Sunday, January 31, 2010

Happy Birthday Dad

Today is the seventy-fifth anniversary of his birth. And I mark it tonight, not with cake and balloons and song, but with a quiet moment of thanksgiving. If this were a wedding anniversary, it would be celebrated with diamonds. That is the traditional gift for a well-lived tandem ride of such length.

But I suppose it fits us too, my dad and I. The word diamond is Greek, and best translated to “unbreakable”. And that makes sense in my unbreakable broken heart tonight. Love is stronger than death, and diamonds themselves. It is tested in fire and buried in earth.

And I am thankful through these tears that on a cold, cold night three quarters of a century ago, he shuffled onto this mortal coil. Thankful for the lessons, and the love, and the bushels and bushels of memories in my unbreakable broken heart.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

White as Death

There’s no place colder than a cemetery in January. It is one of his adages that always sticks in my mind. And today I feel its truth. Every part of me is numb. And for grief like this, that is probably a good thing. We are here in this windy tundra because of the voices. They would not leave him alone. And after nearly a half-century of fighting them, the man within the silver coffin finally flew the white flag.

There is a lot of white today. Snow covers the ground and the roads, and a white pall covers the coffin. White tissues are packed together like snowballs in mourner’s fists. It has been nearly a week since a bottle of white pills and a hastily scribbled note ended it all.

There is nothing pure or virginal here or in the choices he made, as all the white might suggest. But the truth is obscured today; this white blanket of snow the canvas, a wretched hole ripped by a backhoe that gouged the frozen earth nearby. I can’t make it whole again, make the piles of frozen dirt fit back together as they should. And I don’t know where to put these feelings; I am but a marginal mourner at this winter sacrifice .

There is something here for me though. Not sure that I can thaw my brain and toes and heart enough to let it in. Spring is a better time for learning, for lessons and life to rain and pour and flow, saturating my stoic soul; no choice but to let it all in as it rises above its banks.

But the deep freeze of winter is harsh beyond its winds. And today I am numb to all that I must know. Like freezing water expands, my clumsy body and limping mind are no match for these giant questions.

But I know something of pain. As we leave the cemetery, I pause the procession to jump out and right my father’s fallen wreath. He has known eight frigid Januarys in this place, and I shake the snow off the Christmas bow and evergreens fading to yellow before placing them on his stone. Nothing lasts. Or so it seems.

Until later when the flames of the fire light my house and the wood crackles in my memory and heats my room and my frozen limbs. And in the fire’s dance I know my father’s love and my children’s kisses and the quiet peace that escaped the man we buried today.

A New View

“Mom, look at that giant chimney! That’s the biggest chimney I’ve ever seen,” my partner in crime screamed from the back seat. So much for our covert spy mission. The chimney epiphany was quickly followed by an equally boisterous commentary on a landing plane and the Cleveland skyscrapers and one of those dancing floodlights he called a “stick light”.

“POW, POW POW” he bellowed, as we approached Dead Man’s Curve, shooting his giant imaginary gun as the mini-van rumbled over the strips. “Mom, I shot the Martians!” I could only assume the Martians were the flashing lights urging motorists to slow down. I had a lot to learn as a partner in this spying spree.

The parking garage was the perfect structure in which to continue our game. Marty marveled at the automatic arm that lifted as we paid to allow us in. And there were lots of dark corners for bad guys and monsters to hide as we found a spot to park. We slammed out of the car and bounded up the steps hand-in-hand, just the two of us, for our special night.

His demeanor changed when we entered the museum. There was something about the dimmed lights and the men in the blue blazers that immediately snapped him to attention. I let him lead the way and he tip-toed cautiously to what interested him. He led me through the cavernous rooms of the museum and paused in front of many of the paintings. I was surprised that he would have so much patience for the old Renaissance portraits and the winged angels.

He spent an awful long time staring at American painter Gilbert Stuart’s picture of a woman named Elizabeth Beltzhoover Mason. I’m not sure if he was admiring her well-endowed chest or shopping for a new mommy, but it took me a while to prod him away.

Salvador Dali’s “Dream” also held his attention. What five-year old boy wouldn’t like the idea of ants crawling on someone’s face and bulging eyelids? Although the painting is known for its Oedipus undertones, I’m kind of hoping he didn’t notice those.

