easy task really, to render me without voice. He is a force. A reminder. A firebrand. A cattle prod. A friend. He has a softer side, but he doesn’t use it much. Sometimes we both forget it’s there. He came out of nowhere to shatter my peace. And gave to me the strength that I somehow already thought I had. The word I have settled on: intensivist.

He is like my doctor in the ICU, the one who makes sure that all systems are going and accounted for. The one who guarantees that the sickest of patients get the care they need and are well rested for the journey of recovery. And yes, he is intense. Follows his own dreams and lives for himself. Demands that I do the same. Kindles the fire and then sticks around to stoke the flames. I like that in a person. I need it too.

It’s complicated. Life always is. And things that are worthwhile are not easy or processed like Kraft American singles. German cheeses are strong of course, like a cambozola or the infamous adopted limburger. There is nothing delicate about this man, either.

Except when there is. There are moments when he forgets himself and lets me in. A moment of serenity, perhaps, to stare at a river, or the telling of a long lost story or sharing of an inside joke. Sometimes I wish I could have more of this. I would buy him emotions like you purchase crayons: eleven different shades of blue maybe, or a box of 64 with sharpener included. He has trouble with that part, the showing of his true colors.

But mostly I just appreciate him. Worry about him. Care about him. It is a decision to take a chance and be a friend and link a soul to mine. There is no dictionary definition for what we have. And I am glad. I enjoy the adventure and the intensity of it, and the silence. Some people might call him stoic, but I know a little about the man behind the mask. And I am grateful to have an intensivist like him on my side.

Sounding My Barbaric Yawp

“Most men live lives of quiet desperation.” Thoreau said that in a bout of living in the woods, I think. And tonight I beg to differ. Most men don’t even know what they are missing. They (and most women) seem to accept the day-to-day grind and the mundane of life. They are content with their beer and their football; they cash their paychecks and go out for a steak dinner every two weeks. They watch the world spin as they wake, shower, work, eat dinner, and fall asleep in front of the television. Each tomorrow is a carbon copy of today for them. They get drunk on Friday nights.

It is I who am desperate. And I don’t feel all that quiet about it either. My poet’s heart is filled with longing, dissatisfied with the status quo of my daily life. I wake, shower, work, eat dinner, and fall asleep in front of my computer while trying to spill my thoughts on the page, writing my heart. The daily grind is there, but I try to rise above it. I watch the sun set. I kiss worms. I marvel at the crispness of the air as I go about my daily list of must-do’s. But all the while, I know this is not enough for me.

And my desperation is getting louder. It is the living deliberately that I am stuck on. The path of least resistance versus the path of full living. And I’m not really sure where I fit. I find it sticky and difficult to choose the ways to spend my time. I have children to mother. I have friends to tend. I have housework to accomplish. And the list goes on. I beat myself up. Yes, I could probably do all of these things mindfully if I were out in the woods by myself. But here in this world of spelling words and birthday parties, washing sheets and clipping nails, I can’t really find my balance. I can barely find my voice.

What’s a woman to do? I’m sucking marrow through broken straws and trying to write straight with crooked lines. I know there is more for me but I can’t quite reach it from here; grasping at those broken straws gets old after a while, I think. As for me, I remain loudly desperate. Perhaps a barbaric yawp would do the trick.

Missing

It was only six weeks ago that I was sitting on the beach, soaking in the rays at Presque Isle as the sun went down. Third best sunset in the world, and I believe it. It was that night anyway. Maybe it was the company. Old friends bring a light that not even the sunset can rival, and a comfort too. But I digress. The time was 8:39. The rays played on the water, dancing with the waves. Folks stood with cameras ready. Lovers walked hand in hand. Kids frolicked in the breakers that kissed the shore. The sun sank into the greedy lake right on schedule. Movement which seemed imperceptible at first took hold of the fireball and pushed it over the brink.

Six weeks have passed and the world has been spinning. Or is it me? That night on the beach, sand between my toes, sweatshirt guarding against the coolest August on record, seems like a dream. The calendar has pushed the fireball to an earlier bedtime. The time is 7:31. Those children not asleep already are well on their way. No pictures of September sunsets, and no lovers killing time. Now a rush to pack lunches and finish homework and ready outfits for the next day. The whole world seems busy. No time to help the sun sink gently to the water these days.

And I miss it, that evening on the sand. I miss the laughter of friendship and the quiet of security against a backdrop of nature’s award-winning show. I long for the freedom of summer nights, seemingly endless hours to drink in the sights and the jokes and the peace. I grieve the missing daylight hours and the way the sun lingered and left me breathless that night. I’ve lost more than an hour of light, I think.

