I’ve never seen The Wizard of Oz all the way through, the flying monkeys scare the hell out of me!
You see I’m afraid of movies, and documentaries, and the darkness.
No, not the screaming, gasping, hair-on-fire, thrashing fear you exhibit when the jaws of giant, great white shark rips you to shreds while your drunken boyfriend sleeps in the sand. No, for me it’s the creeping, tingling, heart-clinching, nausea that begins in my toes, radiates through my being, and gets lodged in my soul.
I’m not sure when it started, but I’m damn sure I can’t be cured.
My earliest recollections go back to a little girl in Good Friday services wearing a “you’ll grow into it” green plaid school uniform. The church was pitch black and I thought it was the taste of incense and candles flavoring my deep breaths that made my tummy ache. Monsignor Scully gloried in the gore of the crucifixion and by retelling in detail each stripe of the soldiers whip or pummeling of the nails through the hands of our Lord, this sullen, angry priest found enormous power and a peculiar pleasure. We were commanded to look only at him and before our final genuflect the perspiring Monsignor would leave the altar, approaching each pew of kneeling children.
“God’s fury will be swift,” he warned, and we better each feel the pain and suffering to truly be saved from Hell’s flames. A six-year old Donna felt the anger and the pain, but it was towards the priest that wanted me to fear my creator, not the Roman soldiers.
“So Donna, have you seen The Passion of the Christ?” a self-anointed, self-appointed, soul-savers would ask years later, “it tells the real story.”
“No, a priest in my elementary school spoiled the ending for me, so I’ll just read the book.”
For the next 40 plus years, I’ve accepted that the fear of human darkness portrayed in movies has affected my life and annoyed my loved ones. I’m a movie party-pooper and I no longer apologize for my panic. I can’t stomach the shoot-em-up, blow-them-up, take-em-down, torture, disembowel, real-life, adventure-genre, violence laden flicks, and I’m often chastised by friends and family about all the fun times I’m missing.
I’ve given in a few times for history and Husband’s sake.
The last time I followed the yellow brick road to the local cinema was to see Cold Mountain with my gullible mate of 35 years. “Come on Wife, I swear, the guys in my Promise Keeper’s prayer group said that it’s a Civil War love story. Please? It will be fun!” he promised.
A promise he would not keep!
If you haven’t seen Cold Mountain, I don’t want to ruin your fun, just know the theater should have provided airsickness bags for those of us that find human –on- human cruelty in the name of patriotism, nauseating. And if Husband or my children or friends dare to remind me again, “It’s just a movie! Geez! It’s a great way to study history. They’re acting for Christ’s sake!” I might slap someone’s mother’s hands between the logs of a split rail fence, and crush them till she wails her tonsils out…in a Civil War love story sorta way!
It’s not that I live in a Fiddler on the Roof stupor thinking life revolves around Papa talking about tradition while his brethren are chased from village to village, singing catchy tunes. And yes, that is the standing joke, loosely rooted in truth, when anyone is asked about the only movie Donna will watch. I realize there are far more significant Jewish narratives memorialized on the silver screen, but I’m incapable of watching them. I’ve never seen Schindler's List because for me the visual brutality illuminates only a fear of the horrific failings of humanity, rather than a faith in the nobility of human resilience. So I view the Holocaust through the words of Elie Wiesel’s book, Night, and vow to use it as my own personal gyroscope in times of what feels like unnoticed acts of prejudice or indifference. Yearly, I open his book, and enter the childhood of this Transylvanian Jew. I listen closely to his anguish. My mind’s eye sees the face of his mother and little sister being led to their murder. I hear a dying father calling his son’s name only moments before Buchenwald devours another soul, and for the first time, having buried my own father, I feel the consuming empathy of a parent’s death.
When I close the thin paperback, until we meet again next year, the flame of purpose and responsibility illuminates my flaws and Elie Wiesel’s warning “If we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices,” is mine to spread.
I don’t expect anyone to understand my fears or even try to make sense of them. It’s not like I haven’t looked in the mirror, searched for an herbal cure, or a local twelve step program. ”Hi, I’m Donna and I’m powerless over my fear of most movies, and nature documentaries where things get killed, and the darkness.”
