Two Saints and a Tractor!

I must admit I had no idea that he was still alive.

How could he be?

When that little girl in the pleated green skirt and white chapel veil pinned to her curly-top hair knelt in Mass every Friday morning and dared glance up at him; he seemed so very old.

And that was almost 50 years ago.

Perhaps it was his solemn countenance that Mom insisted was holiness and myself and all my childhood friends assumed was unhappiness. Perhaps it was hard for him to smile or laugh because he was pastor to a poor church and school, St. Patrick’s, instead of one of the parishes that had new stained glass windows and professionally sewn “Alleluia” banners on the altar. Perhaps he was still angry about the Crucifixion.

The nuns implored us to watch Father Scully closely, because his eyes were the eyes of Christ and his love of the Lord was one of perfection; it was saintly.

Every morning Sister Teresine, our principal, led us in prayer over the crackly old intercom system. We prayed for the sick of the parish. We prayed for our Pope and Bishop. We prayed for our loved ones. We prayed for Father Scully, the leader of our flock.

But secretly, silently, I always prayed for Uncle Bill…St. Patrick’s custodian. His real name, Mr. Yarawsky, was tricky to pronounce and for twenty-five years he would be ‘Uncle Bill’ to the thousands of children that attended our small, Catholic elementary school. From the moment we lined up on the pavement to raise the flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, to the sound of the final bell and the fast-walking, never running, dash to the parking lot, we knew Uncle Bill would take good care of us.

Forgotten milk money or a tumble on the sidewalk and bloody knee…Uncle Bill was there. A broken desk or kickball stuck in the tree…Uncle Bill was there. So many years later I can still see him atop the school tractor mowing the play yard grass or smoothing the baseball field sand. His sharp features softened by a broad smile and talkative eyebrows. He seemed to know when to peep his head in and reassure the chatty-child who was sitting, head on desk at recess, while the sounds of her classmates wafted in through the open windows. His key chain opened the maintenance closet where the good smelling dust was held to cover up the mess your upset tummy made.

And when your tears articulated the fear of an unbecoming nickname or hurt feelings, Uncle Bill would take your hand and calm your heart. It seemed that he was truly the shepherd of the flock.

Both these decent men died last week and their passing provided me a much needed lesson.

A lesson in judging.

As I read Monsignor Scully’s obituary and online guestbook I was struck, no…I was humbled by the words offered to describe this holy man. And though many memorials reflected the tall, brooding priest that seemed to speak for a harsh, halting Lord, the words of his current flock were adjectives that described great gentleness and kindness. Loving devotion and years of dedicated service to so many who learned to know God’s word from Monsignor’s soul.

Mr. Yarawsky’s eulogy included years of service at St. Patrick’s and as a Deacon in the community. Pages of fond, touching memories from the children that called him Uncle Bill filled the space beneath his smiling picture.

I guess the little girl in that hand-me-down uniform was mistaken about these two men. They weren’t so different after all. They had different mannerisms and gifts. Different styles and stances. Different ways to lead you to the same path. One wore starched work clothes and an easy grin, the other layers of anointed robes and the occasional nod. In reality, their jobs were to keep their flock safe here on earth and prepare them for eternity.

They did a really fine job and now these two loyal shepherds have been called home…I sure hope Uncle Bill takes Father Scully for a ride on a heavenly tractor!!!

http://www.tampabay.com/news/publicsafety/article1129733.ece

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tbo/obituary.aspx?n=william-yarawsky-bill&pid=146115118

Lesson 1: Write about the reason you have delayed writing your story.

But Here I Sit

Husband always tells people that his wife is a comedian.