Ending Summer Days

The end of the school day and the kids are itching to run. Metaphorically speaking of course. They do get a few traits from their Mother. Only run if you are being chased is our first rule. But it’s funny that each of them has a passionate physical outlet after a day of being cooped up in school. Boy child doesn’t even make it in the house, just jumps out of the (barely stopped) van yelling “Here Mom” and throws his book bag in my general direction. (And he hasn’t even been at school all day!) He grabs his helmet and jumps on his bike. Rides into the wind to the yellow hydrant down the street. He can’t turn on a dime, so I watch him dismount, turn his bike back toward me, and fly down the sidewalk in my direction. Girl child snatches her hula-hoop from its makeshift home against the aging maple. New obsession, this beat-up circle of fun. She received it for her birthday, best twenty-five cents that Grandma every spent at a garage sale. And now she cannot tear herself away. She hulas with her hips, her neck, her arms, on her knees, and any way she pleases. Love these late summer days when the possibilities are still endless, when school can be followed with a bout of outdoor fun before the gang is called in to dinner. There is a sense of urgency to this; we know that fall is coming, with cold winds and early dark. And we spend it well, the currency of these last few summer days flying through our fingers, as soon the daylight and warm weather will as well.

Taking Flight

Who does this? Who dons a G-suit on a perfect late-summer morning, does a last minute aircraft check, and then jumps into the cockpit of an F-16? What guts does it take to fly in a diamond formation just under the speed of sound, where inches determine whether you live or die? And whose body can tolerate nine G’s of thrust as the viper twists and plummets?

I marvel at these (mostly) men who defy logic and gravity on a daily basis. And on a day like this, filled with blue sky and barbeque, the sheer speed and power of their dreams brings a tear to my eye. The Thunderbirds, special flying team of the United States Air Force, entertained the crowd at the Cleveland Air Show today. And though I share in the amazement of the crowd over the roar of the jets and the pace of the planes, I am mostly in awe of the men inside the cockpit.

Is it just that I know I could never, under any circumstances, pilot one of these Fighting Falcons? My tolerance for motion is not very hardy, and my love of heights is even more reticent. On a good day, I can barely handle the cockpit of my beige Honda Odyssey. Or is it the fact that the pilots make each maneuver look so easy, leaving precise trails of smoke in their wake? I even flounder with the simple things, like getting all the kids out the door on time, or making it to soccer practice with cleats AND shin guards. This job is too big, too necessarily perfect, too dangerous for me. I imagine it bores into their souls, each twirl, flip and carefully-timed trick. They work so hard, tearing away at their might and their minds. I wonder what they have lost in order to make room for these muscle memories.

Each weekend finds the special flying team on the road, performing their feats in a different city. Is there a little boy missing his Daddy while he is flying this gig today? Or is there a wife or sweetheart poised by the phone, willing it to ring at the end of each show? I don’t know this dream, the kind that you give up everything for. Maybe I would like to, though. Perhaps part of my awe is really jealousy at the sheer selfishness and bravado of living a dream like this, living gloriously and ironically on the brink of death.

And sitting under a perfect blue sky, it is hard for me to imagine the true job of these F-16’s and their pilots. Replace the wafting ribs and squealing children with blowing sand and the enemy, and you’ll see the viper’s true talents. Missiles and mayhem are the usual creation of the vipers behind enemy lines. I tear up a little at this too. These planes are beautiful and majestic, powerful and poignant on a holiday weekend under a sunny sky. But how desperate the souls who meet the Fighting Falcons from the other side, who get a true taste of their wrath.

So I will take the lesson of the F-16 today. I will live more precisely and forcefully. I will follow my passion under pressure. And I will work without ceasing to live my dreams. Who does this? I do.

For My Son

Dear Universe. He is just a little boy, filled with sweet innocence and wide-eyed wonder. Take care of him today, in that big bad place called school. May his teacher see him as I do, the boy of a thousand questions, of the quick mischievous smile and the heart of gold. May his classmates find in him an imaginative playmate, a pirate cowboy transformer of the highest order. And may he know in himself a sense of pride for all the gifts he has been given, for his creative artistic side and his compassionate empathetic side.

May he know that all doors can open for him in this world, and also understand his obligation to be a gentleman who holds them open for others. May he be appreciated by his peers and show respect to those around him as well. May he be challenged to learn and grow, but have enough success to keep him wanting more.

And most of all, at the end of the day, may he return to his safety net of home and know how he is cherished.

It's All Part of Nature

Just this.
A boy and his grandmother
Standing hand in hand.

“I go deer, Grandma. I go deer.”
The animals romp in the back yard.
The boy and his grandma edge closer.
One of nature’s perfect moments.

Anyway

There are no awards shows for this job. No Pulitzer Prize for Best Kept Family. No walks down the red carpet for simply doing what must be done. But I do it anyway. No one cares that I creatively used the corn on the cob from Sunday’s cookout in a casserole tonight. Or that I cooked the casserole while watching my brood and the neighbor kids torment Bakey the frog who we found in my Mom’s yard earlier in the day. No one would believe that I took a five-minute shower while my toddler and the carpet ate jelly from the jar. And it doesn’t matter that I took my son for a bike ride so he could use his muscles and taste the wind, or that I let my daughter walk to school with a friend, and checked up on them in the car. No one is calling the news to report that I cut my Mom’s grass while the boys played baseball and watched deer romping in the fields behind her house. This is my day, the minutiae that I choose and conquer until the sun goes down.