One thing I know for certain is that desensitizing doesn’t help. Raising a house filled with testosterone, violence and chaos were often on the menu. When the boys were young it was live, not Memorex, and usually ended with someone in time-out and someone with an ice bag. Given that pre-teens travel in packs, our house was the preferred hunting ground and watering hole, so they unhappily abided by my movie rules in exchange for limitless Latin food and late night video game contests. But once they could buy their own DVD’s or pay for their own TV sets, my control was terminated and the Terminator entered my home. Why do most Animal Planet specials on God’s darling, furry friends end in a bloodbath and me screeching, “Change that! The dun dun-dun dun music means something’s dying soon….put it on ESPN!”
“Come on Mom!” they would fuss, “It’s reality. It’s the cycle of life! It’s just getting good too…the starving lion finally found the baby gazelles. You don’t want the lion to go hungry do you?”
“If I walk in the family room and catch a glimpse of one tuft of flying gazelle fur, you and Mr. Lion will both be foraging in the forest for food!”
“MOM! How could you work and teach about domestic violence for all those years? You were great at it! Remember the story of that lady being hurt with the tire iron? That was worse than this show and you weren’t scared.”
He was correct, but still watching ESPN.
Ms. Barbara taught me about domestic violence on my first day in shelter. A power outage wasn’t part of my training to work in the largest domestic violence shelter in Florida, nor was Ms. Barbara. But there we stood back-to-back in the tiny, humid, powerless laundry room. My brain was occupied with the women, the children, the co-workers, and the task of folding the laundry, and was not alert to the lady standing behind me. When I stepped back, laundry basket in hand, I bumped into a startled stranger.
At first I thought it was the darkness that heightened her terrified reaction, but when she turned to apologize for her scream, I knew better.
Thinking my eyes were playing tricks, pupils confused by the blinking, emergency strobe lights I stared intently. But as the creeping, tingling, heart-clinching, nausea beginning in my toes and radiating through my being commenced, I knew Ms. Barbara was really standing in front of me, tears in her eyes, with her nose and cheeks and lips ravaged by years of physical abuse. A pencil sized hole, weeping fluids from where her chin once was.
“Maam, my name is Donna, and I work with the children, but if you need anything I’ll help you,” I forced myself to say calmly, “and I’m so sorry you were hurt, but I’m so glad you’re here and safe.”
Inches apart in that musty room, looking into each other’s eyes she said, “Ms. Donna, I was more afraid of leaving him, than I was of living the rest of my life looking this way. Thank you for wanting me to be safe.”
No, I’ve never seen The Burning Bed, but I’m familiar with the topic.
You see I’m afraid of movies, and documentaries, and the darkness.
I’m not sure when it started, but I’m damn sure I can’t be cured.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Is Heaven Long Distance?
Old Man, I miss you something fierce!
Relax Daddy, everything is fine, I’m just taking a writing class and reminiscing,
and the tears just happened.
(No, it’s not a night class and I don’t have to drive to the university in the dark…it’s on my computer!)
Really Daddy, everything’s fine, go back to feeding the stray cats in heaven
Really Daddy, everything’s fine, go back to feeding the stray cats in heaven
and I’ll tell you why I’ve called out to you.
You know Old Man, I can’t look at my cell phone and not think of you.
No, no, I’m not grumping about how you used to call me ten times a day…
You know Old Man, I can’t look at my cell phone and not think of you.
No, no, I’m not grumping about how you used to call me ten times a day…
I’m telling you I miss it.
I never thought I would say this, but I miss being your private investigator; when one of your children hasn't returned a call. What I’d give to again be your banker, when you didn’t want Mom to worry about Sylvia’s bills. How perfect it would be, even one last time, to be your cat food Sherpa, replenishing the stock piled Meow Mix,
I never thought I would say this, but I miss being your private investigator; when one of your children hasn't returned a call. What I’d give to again be your banker, when you didn’t want Mom to worry about Sylvia’s bills. How perfect it would be, even one last time, to be your cat food Sherpa, replenishing the stock piled Meow Mix,
hidden from Mom in the trunk of your BMW.
Mostly, I desperately miss your voice.
Mostly, I desperately miss your voice.