A storyteller.
A writer.
Without fail, they turn to me, and in a loud, sassy twang exclaim, “Really! How perfectly charming that is.
And what is it…What exactly do you write?”
“Checks! Lots and lots of checks!” I squeal, figuring if I can’t inspire respect,
I sure as hell can arouse jealousy.
You see, I wasn’t meant to be here.
No, not in the physical sense, silly goose, in the metaphysical sense.
My career plans written first with a chubby, red crayon.
“donna is a RiTer,”
as a faded, 1st grade self portrait still clarifies.
Middle school years spent uninterested in David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and the rest of the lunch box idols. The Monkeys or Partridge Family were musically inclined, but dull when compared to the band of critters in my immediate family. Have I got a sit-com for you?!
A Catholic high school with primarily a Latin population produced a notebook of material just waiting to be deciphered and chronicled. Maybe book two?
Baby sitting jobs turned away, choosing rather to work in a sun-scorched car wash or dreary, discount store, knowing they would provide earthier caricatures of humanity.
Never experienced the “Oooh” factor for infants; and found them even less inviting as toddlers.
Children for me? Never!
My future was carefully composed and consisted of a New York flat, an iron staircase, abject poverty, a frayed cord hoisting a single light bulb, my creative juices, and solitude.
That is where I would be.
Simple?
No so much.
Because in a stocky, 6”, green-eyed, twist of fate, I met my brother’s college roommate. We became pen pals, buddies, companions, steadies, and thirty-five years ago… husband and wife!
We have struggled, lived, laughed, had sons, and inherited more sons;
all as the years scampered past.
A brief offer to volunteer in a Domestic Violence Shelter morphed into years of managing their Children’s Programs.
All kids, all day!
All remembered, yet unwritten!
Aging grandparents and parents interrupted my Journalism degree field trip and somehow, in a moment of menopausal mental illness,
I bought a small coffeehouse that came with a leaking,
antique espresso machine and a menu of flavorful characters!
“May I have a mocha, marijuana, vodka latte’, please? Can you make it a double?”
“Certainly,” I cajole, “Hot or cold? Whole or skim milk? Whipped cream?
Oh, and by the way, I’m not meant to be here. "
But here I sit........
Wondering if fate’s benevolent hand has muffled my primal dream, because my lack talent would make it a nightmare, or, if I have finally run out of excuses…..except the fear of failing….
Or is it 'accept' the fear of failing?

I Don't Think Lazarus is the only one that's sick?

“Larry! Hurry come out here to the backyard, I think the dog just killed a baby squirrel,” I screamed.
I could see the annoyed look in his eyes, as he turned the corner, hopping on one foot, while slipping his yard shoe on the other. “Donna, that’s a full grown squirrel and it looks like it’s been here a few hours. Look at the red bugs on his nose.”
“Fine, whatever, but he’s still breathing. What are we going to do?”
After thirty-five years, we’ve seen this movie before. I’m totally unreasonable about the cycle of life in nature, and he’s totally trapped in my plan to save and protect God’s furry friends.
“Donna, my office is closed today, because the stock market’s closed. Remember, we were going to get up early, mow, rake, and spruce-up the backyard, get cleaned-up, go to Good Friday services, and then come home and take Zipporah for a walk. Remember?”
“Husband, look at this little face."

"NOT MINE!"

"Look, the squirrel’s eyes have a deep, dark gaze. His heart is pounding. He seems paralyzed in fear…have you ever seen anything like it?” I ask, now sitting in the grass, next to the sickly squirrel. “What do you really think happened to the little guy ?”
“Maybe he just read the Healthcare Bill?” Larry deadpans.
“Good God, “I shout, “are you gonna start?”
“Donna! Don’t say that today; this is Holy week after all. And no, I’m not gonna start, I was just making a suggestion. Listen sweetie,” he continues, now sitting by my side, looking at the still critter, clinging to life, “you and your family have such unnatural expectations of nature. This is a squirrel, not a relative and you can’t give it human emotions. I know it makes you sad, but things get sick and die all the time in the wild. It’s part of life. Right?”
“No Husband, no so much right!” I snap. “And just because your people think nothing of buying, naming, and raising little bunnies or lambs and the next thing you know, they’re serving Flopsy stew out of a camouflaged crock pot….”
“No Husband…just because Italians are civilized and don’t want to get emotionally attached to their meals, does not make us unrealistic.