It might be lonely at the top with the pressures of the paparazzi and the fans, but it is lonely at the bottom too. Set the table, serve a meal, clear the table. Lather, rinse, repeat, through the day and into the night. Lay out clothes. Dress the children in the clothes. Wash the clothes. Fold the clothes. Reminds me of the old spiritual “That lucky old sun has nothing to do, but roll around heaven all day.” I have plenty to do all day, and feeding and clothing does not even touch on paying the bills, cleaning the house, nurturing the children by playing pretend or reading “Dinosaurs happy, dinosaurs sad, dinosaurs good and dinosaurs bad” until I want to gouge out my tongue. But I do it anyway.

And it isn’t the actual work that is drudgery. It is the trying to feel like it matters. Like somehow the effort I expend to read the BACKYARD MAGAZINE with my son matters more than if I let him watch television all day. Or the energy it takes to cook a healthy meal is worth it when the Taco Bell is right around the corner. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family and I am happy to nurture them. As Robert Frost says, “May no fate willfully misunderstand me/And half grant what I wish and snatch me away/Not to return../Earth’s the right place for love.” But sometimes I wouldn’t mind a thank you that I didn’t have to coerce from a pre-schooler’s lips, or a look of gratitude for something besides a popsicle.

I guess on nights like tonight I know just how Sisyphus felt as he rolled and rolled that rock up the hill. Weary, spent, and knowing that tomorrow will bring the same trudging and the same jobs that I just completed today. Maybe there should be a Nobel Prize for Completing the Inane on a Daily Basis. I might have a chance at that one . But I’m sure this is one of those jobs that has a more intrinsic reward. No one notices all I do, not even the youngsters who are fed and clothed and bathed. But their Mother does it anyway.

The Jester

The pen is mightier than the sword, they say. But is it any match for the blank page nuzzled at my fingertips? I have carved out of my day, (there is that sword again,) a pocket of time in which to write. So many facets of my life get slivered in the process. And this house is quiet. That in itself is a miracle. The needy ones are at rest. The questions have been put to bed. The “whys” of another day have been answered and re-answered, along with a few other demands the natives make. Maybe sword fighting would be easier than mothering, actually. My mind is free to chase my dreams now. Unfortunately, my mind is not interested in the task at all.

So this pen is silent. A sharp wit can cut down kings and marry enemies. But it is useless against the stark white of this page. Wouldn’t make a very good warrior if I can’t even defeat a piece of parchment, I guess. And the witty words are left unspoken as the quiet of this house lulls my mind to rest.

So I might have to settle for court jester tonight. This, I understand. I can already juggle. Three evenly sized balls flying and returning again and again. Haven’t tried bowling pins yet. Or fire. But on second thought, maybe I have.

The daily juggling is what is most dangerous. Tossing ideas and feelings of kids that share my name, and kids that simply share my classroom. Catching and retrieving and sending back my heart to my captive audience. And they must learn lessons. And share toys. And take nourishment. And all the while the balls and the fire and the swords I am juggling are in the air and I am moving as fast as I can. Sometimes they drop. And when the fire hits the ground I follow it and I know that I have failed.

People laugh because that is my job: to bring some joy to the royalty. But I often feel a failure as I witness the smirking faces of the crowd as my props plunk the earth. I cannot keep them all in the air together. I am too tired to try. I see that the fire is dangerous just because it is; it doesn’t even matter what it touches.


And so I return. To this blank sheet in front of me. To my quiet heart. To the fire that rages in me and the balls that contort me. I know this job well. And I know that I will fail. I think it reasonable to assume that I cannot fill this page and I cannot juggle with fire.

But court jesters are known for their foolishness. And I must live up to my name. So I write and I juggle and I drop and I retrieve. And this sword carves a path for me as I make my way.

Happy Birthday Friend

When does a friendship begin? Sometimes the moment is sharply clear, like a thunderbolt or a shooting star. Sometimes the beginning is more muted, like the fading of dark to light as the sun rises on a new day. And when you look back twenty-five years later, you can’t even see where it began.

It’s like that with my Nora; I can’t put my finger on the where or why of how this all started. Somewhere in grade school obviously, within a flurry of blue plaid skirts and basketball games. There were the talks about boys on our bus and the endless recess games. And always the homework, the minutiae of the school days, the milk cartons and the gym classes. And somehow the magic of fashioning from those ingredients a friendship that is not dependent on earthly measurements of time and distance, but something more real; a true paradox.

We have not been in the same school or even the same town practically since we were fourteen. I laugh when I think of how we had it all figured out then and we knew exactly how we were going to change the world. Time changes so much in people and their circumstances. We have been through grad school, marriages, babies, jobs, and more. Many big and small moments have been spent without the other. We don’t talk on the phone all that much, and we don’t always recognize birthdays either. We always remember, but sometimes life gets in the way. Still, the magic happens and when we pick up the phone or see each other we are right where we left off.