I ache for your daily calls, from the dialysis unit, when you wanted to share the latest morsel of interesting trivia that you had just learned watching the
Discovery Channel.
Remember the day you called me all excited, because you thought you had seen your father,
as a boy, in that documentary on Italian Immigrants and Ellis Island?
But today isn’t about our past conversations, it’s about our future.
And I need to start by telling you something really important.
But today isn’t about our past conversations, it’s about our future.
And I need to start by telling you something really important.
The night you died…..sorry, sorry, I know it bothers you for us to talk about your illness to strangers or let anyone know that you were sick,
but old man, that cat’s out of the bag!
Anyway, Daddy, the night you died, while the twenty of us were gathered in your hospital room, telling you an earthly goodbye, I heard Mom thank the nurse that was with you both in those last moments. After she accepted Mom’s tearful expression of gratitude, the nurse said,
Anyway, Daddy, the night you died, while the twenty of us were gathered in your hospital room, telling you an earthly goodbye, I heard Mom thank the nurse that was with you both in those last moments. After she accepted Mom’s tearful expression of gratitude, the nurse said,
“Your Domenic seemed like a real fine man; I would have liked to have gotten to know him.”
Without hesitation your bride of sixty-years, responded,
Without hesitation your bride of sixty-years, responded,
“My Domenic was the kindest man I’ve ever met. You would have been proud to know him.”
Mom was right, and I just want to tell you that I’m so very proud to have known you.
Daddy, I’ve gotta go now and work on this assignment, because it’s already too many words.
What?
Yes Dad, of course Mom is still feeding your stray kitties…even Fraidy Cat,
Mom was right, and I just want to tell you that I’m so very proud to have known you.
Daddy, I’ve gotta go now and work on this assignment, because it’s already too many words.
What?
Yes Dad, of course Mom is still feeding your stray kitties…even Fraidy Cat,
with the white paws, that hides under the bushes.
I don’t want you to worry anymore, you’ve done your job,
and it’s time for you to rest.
I love you Old Man, and I’ll give you a call later.
********************
This is assignment 4
Look for the single sentence that surprises you with its beauty, strangeness, or uniqueness. Now branch off with an additional 250 words, a digression,
using that exact sentence or idea as your lead.
The quote is from this essay about Daddy's death:
http://nosomuch.blogspot.com/2009/07/lesson-6-rewrite-old-scene-that-you.html
***********************
"Perhaps one day the preposterous irony of this picture will be a story told without blubbering all over my keyboard?
Perhaps today is the day? "
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Another Jewel in the Crown!
If I had any sense, I’d sold this business years ago.
Sylvia, is steaming Andrew’s Chai tea, and doesn’t hear me come in. Her NASCAR teased, brownish hair, carefully applied make-up, youthful tight jeans and tank top make us look more like a Mother/Daughter barista team, than sisters. Her college aged son, Maxwell, snoozing soundly on the couch before his morning shift, doesn’t hear me either.
Our regulars fill every table, fulfilling their daily roles.
“Maxwell, your Aunt Donna is here,” whispers Andrew’s wife, Tina, “she needs some help with the groceries.”
Max, looking like every waking, pubescent mammal, stretches his four extremities, rubs the confusion out of his eyes, scratches at his scalp, and falls back into the fetal position on the couch.
“I hope nobody orders KWAS-USNCTS today,” I enunciate, three gallons of whole milk, dangling from my hands. “Because I didn’t pick any up at SAMS this morning, because I don’t know what the heck they are.
“MAXWELL!” I bark, “Wake-up and help get the stuff outa my car.”
“I need a nine letter word for good scents? It ends with an ‘i’,” calls Fran from the front table, munching a biscotti, and doing the morning crossword puzzle with Harry.
“How many letters?” I ask. “Guess what, I’ll make it interesting for everyone…if you get the word correct…you win half ownership n a coffeehouse!”
“I’m not guessing then,” Andrew says, playing along with my weekly threat to sell, give away, close, or raffle off Ashley’s, my coffee shop.
“Come on Drew, you’d be perfect. Get rid of your suit n’ tie and Blackberry vibrating across the table. You know you’d love to kick the habit of running a Catholic Children’s Hospital. You’re the perfect owner. You’ve worked with Nuns for years; we’re sisters too, just of the non-celibate variety.”