And he cracked me up when he took one look at Lee Krasner’s “Right Bird Left” and muttered “Looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” He was also notably unimpressed with Sean Scully’s “Stay”. I can’t say that I blame him. It looked like a whole bunch of black paint thrown on canvas to me too!

Art appreciation still left him plenty of time for his spy games. The escalators were the perfect transportation for a pair of secret agents, and we went up and down between floors a number of times.

“What IS this?” he cried on more than one occasion. And the items that he found were things I would have never noticed in a million years, like the ornate iron grates covering the heating ducts. He spent a good, long time staring into the walls, trying to figure out where the ducts ended up. The men in the blue blazers were getting nervous when he was lying on his stomach in the corner, with his eye to the ornate metals like a microscope.

“Look at me, mommy!” he giggled in a stage whisper, trying to keep a straight face. He had tucked himself into a crevice in the wall and was standing with posed arms as still as a statue. “The bad guys will never find me here.” I guess they call that becoming one with your art.

I loved watching his face as he entered Armor Court, an entire room full of weaponry and armor. He stood stoically and stared open-mouthed for a moment, and then promptly plopped on a bench, whipped out his spy notebook and pen, and drew his own version of the knight on the horse in the middle of the room, part of it in invisible ink.

He put the museum map to good use too. He continuously folded and unfolded it and pointed at vague spots on the paper. Most of his time was spent looking for the escalator symbols and trying to find new exits and entrances to carry out his missions.

From medieval to modern, he liked it all. He was mesmerized by the “moving curtain” picture, and we spent quite a few minutes trying to figure out exactly how it worked. The giant tube of toothpaste on the podium really caught his eye, as well. James Bond would be so lucky to have THIS much modern art with which to clean his teeth!!

And he really liked the pencil-thin canon he tried to mount like a motorcycle. Now that would make a great means of escape when the going got tough. He shuffled quickly away when the tall guard gave him the evil eye.

We left the building like spies on a mission, examining everything from the pile of bricks for museum construction to the leftover piles of snow near the walkway. Our adventure drew to a close and I must say Marty was equally enthralled with Dead Man’s Curve on the way home and the dinosaur sprinkles when we stopped for ice cream. He doesn’t need a museum to be captivated by the world around him. But it sure was nice for me to see the world of the museum through his eyes and to enjoy being a secret agent for an evening.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Just a Speck

The Natural History Museum is the place to go for a good cry. Or to get knocked down a peg or two if you find yourself boasting too much self-esteem. Today’s visit reminded me vividly of just how small and insignificant I really am. But come to think of it, as long as it’s not a mealtime, my children offer me the exact same service, actually. Of course I am neither small nor insignificant if I am filling their bellies! It’s just the rest of the time when I am doing terrible motherly things like asking them to clean their rooms or to share a coveted toy.

One sign in the exhibit says, “The lunar footprints will last a million years.” And considering that I have left no lunar footprints, and never will, I am more than a little depressed. I can’t even ride in the passenger seat of a Taurus without feeling nauseous, so I am sure that a space shuttle is no place for me. And so my footprints will not last a million years. I can’t even get my moisturizer to last more than a few minutes, so I can see that making a mark with my footprints or my words that might last a bit of time is an astronomical feat.

Speaking of astronomy, I made the mistake of watching a planetarium show today, which ensured me that the sun is the tiniest fragment of the Milky Way Galaxy and the Milky Way Galaxy is only one of many galaxies in the universe. And I personally am barely a blip in a city in a state in a country on a globe that cannot possibly compete with the vastness of space. And who knew that Jupiter was 1,000 times as big as the earth? This joint is huge! So I suppose that means I can stop worrying about the pile of laundry on the basement floor that never seems to get done.

And then there are the dinosaurs! The Cretaceous Period boasts tyrannosaurus rex, and here I am, standing in front of an actual dinosaur that lived 68 million years ago; boy do I feel small! Literally and figuratively. Makes my problems seem a bit insignificant. I’m sure I’m not the first human to worry about making ends meet or fretting about making her way in the world. And I can almost hear the echo of the dinosaur “Hey lady, you think YOU got problems?”

