Bared to the Soul

I visited my mother.

On the first day, my mother didn’t know me when she saw me.

That was okay.  She’s collected a whole lot of birthdays.  She’s had a stroke. I’d prepared myself for such a possibility.

But then, sometime during the second day…she knew me.

I knew the moment it happened.

It wasn’t the “aha” moment I have with friends when I spot them in the grocery store. It was the quiet, solid locking of eyes when two people have shared the same experience. In that deep gaze, images came at me–rapid fire and plush with emotions: teenage arguments; late night talks, sewing lessons; snotty things I’d said…

In no particular order, wordless visions of our lives twined around each other as we stared.

She looked into my eyes and read the depths of my soul, asking me to understand all the words she  wasn’t  able to speak anymore.

“I know you,” was all the vocabulary she was able to say. All my courage and bravado crumbled.

I had prepared for my mother not knowing me.  I was unprepared for the depth at which she knew me.

I’m not for sure who my tears are for….her or me.

When Cyberspace Goes Silent

Family visits are never Silent

A good friend of mine told me he hadn’t ever read this blog. He didn’t have time.

He probably doesn’t have time.  He takes care of his elderly mother 16 hours a day and works the other 8 hours.  His life is full of all the little things that make living possible.

Have you ever taken care of some one who is elderly, ill, or broken? What astounds me is how much time it takes.  Even just to visit. Or if you do a bit more, it takes even more time to  make meals, to provide transportation,  take someone on one of their many trips to the doctor.

Then I realize it’s not just the ill who might appreciate a good story or a listening ear. There are the folks who are grieving.  Others who are lonely. And doesn’t everyone have a nutty relative who needs a visit, but you have to force yourself because their house has pathways through their collective years of newspapers and magazines.and the place smells because they never open the windows?

What would happen if instead of surfing, answering e-maills, or reading blogs, folks were spending time with real people.

Wouldn’t it be great if one day cyberspace was quiet, empty, deserted….. like an abandoned world you see in sci-fi movies because everyone was busy spending “face-time” with others.

How much could we accomplish? How many wounds could we comfort? It’s something to hope for.

Who will you visit this week?

Dogs Waiting With Cats

Even in the midst of crummy news, there are things to smile about.

Miss Kitty has a growth on the side of her mouth. It doesn’t seem to bother her a bit. She still presents mice at the back door step and is rolly-polly fat.

We hauled Miss Kitty to the vet this afternoon. I was in a pouty mood because my dentist had just told me that I needed a crown on a tooth, yet he can’t get it done before my insurance runs out. It seems he’s fully booked.

“Busier than I’ve been in several months,” he declared. It’s because of all the people laid off of work, trying to get dental work done before their insurance runs out.”  (Yeah, tell me about it.)

So our  family made it an outing to take Miss Kitty to the vet. I sat in  the cramped waiting room stewing  about  how to get a new crown, CowboyFan is sitting next to me wondering how much we actually need this cat (who never liked him). Scout is holding the cat which has lodged its head in Scout’s armpit, thus believing it’s hidden.

The door opens and a dog as big as a Shetland pony enters. It’s a Great Dane/ elephant mix.

The little poodle, who had been showing off by prancing circles on her hind legs, huddles between its owner’s legs.  A cat scuddles to the back corner of its carrier. Miss Kitty lets out a low moan (although she couldn’t see or smell the G.Dane—remember her head is rooted in Scout’s armpit which should stun both her optical and olfactory senses for at least a week).

The Dane’s name is Daisy. She’s orangey brown and looks like someone slung a black paintbrush at her, creating a brindle effect. Her owners couldn’t afford her anymore, so they’d dropped her off at animal rescue. The couple who adopted her brought her to the vet  for a check up.

Daisy  is a good-hearted doofus. She  lays when her new owner tells her, “Down.” Then she crawls like a marine across the floor on her doggy elbows to sniff the poodle cowering against the wall.She tries to make friends with a poster of a dog. Within minutes the waiting room is laughing at her Jim Carey antics.

CowboyFan is chuckling and starting a community conversation about pets. I am laughing and thoughts of my dental work fade away. Miss Kitty is so relaxed that someone asks if she’s alive since there’s the body of a cat splayed over Scout’s lap (her head is still in his armpit, so she may have  passed out).