“Speak for yourself Sista,” Sylvia quips, “My workaholic hubby hasn’t earned a paycheck in two years, so his bed is now a Jeff Gordon sleeping bag, on the floor of den….with no pit stops in my room.”
“How is scents spelled? Is it money kind, the smarts kind, or the stinky kind,” Tina asks, kissing her sweet hubby goodbye and reminding him to pay for her skinny latte.”Have a good Board Meeting. I’m going jogging then off to volunteer at school.”
“Donna, “Andrew calls from the doorway, “The bicycle guy with the bucket is still out here. He’s probably harmless, just…you know special, like the rest of us. All jewels in your family crown.””
“Oh, God,” I whine, pointing at the car pulling in, “and speaking of family jewels, here comes Robert and if he brings up his hernia malpractice suit and missing testicle I’m going to knock the other one off. Bye Andrew, have a great day!”
“MAXWELL, look at this list and tell me what this scribbled ‘kwasunscts’ is,” I insist, “then please go stock the paper goods.”
Max grabs the list from my waving hand, “Kwasuncts, kwasuncts….you know… the curvy bread things we toast and serve with jelly. KWASUNSCTS!
“Croissants Max? C-R-O-I-S-S-A-N-T-S?” I spell incredulously, “Honor Student Max? Really? You’re killin me Maxwell…K-I-L-L-I-N M-E! Sylvia, why is he making the list anyway?”
Sylvia can’t defend her firstborn’s bona fides, because she’s busy greeting our newest coffeehouse client; the disheveled, little man with the bike, now peeking his head in the door.
“Come on in. I’m Sylvia. Welcome to our family owned coffee shop. Can I get ya something?”
How uncomfortable he must feel. Six tables of staring strangers. What a brave soul.
“Um um I’m looking for work I wanna wash your windows once a week I’ve got the bucket and paper towels I won’t even come inside to get my pay if you want I do really good work I’m not late I won’t bother anybody or ask for nothing from nobody I give you my word…OK?” he recites in an oath- like, run-on sentence.
“Well,” Sylvia responds from behind the counter, pointing at me, on one knee, rearranging the milk jugs in the fridge, “my sister, Donna, really owns the shop so it’s up to her.”
“Thanks, Sista,” I mumble, standing now, and hiding behind her fluffy hairdo.
Before I could reach out to this awkward character, Robert throws open the door, shades slamming against the glass, Harry and Fran looking up from their crossword work, “Hey!” Robert screams, “You’re not going to believe this! My own uncle is going to testify against me!! He says I killed my own testicle by keeping the bandage on too tight and raking the yard too soon after surgery. He’s crazy! The hospital put the bandage on and the only reason I raked the yard was because my wife was bitching about the dog tracking leaves into the house. You know how Bridget gets when she’s pissed? She’s got borderline personality disorder and she’ll scream at me. So what do get? A shriveled-up testicle! Now I’m only half a real man? Right Max?”
“No Rob, you’re not half a real-man…you're still cool…and it sounds like you weren’t using that one anyway, “Maxwell slips in while stacking napkins.
“Nice Max, “Robert grimaces, “way to bust my balls.”
“Ball?” Max replies, awaiting the roar of the crowd.
“Maxwell! Hush!” I chide,” That’s not nice. It may be true, but it’s not nice. Go make Robert his double espresso and start a new SAMS list with croissants, at the top, spelled correctly.”
I walk outside and the Window Washer Man follows. We agree to his humble salary: five one dollar bills, a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies. Gently, I shake his hand, and he shuffles down the sidewalk to fill his yellow bucket up in the building faucet and get started.
“Is that weird guy OK?” Robert asks, chugging his morning espresso, as I return inside.
“He wondered the same damn thing about you!” I snap, “And no more testicle discussions, please, you’re making ME nuts!”
“So?” Sylvia asks, “Are you going to let him do the windows? We’ll all take turns paying him if that helps.”
I scan each table, face-by-face, all displaying the same pathetic plea. The “please Mom, can we keep him? Please Mom, can he work here? Please, pretty please, let him stay,” promise of every kid looking at a box of puppies.