The bones are here of animals long dead and creatures almost forgotten. People, even, and their jaws and skulls tacked up on the wall next to the gorillas and the chimpanzees. Have I gotten much farther than this? Sure I am a bi-ped and can speak clearly and write my language, but do I have anything more to show of my life than these hapless bones on the wall?

It’s the 68 million dollar question really. What separates me from these animals, the stuffed brown bear or the mastodon or Irish Elk? How have I evolved, from the place that I have started? And most importantly I think, what will I leave behind when my flesh dissolves and my spirit flies? What is it that I want to leave?

Night at the Museum



The giant hall seemed endless. And with the on-going construction at the museum, it truly was. Raised ceilings and extra-wide hallways were necessary for transporting the precious art and artifacts, some thousands of years old. Marty and I walked hand-in-hand and followed the giant circles that marked the garbled way to the exhibitions. Our long- awaited date night was here.

He had prattled non-stop from our home on the west side all the way to the Cleveland Museum of Art. As one of three children in a very busy family, date night with mom was a big deal. And although I couldn’t get him to dress the part and extract himself from his Star Wars Lego sweatsuit, we both knew that tonight was going to be a big deal.

He just sees the world as an artist, I think. And I thought our destination was the perfect place. But we didn’t even get to the museum before he was obsessing about color and shapes. “Mom, look at that giant chimney! That’s the biggest chimney I’ve ever seen,” he screamed from the back seat of the mini-van. That was quickly followed by commentary on a landing plane and the Cleveland skyscrapers and one of those dancing floodlights he called a “stick light”. He liked Dead Man’s Curve the best. A feat of engineering folly, Dead Man’s Curve is preceded by rumble strips and yellow flashing lights and a great deal of fanfare as far as a little boy is concerned. Even the parking garage amused him.

His demeanor changed when we entered the museum. There was something about the dimmed lights and the men in the blue blazers that immediately snapped him to attention. I let him lead the way and focus on what interested him; I sure am glad I did. He was tickled by so many things, roughly in this order of importance: the escalators, the ornate iron grates covering the heating ducts, the automatic door to enter the statuary room, the entire room full of knight armor, the “moving curtain” picture, and the giant tube of toothpaste on the podium in the contemporary area. In the Armor Court, he plopped on a bench, whipped out his own little notebook and pen, and drew his own version of the knight on horse in the middle of the room. He noticed things I would never have seen, like the pencil-thin canons in the hall outside the Armor Court and the peepholes depicting the stages of construction in the walkway. But he kept going back to the escalators; my little artist already bouncing between his need for form versus function.

He led me through the cavernous rooms of the museum and paused at many of the paintings as well. I was surprised that he would have some patience for the old Renaissance portraits and the winged angels with Jesus motifs. He spent an awful long time staring at American painter Gilbert Stuart’s picture of a woman named Elizabeth Beltzhoover Mason. I’m not sure if he was admiring her well-endowed chest or shopping for a new mommy, but it took me a while to prod him away. Salvador Dali’s “Dream” also held his attention. What five-year old boy wouldn’t like the idea of ants crawling on someone’s face and bulging eyelids? Although the painting is known for its Oedipus undertones, I’m kind of hoping he didn’t notice those. And he cracked me up when he took one look at Lee Krasner’s “Right Bird Left” and muttered “Looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” He was also notably unimpressed with Sean Scully’s “Stay”. I can’t say that I blame him. It looked like a whole bunch of black paint on canvas to me too!

Our night at the museum drew to a close and I must say Marty was equally enthralled with Dead Man’s Curve on the way home and the dinosaur sprinkles when we stopped for ice cream. He doesn’t need a museum to be in touch with the vivid colors and strong shapes of his world. But it sure was nice to see the world of the museum through his eyes.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Sensitive Souls

My ears are still ringing. And I can still feel the pounding of the drums in my chest. When I close my eyes, I see long fingers pounding the heck out of a beautiful guitar. I didn’t expect to love it, really, this heart-rending display of rock and roll. But I did. Alejandro Escovedo rocked the Beachland Ballroom last night in Cleveland, a feat he’s been pulling off with audiences across the country for as long as I’ve been alive. I’m not sure how he does it night after night in city after city, climbing into a giant white van after bleeding his soul into the crowd. But it sure is fun to watch the magic unfurl on the stage.