She is the one who moved away, but we beckon her back, her family and I. I have adopted her family too, and I walk in the back door these days without even knocking. They don’t really need another child; she is the youngest of nine. But there is comfort in seeing her Dad the judge reading his paper at the table, the only Dad we have left between us now. And her Mother is a saint I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in real life; her calm and sturdy ways are infectious.

Breakfast is our thing, a few hours to drink coffee by ourselves and deal with the big questions. These days we don’t have ANY answers. We muddle through together somehow, these problems that don’t come with an instruction manual. She knows I love her, my Nora. But I don’t tell her often enough. She is my beacon when my boat is pitching in the seas. Lately my skiff has lost a sail and sprung a leak, but she is always ready with a life jacket and a buoy. No, I cannot pinpoint the moment that this started, but I can’t imagine this tumultuous world without her. And when the hushed hues of the sun setting in the sky come to end another day, I know that she is working hard to live her best life, just as she expects of me.

Her Oyster

My first grade daughter is one tough customer, and I am really starting to realize it this week. Wednesday was our second day of school. We have a system, my daughter and I, to get ourselves to school and her brothers to the babysitter. She loves to walk to school, two long city blocks from our house. Some days we walk together, but this day she set out while I schlepped my textbooks and my sons to the babysitter’s house on the next street. We end up at school at the same time and I help her cross the fairly major street. She gets a little exercise and autonomy, and I get everybody where they need to be on time.

I was waiting for her in the faculty parking lot as she happily bounced about twenty more yards to the road. She looked like a pro with her backpack nestled on her shoulders and her lunch bag swinging. She had a big grin as I walked her across the street. I told her she did a great job and she said, “Except for one bad thing Mommy.” Pictures flashed through my head of what she might consider bad on a solo walk to school: a loose dog, a stranger, an untied shoe. Turns out she was stung by a bee on her way; she hadn’t even made it one house before it happened.

I have learned over the years to stifle self one that wants to scream and over-react when something happens to one of my children. Maura herself didn’t seem too upset and she said it only itched when she looked at it. So we both giggled as I told her not to look at it and took her inside. My friend the science teacher gave me some baking soda and we covered the sting. She was calm and happy and proud to tell her story all day!

But it got me thinking of all the times when she has reacted like a champ and her Mother has had to bite her tongue to keep herself from passing out. Her first encounter with a bee was at a fall soccer game last year. She had played so well that day and had already scored three goals. The fall air was cool and sunny as she rested at half-time. She was standing talking to her teammate’s Mom when a bee stung her. She didn’t even cry. She put some ice on it and went back in the game, nearly scoring goal number four.

And then there was the day of her double tooth extraction. Her mature teeth started growing in before her baby teeth fell out so there was no room for the baby teeth to wiggle. The doctor scheduled a double tooth extraction that almost made me throw up. But she went willingly and calmly, and when she was done she said it was “Fun.” How sad must her life be if she thinks a double tooth extraction is fun? But in actuality, the dentist does have the helpful laughing gas and the Dora show on the television above the chair, so I can see why she likes it. And plus, she is resilient. She reacted the same way for her kindergarten shots. I had heard stories for months about how difficult the shots were and how traumatizing. Maura didn’t even bat an eye or shed a tear. Four shots straight into her thighs without so much as a whimper. Looks like she has the medical world covered already.

Being tough in this world is essential. And I’m sure I help a little by not falling to the earth sobbing or clutching her to my bosom every time she encounters a difficulty. I am okay with a little hardship and failure for my daughter. I know it builds character and makes her stronger. What more could a mother desire, than a child who can roll with the punches and keep on walking, despite bee stings or needles? As they say, I think the world is her oyster, but I am glad she can deal with the rough grains as well as the beautiful pearl.

Loud and Dear

The children are screaming again. It is all coming back to me now. The tragedy of the beginning of the school year is upon us. Early bed times. Early wake-up calls. Long days in short desks for her, and for him the jealousy of not starting pre-Kindergarten until after Labor Day. Everyone is tired and cranky. And apparently my offspring stress most efficiently through vocal usage. Marty has been whining for sixty straight hours. Even in the middle of the night, he wakes up crying that there might not be cowboy clothes in pre-school. And Maura vacillates between sing-songy repetition of her brothers and creative top-of-her-lungs renditions of made up songs. She is the newest craze in singer-songwriters apparently; but she is entirely too loud. Only the toddler makes sense these days. Who knew that the most helpful and well-behaved child, not to mention quietest, would be a two-year old boy?

Of course he has his own vocal needs. They are just shorter, quieter, and much more focused. Seems he has all but given up on the pool, and has now graduated to “I go polka, Momma. I go polka.” Who knew that polka could be so important to a two year old? His Nana is Polish and her brother is a card-carrying member of the Polish American club who hosts a gigantic Polka Party every year in his back yard. Last year the cops were called. They bit back snickers when they arrived at what they thought was a loud keg party to find a bunch of dancing geriatrics drunk on jello shots and Polish brandy. This year Sean was invited and immediately began his mantra: “I go polka.” I can’t imagine what he thought it was before we arrived.