It makes us normal!”
Slowly, Larry stood from our death watch on the lawn, lowering his sunglasses he looks into my determined eyes, and firmly pinches his lips together with his thumb and forefinger.
“And what’s that all about? “ I ask.
“I know how this ends, “ he grimaces, “I say something about your family, you get your feelings hurt, the damn tree rat dies, and before you know it….two innocent men are crucified today!’ The squirrel and I hold our ground.
“Come on, “he concedes, “I’ll go get some gloves and a soft towel and you go get that medicine dropper and some warm water. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Thanks Husband! But I’ll wait here until you get back,

so nothing gets to Little Lazarus while we’re both gone.”
“Little Lazarus? You’ve named that dying, tree rat Little Lazarus?”
“Uh, huh,” I answer proudly, my glare now piercing his UV protected shades.
“That’s just beautiful…Jeezzzus Christ!” he exclaims, walking toward the garage.
“HEY, hey, watch your mouth,” I parrot, “Remember it’s Holy Week!”
“Yes, it’s Holy Week,” he agrees, “and if this Lazarus doesn’t rise from the dead, you’re going to worry and sulk and make me nuts. DONNA! Where’s that medicine dropper?”
“I'm going. I'm going, " I respond,

"Maybe I ought to call the Squirrel Rescue place we took Simon and Garfunkel to? Ya think?”
“You mean the people we took those orphaned baby squirrels to in the middle of the night? The free healthcare clinic that required fifty bucks an animal as a mandatory donation? All so they could release them at a supposed free-range squirrel sanctuary? You’re really going to fall for that again?” he scowls.
Little Lazarus is getting weaker and though his extremities can move and he doesn’t seem frightened or uncomfortable, it’s obvious he’s not long for this earth.
“Husband, we have to do something! I’m not going to sit here and argue. I’m going to go Google search the squirrel rescue and see if anything else comes up. Do you think I ought to see if our Vet’s office is open? What should I do? You must have some ideas…you do watch the Animal Planet channel all the time?” I persist.
Larry is obviously irritated.
His eyes beginning to resemble Lazarus’ blank stare, “Donna…honey…I think this animal is dying, but you do whatever you need to do and I’ll support you. Call the squirrel shysters, check the Internet, call the dog’s vet, hell….call Oral Roberts! Just please let me get some yard work done before I have to be a paw-bearer and dispose of this poor creature. Please!”
“Ok, alright….I’m going to start calling, but suppose that rescue place only takes baby squirrels?
Suppose they won’t take Lazarus because he’s really sick?
Suppose they say no?” I processed aloud, “Or that he’s not eligible. What should I say then?”
“Donna,” he says, patting my face, with his yard work-gloved hand,” try telling them he had a pre-existing condition!”

And we loved him too...........

His father wanted us to know we made a difference.

He wanted to say, “thank you” for being his son’s friend.

That his son loved us.

He wanted to tell us that his son died last week.

Our words of condolence and promise of prayers seemed to comfort him, but much like his son he wasn’t much for talking and head bowed he walked out the coffeeshop door to his tiny, rattle-trap car. The same tired, old, orange Honda that brought Window Washer Man to and from Ashley’s for the past 10 years rain or shine. Good times and bad. His bucket and paper towels in hand.

We had all wondered aloud about his health the past few months and whispered worries about his absence these last three weeks. But in all these years he never once shared his name, so we had no where to look. No one to ask. We knew he must be ill or hoped that perhaps he had moved closer to the VA hospital. Maybe he wasn’t taking his medicine or maybe he had found a really good job and would one day walk thru our door, sit down at a table and order a muffin; instead of diligently washing and wiping each corner of the plate glass window, for his bagged salary of food and five bucks….our regular deal.

We knew it had to be serious because Window Washer man was prompt. Was polite. Was part of our coffeeshop family and wouldn’t just leave and not say goodbye.

I think we’re going to buy a brick at Freedom Playground in his honor. A small monument to his fight for freedom from the addictive hands that left his body ravaged and tossed away like marionette with broken strings. And though he beamed with pride on Monday’s when he boasted of another week of sobriety, hand tremors and disheveled hair often hinted at a different truth.

I hope his brick will be in the bright sun, close to a slide or swing, cemented into the earth with the carefree sounds of children laughing and playing.

It will say simply:

“Window Washer Man was a good man and a proud man. We will miss him. Love Sylvia’s Sister and his Ashley's family.”