He doesn’t look much like the aging rocker I had pictured. He doesn’t even quite look like the Mexican that he is, somehow bearing a more Asian countenance. But none of that matters when he and the Sensitive Men hit the stage. I just love to watch the chemistry, imagine the jokes these guys tell each other on the long empty miles of highway, see the smiles and chords shared in front of the crowd.

They play with all their heart. Sounds trite really, but you can see the passion and feel the earth-shaking dreams in the beat of the drums and the fierce strumming of the guitars. The bass player is the one that spooks me. He looks like a true rock-n-roller, with a giant wingspan and the longest guitar I’ve ever seen. He plays stoically almost, pulsing the background beat for the show without fanfare and with only the occasional hint of a smile.

He is standing, as it turns out, in the exact spot on the stage where just six months ago another amazing musician stood. Amy Farris, an extraordinary violinist and angelic singer, played the Beachland in July with Dave Alvin and his Guilty Women. Three months after she moved me with an amazing show, she was dead.

I can’t get the picture out of my head. The pale dark haired rocker morphs into the red headed violin dynamo before my eyes. And I realize again just how much these traveling musicians have to give up to follow their fantasies. Apparently, earth-shaking dreams are not enough, even to keep you alive. It swirls in my head tonight: the way these musicians give their all to audiences large and small throughout the country. How they do the only thing they know how to do, without apology and without settling for something less. And how the road is so lonely and the night so dark sometimes. The roar of the crowd is something, but I marvel that it could keep you going night after night in city after city.

There is something very special here, though. In the pounding rock and roll. In the banter with the audience. In the living of the dream. Something special enough to get Alejandro to the next night and the next city and the next dream.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Students of Winter

“When the student is ready, the teacher appears.” Silly me, I always thought the Buddhists were talking about ME being the teacher and some poor hapless youngsters playing the role of students. But a lot of snow and a little hill in my front yard turned that all around for me this week. It is my thousand-dollar hill, the mound of dirt leftover from the sewer pipe that cracked in my front yard earlier this fall. Landscapers say I’m not supposed to level it until it survives the winter because it is so apt to sink. So it sat like an ugly serpent this fall until finally the snow fell. Snow covers a multitude of sins, and it has somehow created a gently rolling, pristine mini-hill in our yard. Like a perfectly coiffed golf course in winter view, a far cry and a great improvement from the ugly mound of rocks and clay. It is now fully covered with pitch white snow, as my children call it, which came with a vengeance in the first week of January. We have no choice but to enjoy it.

And this is the place where my children come in. Because I felt I had a LOT of other choices for what to do with a snowy day where the thermometer did not top 17 degrees, it never occurred to me that playing on the mound of snow would be so much fun and so energizing. Reading, sitting by the fire, making soup: these are the things that come to my mind when the temperature falls. Purposely going out and frolicking in the white stuff? Not so much.

But my three little darlings see snow and only ONE thing comes to mind. PLAYTIME! The other day after school, they were clamoring to get outside. High of 17 that day and scarcely a mile from the winds of Lake Erie, I somewhat reluctantly began the process, barking out orders to three different soldiers with varying capabilities of attention. First, go potty of course. How many times have I completed the entire process of snow readiness, only to discover that a little love has to use the bathroom? Now, it is always first on the list. Then, they hurriedly don snowpants, boots, coats, hats and the ever-difficult mittens. I am called on to assist to various degrees, but somebody’s zipper is always stuck, or the thumb-hole of a mitten stubbornly unwilling to work. Finally, I open the front door and they tumble outside like so many flopping fish thrown on a slippery deck.

And then the magic begins. They grab sledding discs and a flimsy red plastic sled they insist on calling a toboggan and you would think they were at the top of K2 with all the excited chatter and the looks of delight on their faces. They spend an hour, at least, playing King of the Mountain and sliding down the two-foot hill. The neighbor kids come join in the fun and there are smiles all around.

I watch mesmerized from the window, wondering all the while how such a little hill can bring so much fun. It hits me then. These memories of childhood when I would play for hours on a pile of woodchips or wear myself out making snow angels in the yard. A trait I am glad they inherited, this delight in little things and the ability to make a mountain out of a mole hill. Literally. I miss it. That carefree feeling of days spent exploring and living in the moment. And I envy their delight.