He waltzed right in (or should I say polkaed) like he owned the place that night. He was the youngest guest in attendance of course, but that certainly did not stop him from joining in the merriment. His usual fave band the Wiggles was soon forgotten as he stared glassy-eyed at the Honky Express, a raggle-taggle group comprised of a guitar player, saxophonist, drummer and the requisite accordion player. When they took a break, the four accordion garage band took the stage. Sean was smitten from the first three-step. He jumped, boogied and even stood on his head to the beat that night. And ever since then he has been recounting his evening. Albeit in short (and quiet I might add) phrases.

So tonight, I cannot decide what I need. If the Honky Express would have me I could go for some saxophone jamming. At least I would be making my own noise. And I sure wouldn’t mind drowning the cacophony around here in a plate of stuffed cabbage or a symphony of blackberry brandy. But its bedtime now and as I sit in the quiet, I already forget the crazed vocalists that inhabit my home. Bedtime brings the sweet sound of silence to my ears. And that is something worth dancing about if you ask me!

First Day of School

There is something mildly terrifying about today. I am sending my little girl into the big bad world of school. I know I shouldn’t panic. She has the sweetest teacher on the planet. She has a few good friends and many genuinely sweet students in her room. But still I worry. Maybe it is because she is my first born. I have never been through first grade as a parent before. Maybe it is because she is so specific and serious in her learning. Maybe it is just because I know how mean children can be to other children, even under the best of circumstances. And so I wait, watching the clock spin slowly and willing her a good day.

She is a marvel, this daughter of mine. And I am learning to expect more from her as she grows more competent and confident. Last night she packed her own lunch. I never even touched it. She made a roast beef sandwich, complete with mustard, and packed several side dish items. She insisted on a snack too, in case the first graders get a break. I like how she thinks ahead and shapes her days in her head.

But as I wait for her homecoming today, the what-ifs are dancing in my head. Have I taught her the skills she needs? Will she read more fluently this year? Will she fit in with her peers? Will she use her manners? The questions and worries are endless really. I walk a fine line between wanting her to be a strong individual, but also a classmate that is well-liked and fits in. I want her to ask questions and push boundaries but also be respectful. I hope that she is concerned for others but also takes care of herself. And I wonder if I have used the last seven years to the best of my abilities as a mother and a mentor for her.

Seven years almost to the day since I welcomed my wrinkled baby daughter into the world. And there have been seven years of laughs and tears, lessons and love. I hope she realizes how I cherish her and how she amazes me. And on the first day of school, I hope that her classmates will see in her the sensitive, funny, confident girl that I see when I look at her. And I hope they will value her as I do.

The Book Bag Wars

Back to school shopping, for a woman who hates to shop, is a nightmare. Of course I put it off as long as I can, and then dive in for a two-day assault. Day One of shop till you drop was going so well. Although my first grader was a little snitty in the shoe department, we had chosen tennis shoes and school shoes. We were the proud owners of washable markers, folders, specialty scissors and a pencil sharpener with receptacle! Then, the backpack aisle undid me. She ran, literally, to the character bag section, yanking one and then another from their hangers. Jonas Brothers. Wizards of Waverly. Hannah Montana. High School Musical. Her bright blue over-marketed eyes lit up. She was not too happy when I shot them all down.

I just don’t understand the point of wearing someone else’s picture or name on your clothes or bags. The marketers have done a very fine job, of course, in getting my daughter to covet these products. What used to be Dora and Princesses is now a long list of tweener singing groups or shows. And she is smitten. Even for a girl whose screen time is monitered and whose Mother thinks you should be a lot closer to high school to watch “High School Musical”, she certainly knows a lot about the shows. What she doesn’t understand yet though are all the adult themes, the sarcasm, the insidious behaviors and flippant attitudes of these characters she wants to befriend. And that is not even to mention what the actors are doing in real life!

When I was in school the only name you wore on your clothes was your own. In the form of monogramming usually. I still have the blue cableknit sweater with monogrammed initials that my Dad bought me when I was twelve. And I still wear it sometimes, although the initials are no longer correct. It reminds me of who I was and who I am today. And that is my worry with all of the marketing. My daughter’s individuality, her turns of phrase, her toothless grins, the way she treats her brothers with a hug and a smile, is getting lost. Get a group of first graders together, and they immediately gravitate towards their idol characters. I would rather my daughter strive to be herself, then busy herself trying to emulate a star who makes too much money to make good choices. Or realistic ones.

According to my daughter, I am the ONLY Mom who doesn’t like Hannah Montana. Lucky her. Silly me for not wanting my daughter to watch a show whose role model star is pole dancing at awards shows and kissing co-stars. My daughter is SIX, and although she claims she is outgrowing princesses, I certainly don’t think she is ready for the adult themes of these shows and their stars. I understand that these shows can be learning tools, but when she is watching television, I am usually washing dishes or making dinner and am not around to explain things and answer questions. I refuse to trust my daughter’s moral compass to Miley Cyrus.