“Yes…of course he's hired,” I respond, “It’s not like we’re in danger of being a real business anyway. We agreed to a regular weekly deal.”
“Come on everybody, think, a nine letter word for good scents, we really need this word, “Fran begs, wanting her opportunity as the center-of-attention.
“I got it!” Max declares, “Faux-pourri?”
“What.” I scowl, “is faux-pourri?”
“You know Aunt Donna, “Max responds, “the bags of good smelling dry leaves and shit, I mean stuff, that they sell in different colors.”
“No silly goose, that’s potpourri…potpourri, “I laugh, spinning around toward my sister,” Your kid is killing me. You’re all slowly killing me!”
“Sylvia’s Sister,” Window Washer Man shouts to me, tapping on the shining, plate glass window,” I’m outa here. I’m done with you people today.”
Now there’s a man with good sense........Another jewel in the family crown.........
Sylvia, is steaming Andrew’s Chai tea, and doesn’t hear me come in. Her NASCAR teased, brownish hair, carefully applied make-up, youthful tight jeans and tank top make us look more like a Mother/Daughter barista team, than sisters. Her college aged son, Maxwell, snoozing soundly on the couch before his morning shift, doesn’t hear me either.
Our regulars fill every table, fulfilling their daily roles.
“Maxwell, your Aunt Donna is here,” whispers Andrew’s wife, Tina, “she needs some help with the groceries.”
Max, looking like every waking, pubescent mammal, stretches his four extremities, rubs the confusion out of his eyes, scratches at his scalp, and falls back into the fetal position on the couch.
“I hope nobody orders KWAS-USNCTS today,” I enunciate, three gallons of whole milk, dangling from my hands. “Because I didn’t pick any up at SAMS this morning, because I don’t know what the heck they are.
“MAXWELL!” I bark, “Wake-up and help get the stuff outa my car.”
“I need a nine letter word for good scents? It ends with an ‘i’,” calls Fran from the front table, munching a biscotti, and doing the morning crossword puzzle with Harry.
“How many letters?” I ask. “Guess what, I’ll make it interesting for everyone…if you get the word correct…you win half ownership n a coffeehouse!”
“I’m not guessing then,” Andrew says, playing along with my weekly threat to sell, give away, close, or raffle off Ashley’s, my coffee shop.
“Come on Drew, you’d be perfect. Get rid of your suit n’ tie and Blackberry vibrating across the table. You know you’d love to kick the habit of running a Catholic Children’s Hospital. You’re the perfect owner. You’ve worked with Nuns for years; we’re sisters too, just of the non-celibate variety.”
“Speak for yourself Sista,” Sylvia quips, “My workaholic hubby hasn’t earned a paycheck in two years, so his bed is now a Jeff Gordon sleeping bag, on the floor of den….with no pit stops in my room.”
“How is scents spelled? Is it money kind, the smarts kind, or the stinky kind,” Tina asks, kissing her sweet hubby goodbye and reminding him to pay for her skinny latte.”Have a good Board Meeting. I’m going jogging then off to volunteer at school.”
“Donna, “Andrew calls from the doorway, “The bicycle guy with the bucket is still out here. He’s probably harmless, just…you know special, like the rest of us. All jewels in your family crown.””
“Oh, God,” I whine, pointing at the car pulling in, “and speaking of family jewels, here comes Robert and if he brings up his hernia malpractice suit and missing testicle I’m going to knock the other one off. Bye Andrew, have a great day!”
“MAXWELL, look at this list and tell me what this scribbled ‘kwasunscts’ is,” I insist, “then please go stock the paper goods.”
Max grabs the list from my waving hand, “Kwasuncts, kwasuncts….you know… the curvy bread things we toast and serve with jelly. KWASUNSCTS!
“Croissants Max? C-R-O-I-S-S-A-N-T-S?” I spell incredulously, “Honor Student Max? Really? You’re killin me Maxwell…K-I-L-L-I-N M-E! Sylvia, why is he making the list anyway?”
Sylvia can’t defend her firstborn’s bona fides, because she’s busy greeting our newest coffeehouse client; the disheveled, little man with the bike, now peeking his head in the door.