The next day I know what must be done. We follow the same procedural frenzy to don our winter clothing, and then head to an actual sledding hill near our house. They love it. All three of them. I marvel as they giggle and fly down the hill and watch their little legs trudge their rosy-cheeked bodies back to the top. They find the wildest hill quickly and take turns in the aptly named ice chute. The baby (who is almost three and really not a baby anymore) rides down on his stomach and steals my breath. His is taken by a bout of giggles as he sails down the hill. The fun ends with hot chocolate all around and the promise of more sledding to come.

A few days pass and we start the madness again. Armed with snow pants and our sleds, we decide to hit a bigger hill in the area. Now mom is the one who is scared and the kids are delighted by every bump and wipeout into the snowy turf. We sled, all four of us, until our fingers are numb and our boots filled with snow. We laugh and scream all the way down the hill as we race. I always lose. Each time we reach the bottom, the youngest squeals “Again, again” before he is even out of the sled. We marvel in the twinkle of the usually-hiding sun on the snow, and my daughter spots an owl high in a tree. It is a perfect day.

Later we melt marshmallows in warm chocolaty milk and tell the tale of our sledding adventure over lunch that day. And it strikes me how thankful I am for the things my children teach me. I would have missed this fun, the exhilarating fear of flying down a hill, if it weren’t for them. Winter is good for more than just hibernating, I see. And we have the snow burn and sore bottoms to prove it after a day on the hills. And we have the giggles and memories to warm us on the coldest of days to come.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Some Say in Ice

Icy cold fingers grab my neck,
Like my son riding piggy-back and choking my breath.
Each winter the cold comes and stays.
And each winter I forget.
Too close to Erie’s shore: an ice-breathing dragon always ready for battle.
Most days my car door freezes shut and I must curse it open,
throw hot water at the locks, a barely-armed attempt against winter’s wrath.

And today the cold seeps in and will not leave.
No matter tea and blanket and slippers and heat turned up beyond what I can afford.
The chill won’t leave my too-white fingers where circulation slows
And my plodding blood crawls slowly through my veins.

It’s the knife I think of.
Steel scalpel sharp and ice against her skin.
And I cannot shake the red of her dreams on the table
And the way my own blood turns to ice.

We are both pierced today, though glistening blade and
Shuttered heart are not the same.
The cold will deal with both at once,
And the snow will cover that which we will not see.

How long the forgetting will be with this,
How long the battle to slay such foe?
But only that spring and thaw must follow.
And someday Erie’s wind will breathe warmth again.

But it’s the knife I think of on that steel table.
Curses and hot water no match for this,
Carving with the frost of an ice sculptor and
The delicacy of blood’s most tiny vein.
And only now the cold.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Keeping Christmas

The tree is on its way out. The needles are stuck in the carpet and stab me when I walk barefoot across the room. It hasn’t taken any water for about a week. Just one more job Cinderella forgot to do. Can’t decide between the tradition of leaving it up until Little Christmas or taking the whole bloody thing down tomorrow because Monday is garbage day. And back to school day. The taking down part always seems so much more difficult than the putting up. The lights never wrap themselves neatly and the Misfit toys try to hide where the kids have strewn them throughout the house. The bubble wrap for the precious ornaments has all been popped by curious little hands and is useless for its intended use. The sheep and the cow from the crèche have joined the Transformers in the basement for some raucous games of Save the World. The little shepherd boy never even made it that far; he is lying on the stairs near the door to the garage. And the children worry that baby Jesus will be lonely and cold if we pack him away in the box in the attic. Can’t blame them really. That attic is no place for babies.

Another Christmas is in the books though, and it really is time to wrap it up. We had the magic this year. The perfect ages for leaving cookies for Santa and being good because the elves were watching. That is the part I don’t want to let go. This sense of wonder and my children’s belief in things beyond themselves. My daughter drags the light-up deer through the back yard to the Forest Room, a makeshift hospital where she is sure she can turn “Glory” into a real deer. Her brother calls him Max and uses the deer’s string of lights as an Indiana Jones whip to keep his sister away. I lose track each day of the times I hear him say “Mommy, I’ll be the (fill in animal or creature name here) and you be the mom.” I love my little children perched solidly between reality and make-believe, holding tight to the magic side of course. We believe in the Tooth Fairy and pirates and freckles that come from angel kisses. We acknowledge the existence of red-nosed reindeer and heaven and a weather-reporting groundhog. We love trains that talk and monkeys that are curious and bunnies that leave baskets of goodies, too.