So no character book bags for first grade in this house. We compromised on a brown bag with girly geometric shapes. Fits in well with the new butterfly school shoes and sparkly tennies. And works well for a little girl searching for her style and her place in the world. It is harder than I thought to steer my daughter away from the oceans of advertisements and expectations. But little does she know that I am a very strong advocate of paddling upstream, and I have the monogrammed sweater to prove it!

Almost

Stuffed peppers grace the dining room table and my family is just sitting down to eat when the phone rings. My husband’s Dad is on the floor again and he must leave immediately to go pick him up. When he arrives, his Dad is laughing and his Mom is going about her business of tidying up the house. Just another normal day. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Pa could walk and talk and live outside his hospital bed. But then came the fated night and the stroke that almost ended it all. So now he is bed-ridden and cannot talk. He requires constant companionship and care. But he still has a lot of living to do and he is still an integral part of our lives. Even if he falls and his wife can’t get him up off the floor.

Tonight I think about my children and how they almost lost their Pa. Maura was a precocious three and a half, her brother barely two. The call came in the early hours, piercing the quiet. My husband rushed to the hospital, and was almost too late. Pa was not supposed to make it. A massive brain stem stroke had rocked his body, and a heart issue to boot. I took Maura to say good-bye; although he was unresponsive, I knew he could hear the light of his life. The picture of her pale Pa wasn’t pretty; attached to tubes and monitors, he looked more like a frail gosling then the tickle monster she was used to. But I thought they were saying good-bye. It was important. He tenaciously clung to life, but just barely. After three weeks in the intensive care unit they wrote him off and sent him directly to a nursing home.

There followed a hazy time for him when he was aware but only vaguely of what transpired. And Maura would not go near him. Seeing him in the hospital had really spooked her. Marty had no problems. Happy go lucky to begin with, he was only two and they had canaries in the waiting room, so it was all good. I remember Maura sitting in the hall when we visited because she was too afraid to come in the room; she sat in her chair with just her shoes visible so I knew she was still there. It was like keeping an eye on the Wicked Witch who was smashed by the house.

Nine months passed before the Christmas miracle. Pa was going home the day after Christmas. I was worried about the day, wondering how everyone would react. I shouldn’t have. Something magical happened when he returned to his house. Maura lost her fears. In fact, she climbed up into Pa’s hospital bed immediately when we got him settled. Soon after, she raced back out to the living room declaring that Pa was hungry. She was four, and he couldn’t talk, so I marveled at how they figured that out.

These days when we go to visit, my three kids make a beeline for Pa’s room as soon as they hit the front door. Two year old Sean never knew the “old Pa”, but he is the one leading the pack and clambering up into the bed first. Sometimes I even feel bad for Nana that he gets so much attention, but I am glad my children understand we need to take care of the more vulnerable among us. The kids take turns regaling Pa with stories and laying with him in bed. They try to pry the giant television remote from him and get a cartoon instead of the requisite “Cash Cab”. And they shower him with the love that he almost missed. Lucky guy. And very lucky grandchildren.

In Memory of Brian

I wanted to make meatball sandwiches tonight. Meatball sandwiches, the food of death. Oh, I know most people consider ham to be the food of death. Publish an obituary, and within days, hours even, the house is so filled to the cusp with ham that the wolf would be in a veritable coma. In our house, meatball subs are the food of death. That night, hazy August heat flickering, meatball sandwiches fill my too round belly. Her birth is only weeks away. We walk,waddle really, to the lake to taste the kiss of summer air. Winter comes too soon to Cleveland, so we suck delight from the heavy airless night. It is later, after dinner and walk and evening melts, that the phone rings. My husband runs screaming into the now black night….air not thick enough to stifle his cries, beating the ground with head and limbs and tears. His screams are swallowed whole by the humid embrace of earth. His brother, too sad and tormented for this world, has been found motionless and grey. The stars close in, the moon descends to earth, as does the brother in a few short days. So tonight, no meatball sandwiches, no brother, only the grey of winter punctuated by the laughter of her, of the now six year old that filled my belly so many nights ago.

Parenting at the Pool

My third child has no fear of the water. He is two and a half, built like a linebacker, and the kind of child who listens when I call him. But he has no fear. He does not wait timidly clinging to my leg when he could be splashing and enjoying the pool. His five year-old brother is also a fish. He loves to jump in the pool, paddle for a few seconds, jump back out again, and repeat. The pool is probably our greatest joy of summer. Until today anyway. Today I experienced a meddling Dad intent on “fixing” my bad parenting. I am still seething.

I believe strongly that children learn best by experience. No matter how many times I tell them not to touch a hot stove, they will listen most clearly to a burn on their hand. And I don’t think I have to follow my children around like puppy dogs, staying always within arm’s reach. Today at the pool was no exception. I was sitting on the lounge chair poolside, about eight feet from the zero entry side of the pool. I had been in the three foot earlier, splashing and bouncing with the boys. Then I was sitting on the side, letting the little monkeys crawl up and down my legs. After several sessions of playing, I was enjoying the show from the sidelines. The linebacker was happily splashing in about four inches of water, toddling awkwardly to water that was a little deeper, then back again. His brother was up to his neck, alternating the doggy paddle with treading water, and going to the shallow end to play with his bro. That is when the trouble started.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like the manager intently speaking with a man who had just brought his daughter in to play. I had noticed him earlier as he helped her don lotion and water wings for her trip into six inches of water, and then he proceeded to stand right next to her, holding her hand. She was at least three. He had to extract her from the pool, in fact, to go get the manager to tattle on me. I noticed the furtive glances toward my children before she finally strode in my direction.