His first story from my essay class...I'm so glad I have this today!

http://nosomuch.blogspot.com/2010/10/our-regular-deal.html

"Always Heard....Even if Not Quickly Answered"

On September 10, 2002 it was impossible for me to sleep, and with the vision of the Twin Towers collapsing weighing heavy on my mind and the slow motion reminder on every cable channel; I gathered my memories and my laptop and began creating sentences.
Never, ever could I have imagined some 9 years later that an inhuman attack of the innocent that joined the vast majority of this planet in prayer would be engulfed in controversy over a book sacred words?
It seemed so uncomplicated in 2002 when I wrote:

“The whistle and static coming from the wall mounted P.A. speaker signaled to me and my classmates that Sr. Teresine was going to talk to my second grade class
and maybe even the entire school.
She might announce that we would be having a special Mass, or tell us the little boxes of white milk had not been delivered for lunch tomorrow so we needed to tell our Mothers.
Or maybe Sister was going to ask us to quietly kneel on the floor beside our desks and bow our heads to pray for a special intention.
She began with the words,
"It is a very sad time for us all and it is only our prayers that will comfort those in need. Do not ever feel that you are helpless because the prayers of children are always heard,
even if not quickly answered."
It was Friday November 22, 1963 and our President had been shot.

Recess was quiet, our teacher's black transistor radio, with electric tape holding the battery cover on, was the only sound on the playground.
We were told to pray throughout dismissal for the families, and the doctors,
for our first Catholic President.
And we did.
When I got home, Mom's face was etched with tears.
Our small black and white television explained why.
JFK was dead.
His wife's pretty suit stained with his blood. His children now had no Daddy.
The feel of that hard, cold terrazzo floor returns each year.
Seaborn Day School had tile floors, not terrazzo, but the ache on your knees was much the same.
As principal of a small private Day School my phone rang incessantly every morning..this September morning was no different.
Lunch boxes forgotten. "Has she stopped crying," woes.
Teachers running late. Children out with the sniffles.
It wasn't unusual for Husband to call me at work first thing either.
Maybe to remind me that he has an evening meeting. To read a silly email.
Not to forget he needs shaving cream for tomorrow.

Just to say "I love you lots!"

9/11/2001 was different.
"Donna, I think we are being attacked," he whispered.
"Attacked?" I asked, into the portable phone I was holding with my shoulder and chin, while herding little ones out of the halls.
"What are you talking about?
Within hours weeping parents were rushing up to the school house door, punching the entry code with trembling hands. Holding children close to their quaking hearts, as if a wild animal was on the loose and after them. I had hustled everyone off the playground and away from the windows. Why? I couldn't say. It just seemed safer.
I went from class to class hugging teacher's necks and making certain that the children were singing their silly, circle time songs.
"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down......"

My cell phone ringtone alerted me that Mom and Dad and our sons were calling...and calling...and calling.

Sister Teresine's words surfaced and became my own.
Rino, captain of his college basketball team called, wondering how to lead a practice on such a terrible day. How to answer the young players, far from home, questions or fears.
"Mom, what do I say?"

That was the first time I told him about a little girl in a green pleated skirt, kneeling on a chilly floor one November afternoon. I shared an old Nun's wisdom about the prayers of children.
Charles called from his master's program lab.
"Where's Dad? You Ok. Rino? Grandma and Grandaddy?" he asked.
"I need extra money to buy a book," he continued, "The Quran. Because I need to read for myself what I think it teaches, before I am told what it teaches."
Their futures seemed in peril.
Not future...years.
Future...tonight.
I explained how in 1963 my mother shared her grief and her faith and I repeated Sister's remedy for helplessness. I assured them all that they would always remember where they were that September day. That for years, new and old friends alike would also remember the sounds and feels and smells that they experienced on that morning.
It will become a demarcation line.
A before and after.”

Today on this 9th anniversary I was with 100,000 people gathered together for a football game, just a few miles from where a bonfire fueled not by pages of the Book of Islam, but by hell’s favorite accelerant……the words of hate, was to be held.

And as the stadium fell still in a moment of silence to honor those that gave and continue to give, I looked through clouds to the heavens…and reminded Sister Teresine of her promise and wondered how many more children would have to bow their heads in mournful prayer, before adults learn to live in peace.

Lesson 7: Describe Your Editing Process

Moses likes it!

Shh….we have to be very, very quiet!
Husband is sleeping, and just between us, I think he has grown tired of my journaling.
My blogging.
Weary of walking into his office to a round of applause, this last time about his unfortunate,
open umbrella vs. coffee cup on the car roof confrontation.
And he’s a wee bit irritated at finding my laptop and I huddled together in the middle of the night.
But my inner editing voice, apparently on Greenwich Time, comes callin’ at the most inopportune hour.
And it’s not a gentle, “Hey, I don’t mean to bother you…but I was just thinking” call.
No So Much!