But I know the truth as I sweep these pine needles from my carpet. My children’s belief in these things is as fleeting as these evergreen needles. Although we might wish the enchantment to last forever, just like the fun of Christmas, I know that it won’t. So I cling to it, as stubbornly as the needles dig into my floor. And I vow to be the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny and Batgirl for as long as they’ll let me. A little fairy dust never hurts, and a little magic can go a long way.

Friday, January 1, 2010

Time Flows

“It's just a long flowing river of time. As I've gotten older it's started to flow faster, like the Niagara River when you get close to the falls. It's hard to stick a knife in there and carve out a slice.”

A friend of mine wrote the words above. And it’s the time of year to think about time and what to do with the twenty-four hours I am given each day. I like this idea. That the river flows despite what I do. Takes some of the pressure off and helps me relax a bit as others are bustling with their resolutions. The natural order of things is to continue, to keep going when the going gets tough. The river washes the silt to the bottom and leaves the top for canoeing and fish-catching and sticks tossed down-river by little boys. I love the idea of where the water has been and what the current has picked up. What is worthy enough of keeping and what is thrown back up on the bank. It’s a good question for me too. Time cleanses me. A lot of my mistakes and mis-steps are drowned in the river. Good thing. There are lots of things for me to throw back up on the bank, too.

I know the sense of urgency as time speeds up. As a teacher, there is a rigid yearly schedule that I must keep. But it seems that each year the time between the first day of school and the last day of school condenses magically, like the way an entire meal of space food can fit into a tiny pouch. Not sure how to reconstitute the minutes of my life as easily as the astronauts can bring their space pot roast back to wholeness, though. My daughter is seven. Seems to me she was just born a few months ago and I am still fighting lack of sleep and lack of baby knowledge. My dad has been gone over eight years. But when I walk in my mother’s house and turn the corner through the kitchen, I still expect to see him sitting in his blue lazy-boy recliner. And then there is me. I can’t ever seem to get a handle on the fact that I am the grown-up now, the one paying the bills and stoking the fire and planning the trips. I swear I was just in the back of the Malibu station wagon throwing up on the way to…well, anywhere! And now I am taking my mini-van in for new windshield wipers and power steering. Where has all that time gone? And has the river worked it’s magic? Has the current forced the silt to the bottom and left the goodness floating on the waves, like the way the best of the cream rises to the top? Good question for a new year. What parts of me need to be re-captured and re-worked, and what needs to be thrown up on the banks to rot with the driftwood?

But sometimes it seems like my river is more of a lazy river. Yes, for the obvious reasons. But also because the water flows in a circle and the hapless folks on the inner-tubes end up right back where they started. It’s like that with me and my déjà vu when I battle the same questions about my weight and my energy and the ways I spend my time. Didn’t I already fight this battle? Why did I lose twenty pounds and then gain it all back? Didn’t I just decide to wake up early and start each day out serenely? Then why do I hit snooze eight times and catapult stupidly into my day? I really don’t mind the river, the passage of time so much, as the circular repeating. The same old mistakes over and over. With the same old results.

My friend says it’s hard to carve out a slice of time. I guess that is true of a river. You can’t really stop the flow and you can’t avoid the falls and the rapids. And I do find it difficult to focus on moments and minutiae and the present. So many old wounds and future fears get in the way. But I think that is my wish for this new year, and new decade of my life. I want to live in the present. To breathe. To feel each jostle of the water and each steadying of the canoe. To throw the sticks in the river with my son and stick around to watch them float downstream to where our eyes can no longer even make them out. It is difficult but not impossible to pay attention to the joys and the searing disappointments and the moments of hilarity as they occur. It is difficult to live in each moment and graciously receive it for better or for worse. I am not as strong as a river, nor as unyielding, it turns out. But I will choose each day to breathe in all of the moments and write them on my heart.