“Come on in. I’m Sylvia. Welcome to our family owned coffee shop. Can I get ya something?”
How uncomfortable he must feel. Six tables of staring strangers. What a brave soul.
“Um um I’m looking for work I wanna wash your windows once a week I’ve got the bucket and paper towels I won’t even come inside to get my pay if you want I do really good work I’m not late I won’t bother anybody or ask for nothing from nobody I give you my word…OK?” he recites in an oath- like, run-on sentence.
“Well,” Sylvia responds from behind the counter, pointing at me, on one knee, rearranging the milk jugs in the fridge, “my sister, Donna, really owns the shop so it’s up to her.”
“Thanks, Sista,” I mumble, standing now, and hiding behind her fluffy hairdo.
Before I could reach out to this awkward character, Robert throws open the door, shades slamming against the glass, Harry and Fran looking up from their crossword work, “Hey!” Robert screams, “You’re not going to believe this! My own uncle is going to testify against me!! He says I killed my own testicle by keeping the bandage on too tight and raking the yard too soon after surgery. He’s crazy! The hospital put the bandage on and the only reason I raked the yard was because my wife was bitching about the dog tracking leaves into the house. You know how Bridget gets when she’s pissed? She’s got borderline personality disorder and she’ll scream at me. So what do get? A shriveled-up testicle! Now I’m only half a real man? Right Max?”
“No Rob, you’re not half a real-man…you're still cool…and it sounds like you weren’t using that one anyway, “Maxwell slips in while stacking napkins.
“Nice Max, “Robert grimaces, “way to bust my balls.”
“Ball?” Max replies, awaiting the roar of the crowd.
“Maxwell! Hush!” I chide,” That’s not nice. It may be true, but it’s not nice. Go make Robert his double espresso and start a new SAMS list with croissants, at the top, spelled correctly.”
I walk outside and the Window Washer Man follows. We agree to his humble salary: five one dollar bills, a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies. Gently, I shake his hand, and he shuffles down the sidewalk to fill his yellow bucket up in the building faucet and get started.
“Is that weird guy OK?” Robert asks, chugging his morning espresso, as I return inside.
“He wondered the same damn thing about you!” I snap, “And no more testicle discussions, please, you’re making ME nuts!”
“So?” Sylvia asks, “Are you going to let him do the windows? We’ll all take turns paying him if that helps.”
I scan each table, face-by-face, all displaying the same pathetic plea. The “please Mom, can we keep him? Please Mom, can he work here? Please, pretty please, let him stay,” promise of every kid looking at a box of puppies.
“Yes…of course he's hired,” I respond, “It’s not like we’re in danger of being a real business anyway. We agreed to a regular weekly deal.”
“Come on everybody, think, a nine letter word for good scents, we really need this word, “Fran begs, wanting her opportunity as the center-of-attention.
“I got it!” Max declares, “Faux-pourri?”
“What.” I scowl, “is faux-pourri?”
“You know Aunt Donna, “Max responds, “the bags of good smelling dry leaves and shit, I mean stuff, that they sell in different colors.”
“No silly goose, that’s potpourri…potpourri, “I laugh, spinning around toward my sister,” Your kid is killing me. You’re all slowly killing me!”
“Sylvia’s Sister,” Window Washer Man shouts to me, tapping on the shining, plate glass window,” I’m outa here. I’m done with you people today.”
Now there’s a man with good sense........Another jewel in the family crown.........
Monday, April 5, 2010
He, Myself, and I....Writing Assignment 2
He: 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 liaisons, 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. Reassuringly he explains that he’s already served the Army….Vietnam…and has “two medals and an honorable discharge certificate.”
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.
Myself: Sunrise-Sunset
Nano’s porch steps were where I first heard the story of the Lady in the Harbor, and in his moist eyes saw the pride of an immigrant peasant boy, disembarking at Ellis Island to a new homeland. Daddy’s father’s heavy accent, gentle spirit, and oft-used wistful response: “No So Much” tethered me to his heart. The old man wasn’t funny…but Mom’s mom was hysterical! Her storytelling recipe: exaggerated facial expressions, parable-based topics, naughty words, and Seagram’s’ VO on the rocks, stirred with Nano’s old world style, nourished my childhood.