It’s a bellowing, high pitched, “There’s a FIRE IN THE THEATRE!

Get yourself back to that keyboard,” call.
And I do.
And I add.
And I delete.
And I cut.
And I paste.
And in the stillness of my office/workout equipment graveyard, I exorcise trepidations.
I squint, through half-closed eyes, hoping I have envisioned the perfect phrase.
I inhale; a deep filling breath, and then exhale, making a loud exaggerated “whooshing” sound,
hoping that a cleansing rush will blow away any mislaid commas or awfully, annoying alliteration. And in this comfy setting, between my Buns of Steel DVD and a Memoirs for Dummies paperback,
I re-read my finished creation to Moses, our recently cremated German shepherd.
(I struggle with criticism)
You see, thirteen years ago, when he was just a pup, I devised a critique code for him.
Bark twice if you hate it, once if it needs minimal tweaking, and sit quietly if it's done.
And here we sat, he in his little doggie urn, and me, in my fire retardant, hot-flash proof,
menopause nightgown.
And I listen…and my editing voice is silent…and Moses approves…..and…
“Donna, where are you?” Husband growls, from our bedroom across the hall.
“Are you OK? Are you blogging in the middle of the night again?
Am I going to have to stay home from work in the morning because you’re telling
the world about my misplaced remote control hissy fit?
I still think you’re the one that put it in the freezer.
You know, my clients read that damn blog!
Sometimes they call me, not about their accounts, but just to laugh.
DONNA!!! Are you done?”
“Husband, Shh, Moses is sleeping. And yes, I’m done.”

Happy Father's Day Daddy!

On this third Father’s Day without Daddy seated on the couch, Pretty Kitty on his lap, I felt compelled to remember our last Father’s Day together. This is the blog from that day:

Tools of the Trade

The fact that my Father’s Day blog, will begin with a story about Mom
should be no surprise to anyone who knows the situation.
Yes, today we had our traditional family gathering and yes
the traditional casts of characters were in the house.
Parents, children, grandchildren, photos of a great grandchild, and non-related relatives.
Just about the time we started circling the black beans and rice, Mom started talking about her upcoming class at Home Depot, the class traditionally taken by 78 year old Wonder Women: the“How to Tune-Up your Lawn Mower” class.
Mind you she wasn’t bragging, nor did she see this two hour lesson as an odd choice,
after all she was the lawn service for much of the past sixty years.
Dad, he wouldn’t recognize the mower without a formal introduction.
The same could be said about most tools, most plumbing, most car mechanics, and any other traditional Father related task.

“I’m just happy that he learned how to put gas in his car!” she would tease.
She’s so right.
I’ve been thinking about the ‘Father/Man of the House’ chores we saw him do as a child.

Tools…No So Much!

Couldn’t fix a toy. Didn’t do yard work. If a pet was ill or a car made a funny sound he called the family repairman: GRACE!!!!!!
Daddy worked two jobs for as long as I remembered, but on the occasional Monday night off,he would take one of us and a friend to Morrison’s Cafeteria and a dime store to buy a trinket.
If we had a to stay home from school, because we were a little under the weather, he would take us to Krispy Crème and let us pick out the donut with candy sprinkles and our own tiny bottle of Welch’s grape juice.
He rarely if ever, spoke unkindly about someone.

