TOUCHDOWN!!!!

I love college sports.

Football, basketball, and even a dollop of volleyball or softball.
Love ‘em.
But somewhere between a raucous cheer and group high-five; lives insanity.
Hiding innocuously in the adult XXXL football jersey is a dangerous disease.
And where better to study borderline mascot disorder than the

Florida vs. Florida State game.
Nowhere!
90,000 fans…short for fanatics…dressed in team colors. Team spirit buttons.

Team body/face paint.
90,000 loyal addicts; radios in ears, glaring at the replay screen, and texting their
cohorts at home to see if the call was a good one.
Babies and innocent children, brought to the 100 yard tent revival learning the words to the traditional prayers…da da da da da Go Gators Get Up and Go

or

Florida State, Florida State, Florida State Whooo…
Or is that Whoo-Amen?

Not that a tailgating 12 Step Program wouldn’t help;
“I am powerless over my reptilian worship,”

but do those 90,000 folks really believe that the quality of their fall and winter weekends should be left up to pubescent boys in tight pants and helmets?
Really?

I’m just saying….
Having raised many of the male persuasion, and even a few that played college sports, allowing these tall toddlers to help decide 72 hours of my emotional welfare, would not be a good idea.
No So Much!
So here I sit with Husband watching the replay of a football game that ended less than 24 hours ago, that he has recorded twice already, listening to him question the plays/calls of an event that his team won….is already over….won’t change….doesn’t matter….
I can’t help but wonder if there is any hope?
If this pigskin paranoia is genetic or learned?

If there is a cure or therapeutic clinical trial on the horizon?

…if…..if….if….
Hold on, I'll be right back; it’s the fourth quarter and we have to lock arms and sing….
WE ARE THE BOYS FROM OLD FLORIDA…
Good Grief Charlie Brown!

And Let it Begin With Me!

Take your Marks…Get Set….GO!

Black Friday, the till Christmas countdown, SALE!!!!
Amongst the stereotypically female genes I didn’t get; was the shopping gene.
The magnetic attraction to crowded Malls and busy boutiques…Me?

....No So Much.
So the air-raid-style droppings of sale flyers and coupons pass directly from my paper to my recycler.
Do not pass go; do not spend $200.00.
It’s not that I won’t shop. Or won’t look for the deep discounts or 'can’t walk away' sales.
It’s not that I won’t make a list. Check it twice.
Hide surprises. Google up some goodies.
Nope , I will proudly do my part to stimulate the economy, hunt and gather for the gang,
purchase pretty wrapping paper and tape,
and revel in the Christmas morning oohs and aahs.
But the competitive, camp-out, gotta-get, fight to the death for a rolling hamster from China or a video game that trains car thieves or couch potato athletes?
The fear of not having that must have gift?
Can’t do it anymore.
You see years ago, actually my first year as a shelter manager;
I watched the Children’s team make Santa bags for the families that would awaken Christmas morning in a Domestic Violence shelter. I watched these extraordinarily devoted, young case workers sort through piles of donations to find the almost

perfect doll or close enough stuffed animal.
The red, not pink, dressy dress or the slightly large football jersey.
And as the clock ticked down, I watched the residents walk down the dimly lit, holiday decorated halls, collect their black trash bag of “Santa shopping” and

offer emotional and tear accented thanks and hugs.
Some sobbed with relief.
For many, it would be the first Christmas with gifts for their little ones in years.
The only time some of these children would awaken to find that they had not been forgotten by that man from the North Pole.
That he “had” actually found them, even in this hidden place,

where they sleep wearing borrowed jammies and used socks.
That their secret wishes for a Barbie or winter jacket; a football or an art set;
had miraculously come true.
Even today, so many years later, I can still hear the victorious squeals of the Children’s Team as they reached the end of the night, having distributed the last bag of generously donated blessings, prepared the “ghost bags” for any family that might unexpectedly arrive in a police car later, as the downtown Midnight Mass bells ring out or the Sunrise Service choir

begins the second verse of Let There Be Peace on Earth.
Anonymously donated presents, Hefty bag wrapping paper, social working elves, and a double locked, metal chained front shelter door….hardly a Hallmark Christmas card…but for those women and children it was a glorious Christmas morning.
They felt safe.
They felt loved.
And just for a moment, all was calm….all was bright.
And I got to witness it.
That was the last year I can remember feeling the urgency of Black Friday.
But you know, maybe I will do a little shopping tomorrow morning, and I know just what to stand in line for….something that will fit perfectly, tucked under the pillow of a homeless child!

To each of you that have ever dropped off a love present for a stranger’s child, worked in a shelter or mission, collected food or clothes for others….
your kindness makes those moments possible.
Bless you.

And to my Grateful Dead loving, Children's Team Elves....Ms. Donna will treasure you always!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

OMG! OMG!
Oh….My…Gosh!

I might be too excited to sleep tonight!

I know this happens to me every year, but honestly, tonight is like the first time.

The first time!

In less than 15 hours, I will turn on my radio, and…and…

hear uninterrupted Christmas music for the next month.

Non-stop songs of peace and goodwill.

Alright, alright, the occasional reindeer ditty or Red Baron anthem will barge into

my commercial free Christmas Caroling.

But after a few verses of Santa and mistletoe, it’s back to Mary’s Boy Child and Light One Candle.

And then, on Friday, Husband and I will rush to the Depot, fondle a truck full of Christmas trees, select, purchase, name, and gather-up our newest addition to the family.

Then carefully, with a tiny tilt to the right and a tweak to the left,

she will be flawlessly placed in her new home.