“Are these your children?” she gruffly inquired. I nodded affirmatively. She then explained none to politely that they were entirely too young to be “swimming unsupervised”. A parent must be with them at all times.

I just do not understand how a child is going to learn to regulate himself or to live within boundaries if he is never given a chance to practice. My son does not fear water, but neither does he have a death wish. He faithfully waded into the deep water and then right back out again. I know my boys and I know their limits. I think they deserve a chance to play and frolic without Mommy magnetized to their sides. And I deserve a chance to sit down in the sun as well. Should an emergency occur, I could have reached either of my boys in seconds, not to mention the lifeguard who was even closer.

Yes, water can be deadly. But there is more than one way to make sure your children are supervised. Over-parenting can cause more fear and clinginess than a healthy distance, and that is not good in water or in life. So I will continue to give my boys some room, let them swim their own strokes and experience the pain of a belly flop gone wrong. And I will be right there with a towel and a snack when the break bell rings. They know where to find me.

Lessons from my Daughter

The top of the ferris wheel is no place to panic. But here I am, simultaneously clutching the bar and my daughter, willing my heart to slow. She, of course, is wide-eyed and beaming as we sit trapped at the top of the summit. She insists on turning and jostling in the seat to get the best view from the height. I am just white-knuckling it to make it back to firm land.

How did I find this child, ready for any amusement park challenge? Poor thing, she really loses out in the parenting department for wild rides, it seems. I spent most of my childhood being motion sick on the side of our nation’s highways or the bushes near the Witch’s Wheel or the Scrambler. But these are the same rides she eyes today; like a pit bull straining its leash, she is ready to roll.

And one of the things I admire most about my daughter is evident in this park today. She knows what she wants and she goes after it; she doesn’t worry about what other people think or do. I would think a six year old would be intimidated to stand in line by herself at a strange amusement park, but she does this time after time. When she gets to the ride, she is strapped in alone. She giggles and screams and exits the line barely able to speak from the excitement.

She cons me onto the RolloCoaster, a ride that jerks the riders so violently I wonder how many have fallen out. The plummet from the top of the hill doesn’t help. But all the while she sits in the very front seat with her hands in the air and a huge grin on her face. Her favorite is a monstrous ride that spins and spins and pins the rider to the wall before dropping out the floor on which she is standing. Unbelievable to me that she exits in such glee.

I’ve always marveled at my daughter, of course. Marveling at offspring is covered in the parenting handbook after all! But I was not prepared for all the lessons I would learn at the hands of my children. I like the way she looks at life; she moves from ride to ride with such exuberance. And I love her ability to enjoy herself, by herself! I admire her sense of adventure to try new things. And when I pick her up at the end of the night to carry her to the car, her body a rag doll because she left it all on the rides, I am thankful for the reminder she gives me to live each moment passionately.

A Strange Place to Rest

The chair in the middle of the Cuyahoga River
Belies explanation.
Not sure how it arrived there. Or why.
Maybe it was hurled from the restaurant nearby
In a midnight brawl.
Or perhaps thrown as garbage with a wobbly leg.
Somehow the river doesn’t mind.
The waters make room and flow
Around now-warped legs and seat.
The fish don’t care and the birds don’t
Take a second glance.

Only I am wondering about this chair.
Maybe I just need a place to sit and
This concrete I am perched on is
Just not snug enough.
But I know that there is more.
For my life flows around me,
Currents that force through
And under and around.
And I stand out in my world
Like a chair in a river,
Contemplating how I managed
To get to this place and
What to do about it now.

A Brand New Box of Crayons

The back-to-school sales have been in full swing since early July. There is something so enticing about a brand new box of crayons and markers that haven’t yet dried out. I remember as a student I would obsess about picking the perfect folder and pencil case, and choose notebook colors carefully. There was something so magical about school supplies!

Now that I am a teacher, I still appreciate the magic of back-to-school preparations. They just don’t surround the choice of a perfectly-colored folder these days. When the calendar pages flip to August, I know it is time to begin. Of course I am a little behind the retail world, but no less passionate about new beginnings.

I love the renewal of teaching, the chance to start fresh with brand-new school supplies and pencils whose erasers have not been whittled to nothing. The students are fresh too, eleven weeks of swimming and sleeping and sunning behind them. And everyone is a whole year older and wiser. Including me.