While the Titty Fairy, Graceful Fairy, or IQ Fairy visited my three, younger sisters, I was whacked, twice, by the Humor Fairy’s wand. With good reason, because early on it was obvious modeling or athletics were not going to be an option! Corkscrew hair, teeth sized for a larger mouth, curves of a javelin, void of rhythm…no wonder while my girlfriends were taking ballet or twirling batons, I was scribbling down silly, sassy, satire about Ballerinas and Baton Twirlers.
Hair bows and Barbie shoes gave me a rash, as did Teen Magazines and eye-liner, but Catholic school plaid and an ecumenical early job history, with God-awful uniforms, reinforced childhood expectations to look beyond appearance for substance and worth...in ourselves and others.
I dated, married, had kids with, and still love the only boy I ever kissed. And when a Weeble-shaped Irish priest raised his hands to our foreheads’ and announced to the congregation, “You will forever be called Husband and Wife!”- I took him literally. Thirty-five years later I still call that boy-of-mine ----Husband. Cards, messages, pillow-talk…it’s always simply----Husband. I must admit, In keeping with the required integrity of essay writing, which I studied in an awesome class, I have called him things that were not part of the sacrament of marriage.
Husband and I raised a house filled with sons, two we gave birth to; the rest, in need of an extra family, chose us. This colorful home initiated teachable moments with curious, new neighbors or police officers sent to check out the tall, black kids on bikes…in an all white, affluent neighborhood. Discipline rarely an issue, choosing my creative side as the in-house Dean of Men. No time-outs or threats of restriction, not my TRADITION…Cue Fiddler on the Roof or Peter, Paul, and Mary. Yessiree, missing curfew won you four hours of sitting through Mom’s favorite movie or music. I had the only basketball team who could perform, albeit irreverently, “If I Were a Rich Man” and “This Land is Your Land” from beginning to end.
Managing a children’s program in a domestic violence shelter. Facilitating groups. Teaching young felons. Seeing the devastation of untreated mental illness or addictions gave perspective to the rudimentary hardships in my life.
I desperately needed to learn to listen, rather than hear. I'm still working on that one!
Stubborn, shamelessly sentimental, brutally pragmatic, controlling, stubborn, bossy, rule obsessed, hopeful, stubborn, and afraid of the dark....at sunrise or sunset.
I: One Ringy-Dingy
“I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”
And the caller ID to read…PLAYBOY…so Hugh Hefner can invite me to do his ‘Women with Scars” issue.
Luckily, c-sections, a hysterectomy, and breast tumor scars hide under my unmentionables. But the long, thin line that divides my chest, the open-heart surgery wound, gets lots of sun and attention in swimsuits or sundresses. I’ve bristled at thoughtful suggestions, from well-heeled peers, about body make-up, hell….I don’t wear face make-up, except a scosche of lipstick when donning grown-up clothes for a business dinner or charity event.
Evening attire isn’t my strong suit. It’s not the actual “suit” that stresses me…it’s the accessorizing. Size 10 shoes with heels, even kitten ones, add inches to my 5’9” frame, and increases the distance to the ground and subsequent injuries, when my clumsiness visits.
My jewelry is purpose driven. My left ring-finger proudly embraced by my wedding set, that bonds me to the present, on the right, my Great-Grandmother’s engagement ring anchors me to generations past...
….as does my Father’s bird chest and Mother’s broad-Latin hips.
Calloused, un-manicured hands betray my love of yard work and aversion to nail polish. An outgoing smile flashes perfect, bright teeth that my parents paid good money to straighten.
Bifocals hide fifty-two year old, brown eyes and pre-mature crows-feet. My thick, dark mane, which on dry, winter nights is sleek Jackie O and on humid, summer days, is free-spirited Gilda Radner.
Big ears? Perhaps…but they'll help me listen for Heff’s call!
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 liaisons, 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. Reassuringly he explains that he’s already served the Army….Vietnam…and has “two medals and an honorable discharge certificate.”
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.