The corner of our family room.

After a week or so of begging and badgering the fellas will exchange a free meal for our yearly

“wonderful Bevis family tree decorating” tradition.

Lights, special ornaments, childhood creations, no tinsel, and extra ribbons will be combined with love, laughter, sarcasm, and a John Denver and the Muppets Christmas CD sing-a-long.

But the bestest part is ritual is replaying, and replaying, and replaying, my Peter, Paul, and Mary ‘Christmas in Carnegie Hall’ DVD, filmed in 1998, sold in Thailand, purchased on Ebay,

and containing genuine Japanese subtitles!

OMG….OMG…OH….My….Gosh!

Will tomorrow ever come!

ROUTE 46 - WEEKDAY - EASTBOUND

“Donna, why aren’t you blogging anymore?”

“Donna, you need to blog again!”

“Donna, come on…I miss reading all those whacky things you write about!”

I wish I could say I missed memorializing all those moments of bedlam that best depict my days…

but I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I do miss the journaling relief of blogging.

The emotionally purifying, pore cleansing, colonoscopy act of releasing all matter into the universe.

The blank computer screen, slowly filling up with guffaws and good riddance.

Laughter and load lightening.

I miss the moment of written conception.

Of completion.

And though these past few months have been blessed with satire, not always intentional mind you;

they have also been filled with loss.

Death has interrupted lives too young.

One lionhearted, one kindhearted; both courageously said goodbyes on their own terms,

in their own way.

And nestled in their passing was the realization that when it comes to loved ones,

enough will never be enough.

All the melodic metaphors that man concocts to make loss more palatable are unfulfilling.

All the rhyming rhetoric about religion and righteousness are emphatically earnest,

but equally exasperating.

I needed an answer...and it appeared...
Be thankful?
Really, I’ll say it again, “BE….THANKFUL!”
Not because it makes sense or makes you feel better.
And surely not because it will make the nausea subside…No So Much.
Rather, because it is the duct tape to repair the heartbreak.
The Super-glue to piece the rest of life together.

Be thankful.
For in momentarily glancing beyond the insanity and destruction; you see the glory of humanity and the impervious nature of determination.
Be thankful.
Because woven in the shroud of hurt, are the threads of triumph.
A few weeks ago, I was walking Zipporah, and grieving.
My Ipod, Elvis, and I harmonizing to How Great Thou Art.
Blocks passed and if not for a traffic jam, I would have never realized I had an audience.
Or a congregation of one.
Dressed in a housekeeper’s apron,an elderly woman had been following me;
innocently heading to her bus stop.
My embarrassment over my public display of affliction, and a horrific singing voice oozed from my pores.
“Sister,” she began, “you sing it out and in no time you will find your answer.
And then you sing the songs of thanks.”
“You sure about that ma’ am?” I doubted.
“You be thankful,” she instructed, as her city bus snuggled up to the curb,
” and it will blow away the ache!”
Be Thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Our regular deal!

He knows my name is Donna, but he met Sylvia, my sister, first….and was smitten by her beauty.

“Hey Sylvia’s Sister, it’s Monday.”

After ten years of weekly conversations, exactly at closing time, you would think he would have shared his name or grown weary of our indistinguishable conversations. But his scruffy moustache, framing a cock-eyed mouth, rarely reveals his thoughts.

“Our regular deal today?”

“Absolutely! Go ahead,” I shout back, through the barely cracked coffeehouse door.

I’ve tried to broach the how, when, and why his life became so hard, but a crumpled brow and quivering lips, are the only answers I receive. Reaching back to social work days, I’ve offered suggestions for a place to get a donated winter jacket or tire for his bike. Consummately gracious, but shrouded, his thanks never divulge if he will actually seek help.

When demons have gotten the best of him, because he couldn’t get his prescribed drugs, or had self-medicated with Malt Liquor and Tylenol PM, I ask if he needs a ride to the Salvation Army Shelter. From his camouflaged pants pocket he pulls a Stephen King novel, with a library sticker, and a barely legible military ID.

Today, moved by his loyalty to come to work on such a cold-rainy afternoon, I pat him on the shoulder while handing him our ‘regular deal’… five one-dollar bills, and bag with a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies inside. Taking his hand, I compliment him on his commitment to his word. I praise him on being a good, honest man. I tell him I’m proud to be his friend. I thank him for the way the windows shine.

I speak from the heart, wanting him to hear that he matters.

My words devastate him, and as hard as he tries to stop his chest from heaving up and down and as quickly as he scurries to gather up his belongings, he can’t hold back the pain. Tears drenching his paper towel roll and bicycle handlebars….he cannot regain composure. His stained, but laundered “FUN IN THE FLORIDA SUN” sweatshirt sleeves now serving as both handkerchief and blindfold.

“Sylvia’s Sister,” his trembling, chafed hands pressed firmly to his face, hiding his mouth, muffling his words, “I used to be someone different. You’re my friend? You think I’m a good person?”

“I do,” I recite firmly, “you are all those things, but I’m so sorry I made you sad.”

Window Washer Man, his hard earned, bagged salary, tucked in a scuffed-up bucket does not respond. Loading sponges and glass cleaner into his frayed backpack, slinging it over his slumped shoulders; he pedals down the sidewalk, away from my coffeehouse window.
Turning off the “OPEN” sign, I lock the door, zip my jacket, and walk to the car.

It’s freezing outside!

I’m glad I snuck extra sandwiches and cookies in his bag, because he’s never accepted charity.
He’s too darn proud.