The plan book is a beautiful enigma. The pages are still empty, yet filled with endless possibilities of the year to come. August is the time for big dreams, before the minutiae of the alarm clock and paperwork take hold. And my dreams really are gigantic. I love to wonder about my students and who they are. I enjoy planning unusual activities to catch their attention and make learning enjoyable. And every August I spend some time incorporating some new technology into my lesson plans. This year’s version: wikis. And let’s face it. In August, every plan is perfectly executed. No one forgets their homework, the technology never fails at a crucial moment, and every lesson has the power to capture students’ attention. The reality in the classroom is subject to so many variables.

I always say that teaching is a career of moments. In a room full of students with very different personalities, the unexpected often occurs. Students (and teachers) enjoy triumphs, battle bad moods, learn from each other, and teach each other. I appreciate the interactions around me, the little inside jokes each class acquires, the way individuals come together to make a whole far greater than the sum of their parts. I marvel at what the students teach me. There are always insights I had never before discovered or talents that I can only dream of nestled in the students before me. There is magic in classrooms, and I am honored to be a part of the show.

And I think that students would be surprised to know that teachers have some fears about the first day of school. As the first bell creeps closer, the school dreams start: everything from waking up late to being embarrassed in front of a class. We take the time to carefully choose an outfit for the first day. We pack our bookbags methodically with our new school supplies. And we have trouble falling asleep on the night before school.

But beyond the highlighters in five different colors and the brand new lunch bags, teachers are focused on only one thing: the students. Growing up is difficult and we do everything in our power to make the transitions and travails easier for the students. Whether it is a smile, a kind word, a little note returned with a paper, or even the tough love of a detention, we are always teaching life skills along with our curriculum.

And that is why the clean slate of August is such an enchanted time. Who will my students be this year? How can I help them grow up? What milestones and miracles will we meet along the way? The pencils and crayons will dull throughout this year, but my hope in August is always for my students. May they become sharper and wiser in my classroom and beyond.

A Lifetime to Love

I am always amazed by longtime love. Kevin and Ann were experts. You couldn’t say one without the other. Nor did you want to. Until today. All eyes are on Kevin as he tucks his wife in for the last time and deals with the grief of her funeral and burial. They have been together so long it is hard to imagine a time that they weren’t. You have to go back nearly a half-century and travel the ocean to Ireland. She was born in Newport, County Mayo, the oldest of sixteen. He was the middle child in a brood of five on a farm in the middle of Galway.

They separately set their sights on America and dreams of a better life. Kevin landed in Cleveland at his Aunt Theresa’s, my Grandmother, at age 18. He was the brother that my Mom and her three sisters never had. And I still remember the stories of Ann on the airplane. Tea brews loosely in Ireland, and when the stewardess gave her a tea bag, she opened it in her cup. A rather inauspicious beginning. My Mom had a hand in their first meeting. They had all gone to a dance and she picked out the prettiest girl in the room for Kevin to ask for a dance. And the rest, they say, is history.

I don’t know that I know a couple who has been through so much. They lost their son Kevin from meningitis when he was just three. And then Ann came a few breaths away from death when chicken pox invaded her last pregnancy. The strapping fireman today belies the four pound baby that wasn’t supposed to make it. Kevin had triple by-pass surgery before it was done routinely, and then a few more times for good measure. I’ve lost count of the times he was not supposed to make it. And work did not ever come easy. It is hard to be a construction worker and trucker when you are in and out of the hospital. The last several years have been difficult with illness after illness affecting Ann, and Kevin giving his all to make her well.

And so this scene today: Kevin stands tall in the front pew of Our Lady of Angels church, his daughter Theresa beside him. His four sons support him with their wives and fifteen grandchildren between them. The church is filled with three hundred people, although Kevin always says he doesn’t have any friends. We are here to say good-bye to a lady whose life was not picture perfect, but who left behind a legacy of love.

The cemetery is the hardest. I watch Kevin hold on to his oldest granddaughter, and I am not sure who is holding up whom. Ann’s eyes dance in her granddaughter Ellen’s face, and Ellen is the same age today that Ann was when she first danced with Kevin. The priest finishes his prayers and the funeral director tells everyone to leave. Nobody moves. The air is still and the crowd is hushed. And still nobody moves. Kevin clings to his granddaughter as the crowd starts to disperse. I can’t imagine what it is like to say good-bye to a love like that.

Whispered Lullabies

I feel them blowing through the quiet.
The specters of my past breeze by
And bring a hint of long-gone days.
Caught between two worlds,
To taste the truth I must observe
These phantoms of my holy history.

Knotted crosses kiss the sky and
Long grasses grow wild among
The rocks that pile beneath the sun.
The bagpipe mourns its song in
Wisps and cries that echo in the
Field in which I stand.

And I am reeling like these ghosts
Between the crags, my cries are echoing
The mournful pipes this day.
The whispers in the field I must obey
For it is I who knows the secrets trapped
In piled stones and crumbled names.

And who is it that speaks my past to me,
With lilting brogue and blue-eyed gaze?
Whose haunting whispers rustle prairies near
My feet? And who am I to hear their tales
And pass them round the peat?

The sun beats down as all the spirits rise
To meet their newest sister in the deep.
And I give way to echoes of the past as
They sing lullabies to bid her sleep.
And they sing lullabies to measure out our sleep.