Myself: Sunrise-Sunset
Nano’s porch steps were where I first heard the story of the Lady in the Harbor, and in his moist eyes saw the pride of an immigrant peasant boy, disembarking at Ellis Island to a new homeland. Daddy’s father’s heavy accent, gentle spirit, and oft-used wistful response: “No So Much” tethered me to his heart. The old man wasn’t funny…but Mom’s mom was hysterical! Her storytelling recipe: exaggerated facial expressions, parable-based topics, naughty words, and Seagram’s’ VO on the rocks, stirred with Nano’s old world style, nourished my childhood.
While the Titty Fairy, Graceful Fairy, or IQ Fairy visited my three, younger sisters, I was whacked, twice, by the Humor Fairy’s wand. With good reason, because early on it was obvious modeling or athletics were not going to be an option! Corkscrew hair, teeth sized for a larger mouth, curves of a javelin, void of rhythm…no wonder while my girlfriends were taking ballet or twirling batons, I was scribbling down silly, sassy, satire about Ballerinas and Baton Twirlers.
Hair bows and Barbie shoes gave me a rash, as did Teen Magazines and eye-liner, but Catholic school plaid and an ecumenical early job history, with God-awful uniforms, reinforced childhood expectations to look beyond appearance for substance and worth...in ourselves and others.
I dated, married, had kids with, and still love the only boy I ever kissed. And when a Weeble-shaped Irish priest raised his hands to our foreheads’ and announced to the congregation, “You will forever be called Husband and Wife!”- I took him literally. Thirty-five years later I still call that boy-of-mine ----Husband. Cards, messages, pillow-talk…it’s always simply----Husband. I must admit, In keeping with the required integrity of essay writing, which I studied in an awesome class, I have called him things that were not part of the sacrament of marriage.
Husband and I raised a house filled with sons, two we gave birth to; the rest, in need of an extra family, chose us. This colorful home initiated teachable moments with curious, new neighbors or police officers sent to check out the tall, black kids on bikes…in an all white, affluent neighborhood. Discipline rarely an issue, choosing my creative side as the in-house Dean of Men. No time-outs or threats of restriction, not my TRADITION…Cue Fiddler on the Roof or Peter, Paul, and Mary. Yessiree, missing curfew won you four hours of sitting through Mom’s favorite movie or music. I had the only basketball team who could perform, albeit irreverently, “If I Were a Rich Man” and “This Land is Your Land” from beginning to end.
Managing a children’s program in a domestic violence shelter. Facilitating groups. Teaching young felons. Seeing the devastation of untreated mental illness or addictions gave perspective to the rudimentary hardships in my life.
I desperately needed to learn to listen, rather than hear. I'm still working on that one!
Stubborn, shamelessly sentimental, brutally pragmatic, controlling, stubborn, bossy, rule obsessed, hopeful, stubborn, and afraid of the dark....at sunrise or sunset.
I: One Ringy-Dingy
“I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”
And the caller ID to read…PLAYBOY…so Hugh Hefner can invite me to do his ‘Women with Scars” issue.
Luckily, c-sections, a hysterectomy, and breast tumor scars hide under my unmentionables. But the long, thin line that divides my chest, the open-heart surgery wound, gets lots of sun and attention in swimsuits or sundresses. I’ve bristled at thoughtful suggestions, from well-heeled peers, about body make-up, hell….I don’t wear face make-up, except a scosche of lipstick when donning grown-up clothes for a business dinner or charity event.
Evening attire isn’t my strong suit. It’s not the actual “suit” that stresses me…it’s the accessorizing. Size 10 shoes with heels, even kitten ones, add inches to my 5’9” frame, and increases the distance to the ground and subsequent injuries, when my clumsiness visits.
My jewelry is purpose driven. My left ring-finger proudly embraced by my wedding set, that bonds me to the present, on the right, my Great-Grandmother’s engagement ring anchors me to generations past...
….as does my Father’s bird chest and Mother’s broad-Latin hips.
Calloused, un-manicured hands betray my love of yard work and aversion to nail polish. An outgoing smile flashes perfect, bright teeth that my parents paid good money to straighten.
Bifocals hide fifty-two year old, brown eyes and pre-mature crows-feet. My thick, dark mane, which on dry, winter nights is sleek Jackie O and on humid, summer days, is free-spirited Gilda Radner.
Big ears? Perhaps…but they'll help me listen for Heff’s call!
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