(The media is his only exclusion)
He apologized if some unbecoming event was part of an old story or tale.
It wasn’t moral to speak disrespectfully about another; even if it was true!
He called his Father “Sir” and loves his wife and children more than he can express.
He buys dark chocolate candy bars for Patricia.
And worries if Ed, from the coffeehouse, hasn’t been in for a couple of days.
For years, he would sneak crème puffs in the house and quietly put them on the table,
for Mom’s Mother to find when she got up from her afternoon nap.
We watched him mourn the death of his Mother with tears hidden behind bent sunglasses, so as not to upset anyone with his sadness.
He walked three girls down the aisle and returned with sons, not sons in law.
He demonstrated untiring loyalty in the hours he worked to feed and clothe us.
Though not always approving of our choices or politics or situations; he made it clear that he would always be close by.
His refusal to refuse us almost anything has made his life difficult at times,
but not nearly as difficult as telling us no.
Mind you, the us might be his children, his grandchildren, a friend indeed, a stranger in need.
Stray cats, stray birds, stray kids.
He is deeply grateful for the kindness of others and cannot control his emotions when thanking them, because it is a thank you that originates in his heart, not his head!
And today on Father’s Day he reveled in the house overflowing with family, his family. And we gloried, in between arguing and really loud discussing, in Daddy’s special day.
I hope his ten grandsons :
Charles III , Domenic IV , Anthony, Lawrence III , Maxwell, Zachary, Dylan, Kyle, and even Cedric and Casey pay close attention the Master Craftsman their Grandfather is.
The way he wields the tools of commitment.
The non-negotiable tools of Fatherhood that never dull or rust thin.
Morality, the tape he uses to measure right and wrong, regardless of the decade or decision.
Loyalty the hammer and nails he uses to build and raise a family.
Tradition, the saw he uses to carve an old world family out of a modern society.
Love, the cement that adheres us together. All together. Always together.
Daddy will not be joining Mom at Home Depot to learn how to sharpen the lawnmower blades, and if there is ever a class on Fatherhood at Home Depot, he won’t need to attend either.

Daddy already has all the tools of the trade, and he truly knows how to use them.

Hey Husband, how lucky for our boys that you have both heart and garage filled with tools!

Disabilities are relative…and hands down I’m part of the family!

Good God it is hot.

Not necessarily a revelation for mid-June in Florida at high noon. But a three mile walk along the Bayshore, to the car repair shop to pick up the Tahoe, seemed like a healthy plan when I stuffed my Amex card in my pocket and my headphones in my ears. Through the neighborhood, over the bridge, and….and…what the hell was I thinking with only two and three quarter miles to go.

But slowly I got into rhythm and the glistening, flat Bay’s occasional splash of life combined with my folk music helped pass the time.

“We shall overcome,
We shall overcome,
We shall overcome, some day.
Oh, deep in my heart,
I do believe
We shall overcome, some day.”

That and the good- natured greetings; head-bobs,

eye contact-less smiles, and the random “how are ya?” exchanged

with my fellow sidewalk sidekicks. Verse two…..

“We’ll walk hand in hand,
We’ll walk hand in hand,
We’ll walk hand in hand, some day.”

A Wave Hello! Wave! A Wave? Hello?

Yes indeed ,for some still unknown reason I waved…at the white haired, bearded man in the sunflower yellow shirt and biking shorts, left hand gripped tightly around the gear shift, his right sleeve flapping in the wind unencumbered, because there was no arm in it.

Really Donna, a wave? You couldn’t just smile and nod. A toothy grin perhaps?

His raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders alerted me that he wasn’t going to be able to offer a reciprocal howdy-do. Now in all fairness, he looked only slightly perplexed, “I’d wave back if my hand wasn’t occupied at the moment,” and he looked only slightly amused, “You’re walking in the mid-day sun, in a dark brown shirt, with no water, and I’ve got the perceived disability?”

Slipping my hands in my pockets with my sun burned impulsivity I continued down the sidewalk until I reached the stoplight and waited my turn to cross the street. Still singing. Still hot as blue blazes. Just me, myself, my thoughts and, and, and a one-armed guy on a bike that came to a stop on my left side.

“How you doing, Sir,” I asked, hoping he would not recognize me as the hand-jive Joan Baez from mile marker two.

“WOW, it’s so hot my hand is getting too sweaty to let go,” he said.

How sweet, he’s telling me that he usually waves at folks and I’m not a goof-ball. “No worries, “ I responded, smiling confidently and no longer feeling like an insensitive shmuck. (Briefly)

“No worries? Maybe not for you,” he barked.

His raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders reappearing.
“But I’m having a hell of a time downshifting and stopping.”

“Apparently so am I…so am I….,” I mumbled.

We parted ways at the corner I wished him a great day, he nodded; no doubt wondering if the earphones in my ears were holding my brains in place!

Good God it’s hot!

I Don't Expect Anyone to Understand....

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.

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

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…

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,

hidden from Mom in the trunk of your BMW.
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.

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,

“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,

“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,

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? "

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.........

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!

Shock and Awe

Shock….

I couldn’t wipe my eyes, so I had no choice but to look through the prism of the operating room lights and my own tears.