Miss Kitty will have surgery.  We will take care of her and be reminded of what a gift pets are to us. They jog our focus that there are beings outside of ourselves. They teach us about  love, companionship, and an honesty about life. They remind us to hope. They remind us to laugh.

A Ripple in the Universe

Thanks to Rodrigo Favera

I’m not a Ouija type of gal. I knew in all of the pre-pubescent parties that it was really my friend, Cindy,  pushing the planchette to “Yes,” when I asked if Jonathan Bell liked me. As it turns out, he did like me for a week and sat next to me in art until Melinda Crutchins made big eyes and asked him to sit with her. So long Jon.

The scientific explanation of the Ouija  is that subconsciously we wish for something, and a covert program running in the background of our thoughts helps us push the planchette to the answer we want. Drat! I always thought it was Cindy…not me!!

And then at 12:47  last night I was writing an e-mail when a friend who is dying of cancer popped into my mind. At that moment, I typed into the e-mail how selfish I was to wish my friend wouldn’t leave us and how joyous her arrival in heaven would be—where everyday is Easter.

I wasn’t with my dad when he passed from this life. I was at work.  I thought I’d know though. I figured a fragrant, pine breeze would touch my face as he stopped to say good bye, or I’d feel the earth pause in its rotation. When someone leaves  such a huge hole in the fiber of the world, how can there not be a ripple in the universe with their passing?

My daddy, an outdoorsman—not the REI type, but the Lil Abner type—asked the hospice worker to turn him on his side so he could see out the screen door. He passed with the fading afternoon, and I didn’t know until I received a phone call.  I concluded that we humans weren’t tuned into the escalator of souls coming and going.  It would be too much for our fragile senses to be jolted with every loss.

However, when I got the phone call that my friend had died around 1 this morning, I wasn’t surprised.  Actually, I felt great relief and joy that she’d made it home.  “It’s interesting,” the caller said. ” I woke up about  one this morning thinking of her.”

Like I said, I’m not a Ouija-type of gal. I think  it’s our subconscious pushing, worrying, praying even as we sleep.  I believe that our passing from this realm makes no wave.  Any ripple in the universe, is caused by the Creator—coming to carry us home.

The Weird Love of Comfort Food

I realized that I hadn’t laughed today.

The more I think about it…I’m pretty sure I didn’t laugh yesterday either. Oh,  there was plenty of “Heh. Heh.” chuckles.

But there’s something definitely off-center when I can’t remember when I had a guffaw that came from the middle of my belly and erupted up my throat.

So in honor of a good laugh, I’ll tell you a story.

My grandma believed in comfort food to bind the family together.  She grew up in the depression era, so a fat chicken with home-made noodles was rich eats  for her.

Her favorite meal was a mess of quail. It was a wet, nasty April day like today when she asked my dad if he’d shoot her a quail. She said she’d been pining for one for quite a while.

“Well, sure Ma,” he said.  I was at Grandma’s when he brought  in her bird, all dressed and cleaned, with the legs cut off.

“You just shoot one?” she asked.

“Yeah, you eat it. We want burgers, don’t we, Sug?” he winked at me. I’d been raised on rabbit, squirrel, and venison, or whatever my Dad could shoot. To me, a burger was a welcome reprieve.

Grandma fried up her bird. “He’s kinda paltry lookin’” she said as she pushed him around in the skillet.

“Well, there’s not much for the  little fella to feed on. You shoulda waited til things greened up.” Dad gave me another wink.

We sat down to eat, and Grandma started wrestling the bird with her teeth. She gnawed and tugged, trying one side of her mouth, then the other. “This is a tough ol’ booger,” she mumbled and went back to chawing on a leg. Tears streamed my father’s face as his chest jiggled. I looked back and forth between him and Grandma, trying to sort it out.

When her dentures flew across the table. It was a full minute before he could get his laughter under control and tell her, “It was a crow.”

“My dawd!” Grandma scowled. “I thought the meat looked awful dark.”

Dad was laughing so hard, his voice sounded like a little girl’s as he wheezed, “April Fools.”

That was my family. Somehow the jokes communicated a trust deep enough to risk a laugh at ourselves and each other. I’ve moved away and grown serious.

I need to laugh. It lightens my heart. Maybe I’ll make some comfort food. Maybe I’ll make it with pepper-jack and call the family.

What’s Your Comfort Food?