I knew the crying was a good sign.

Joyful voices, not somber ones.

Tension replaced with calm.

I had given birth, finally, to my first born. And though he was “surgically evicted” after twenty-eight hours of labor, and though I was exhausted, impatiently I awaited the ‘Motherhood Miracle’ I’d eagerly anticipated for nine months.

You’ve heard that legend. The promise that at the moment of childbirth, the skies open and you are immediately embraced by the maternal genie. Then, the Celestial Singers or Chanting Cherubs perform the “You’re a Mommy Now” serenade, complete with fireworks and crashing cymbals. It happens every time.

On that March day, strapped to an operating room table, I listened, ignoring the background babble and beeping machines. And waited.

Nada!

“Mrs. Bevis,” a nurse whispered, touching my bare shoulder, “In a minute you can hold your son. He’s huge and I swear he already needs a hairbrush. I’ve never seen so much black, kinky hair in one place!”

“Really?” I mumbled, conscious enough to privately question how an OG/GYN nurse, who spends her days looking at women’s, well, looking at women’s privates has never seen so much black, kinky hair. Must be lots of pregnant, red-heads on this Air Force Base?

I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to sleep, not wanting to miss my chorale affirmation. Maybe they’re down the hall, singing another verse to the lady who at 3AM loudly threatened her mate with a homemade vasectomy, performed with her quilting shears and no anesthetic?

Husband’s deep voice wafted over the green, sterile sheet that screened my open belly from my blurred vision, “Donna, I’m so happy. Wait till you see him. We did great!”

“Hey, Husband, I’m happy too"-happy that you were able to pull yourself away from the Skipper, MaryAnn, and the three hour Gilligan Island marathon you watched half the night. “Yes sweetie,” I agreed, through dry, swollen lips, “we did great. So, was the Professor able to make a radio out of Ginger’s underwire bra?”

Dear God, please don’t tell me the lyrics to my melodic, motherhood message include:

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip.

“Here he is,” a nurse announced, handing me a swaddled bundle, “now you can introduce yourselves.”

“Hey, Charles, it’s Mommy and Daddy,” I blubbered, “We love you. You are all we hoped for. You are perfect!”

And I really meant it, given newborns don’t arrive bearing gifts of margaritas and nachos, which would have made him both perfect and clairvoyant.

My maternal genie never showed. The choir was AWOL as well.
Maybe they were irritated because I never wanted kids, knowing my childhood dream was to be John Boy Walton, without the icky mole, sitting in dimly-lit room writing? Maybe they were waiting for me to prove myself before they clanged the cymbals?

....And Awe

He stood on the altar, flanked by tuxedoed boyhood friends, awaiting his bride.
Why hadn’t he brushed all that black, kinky hair?

Unable to wipe damp eyes, my tear-streaked cheeks glistening in the flame of the candle I was holding-it was again the day he was born.

Fondly, I remembered the childbirth naiveté of that twenty year old girl who married the only boy she ever kissed. She read the books. Collected goodie-bags of nursing pads, hemorrhoid crème, and conscientiously attended the vital classes. Except the one devoted to Motherhood Genies and Other Tales.

Having labored through anatomy, she knew the particulars, but years of hearing Mom’s euphemistic childbirth comparison, “God opens a little window,” provided hope for simplicity of delivery…it was a lie! More like “God takes a little crowbar.”

Instantaneous transformation into maternal goddess …no so much. It takes work, patience, daydreams about joining the witness protection program.

Believing the first sight of your newborn unleashes unparalleled awe…false. All firsts do. First smile, steps, school, stitches, love, arrest. Arrest? Awe!

Clanging cymbals? Funny you ask, because tonight when Charles and I stepped on the dance floor, and he insisted his father join us in the traditional Mother/Son dance, the heavenly chorus finally performed; accompanied by the lyrics of the song my firstborn chose:

And we are led to those who help us most to grow,
If we let them , And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

How could he know I’d been waiting thirty-three years to hear those words?

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.

Give ten reasons why you must write...

Donna’s Top Ten Reasons For Writing:

10. Because it is cheaper than drinking all night and healthier than eating all day.

9. Because you can scream hysterically, using all CAPITAL LETTERS and the neighbors won’t hear you and call the cops who bring back

that jacket with extra long sleeves and the zipper in the back.

8. Because the menopause-pause, mentally searching for the right word, while fanning yourself, is not as noticeable on paper.

7. Because writing includes pounding on something, even if it is only a keyboard.

6. Because too often, the folks I need to say things to have lost one of their senses.

The common one!

5. Because unlike standing in the street doing my Town Crier imitation, writing gives me the opportunity to calm down, edit, revisit, and shamelessly exaggerate to make my point.

4. Because you can say, save, then delete the words you wish you had the “Pelotas” to say.

3. Because I’m a pacifist and hate the sight of blood, especially my own.

2. Because saying you’re a memoirist sounds better than being the family tattle tale.

and the number one reason I write:

1. Because I’m not spending 20 years to life anywhere I can’t take a hair dryer.

Lesson 4...Use your assigned quote and set the scene

"If I should"

Gertrude Stein said,

“You have to learn to do everything, even to die.”

But I must tell you, having tried it once; old Gert’s quote should have included better instructions or a syllabus with footnotes and a glossary.

A daily planner, with only one page, would surely be a help.
I guess I hadn’t planned on this moment being so scary.
So lonely.
So permanent.
That being said, I hadn’t planned on dying at the ripe old age of 42 either.
I’m not sure I know how to do this with poise. I mean I’ve put up an Oscar winning performance the past month. I have reassured, quoted the percentages, claimed an early victory, and even bragged about my plan to pose for Playboy after this is all over.
“Just wait until they do the women with scars issue! I’ll make us all rich,” I would tease,
“C-sections, breast tumors, hysterectomy,

and now a long and lovely open heart operation scar.”

“Mrs. Bevis,” a soft voice spoke as the ceilings lights flickered on,

“You need to take these meds within the next 30 minutes. I always like to give my patients a little time to get their last thoughts in order,

So, I’ll be back in a few.”
“Already? Really?” I asked, my voice cracking like that of pubescent boy!
“Now, remember, you will not awake again until after the surgery and you will be intubated and unable to speak. Do you have any final questions?” the nurse inquired nonchalantly.
“No, thank you,” my mouth said politely, while my mind screeched something about using the words ‘final’ and ‘last’ in this situation.
I glanced at the generic hospital room clock,

wondering how quickly 5:30 am would become 6:00am.
I needed to stop horsing around. Wasting my precious minutes.
I needed a prayer; a good 12 years of Catholic school, can’t miss, Holy Roller prayer.
“Bless us O Lord, and these thy …gifts…”
Are you kidding me?
Thirty minutes away from perhaps being on perpetual time and all I can remember is Grace,

the blessing before we eat?
Come on Donna, it’s 5:37 and you need to hunker down and get serious.

Think! Think.
You've seen enough movies, heard enough tent revival songs. Read enough memoirs.
You must have some profound words left to say,
Just in case.
Words with presence. Meaning.
Hurry up!!
How can you be so calm? No desperate death bed promises? No angst, disappointment,

fury at all you had hoped to do? No apologies?

Regrets?
Well, regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention, I did what I had to do….”
Donna, for the love God! How on earth did Frank Sinatra sneak into your might be,

could be, death bed scene?
And now that I think about it, how did I end up in this final act?
Intently staring at a clock, now reading 5:48, as if my life depended on it.
I mean really, there I was, minding my own business, raising a house filled with sons. A career that was more avocation than vocation. A darling husband, that I have cherished since first we met. And what about my family history of physically, though not always mentally, healthy folks? So how come 96 years old Nana Granny is still sucking down pureed pasta, and I’m lying here with a bad heart and matching aneurysm?
The ultimate buy one, get one free combo....No So Much.
Tick…tick…tick…5:54 am
Come on back, Donna. I have faith in you. Come on, focus.
You hear those squishy footsteps in the hall?
Breathe….breathe…You know, maybe, just maybe it is simply time for my earthly life to end and my eternal life to begin. And maybe, just maybe it will be fine.
Perfectly fine.
For now, I’ll just lay me down…..lay me down….
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I…
If I should…
“Mrs. Bevis, it is 6:00, and here are you meds. Now you just relax. Everything is going to be over before you know it,” the nurse reassured,

“In just a few minutes you should be sound asleep.”
Should…..If.....

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Hey Donna, you did good and if you come out this, I think you need to give old Gertrude Stein a second chance too.