Ellie Searl Stories

JUST A KID

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Aug 2013 13:48:00 +0000

He was just a kid, and he used to live in that shack-turned-shrine.

Gaudy bouquets of sagging paper roses fall into the weeds. Wrinkled posters scrawled with “Rest in Peace,” and “I will love you forever,” written in black magic marker above a distorted sketch of his face. The ink, purple from rain and dew, bleeds across the page. Candles, balloons, American flags, and melted candy lump together in piles. Stuffed bears and tigers and dogs with matted fur and faded bows are topsy-turvy, tossed among crumpled sympathy cards and hand-written notes.

Slumped mourners take snapshots of each other—marking history—capturing tears of personal loss in front of the twisted Do Not Cross police ribbon stretched from the fence and around the stubby tree—jammed with soggy dolls, hand-made gifts, and toys—into the bareness of the backyard.

And across the street, protected from the sun and rain by black and white striped tent awnings, are card tables stacked with souvenirs. Over-sized t-shirts, CD’s, and DVD’s, each on sale for the low, low price of $15.00. Seems like a deal. Mourners pocket their cameras and hold t-shirts to their chests. “Do you think I look best in this one? Or this one?” Boom boxes at top volume play “I’ll Be There,” and “Thriller,” and “Billy Jean.”

He was just a kid. A cute, black kid. One of nine, all squeezed together in a foursquare shack—all trying to find space—like too many broken crayons shoved into a torn, over-used box.

He was just a kid. Handsome. Talented. Could he sing! And dance! He was the best of the five. He was the lead. Still . . . just a kid. And all the while, they say, as he was growing up, they say, he was filled with fear, crying and enduring the onslaughts of an abusive dad, they say.

He and his brothers were well behaved. No playtime, no running around the backyard, no friends, not even real school—just rehearse and perform. Rehearse and perform. Entering contests. Winning competitions. Entertaining the patrons of black nightclubs from Chicago to DC. Then Motown. Then LA. Then Neverland. Then . . . what?

He was just a kid who grew from a sweet, round-faced Gary, Indiana, toddler into an exceptional and celebrated entertainer and onto stardom and world-wide fame and finally into a grotesque, disfigured, emaciated man-child who liked to spread love by sleeping with little boys after serving them the wine he called “Jesus Juice.”

That tiny, garage-shaped home—that empty, rotting, paint-chipped, clapboard house—now the backdrop of a massive mound of tributes to the one who had captured the hearts of devoted fans and had filled the pocketbooks of enabling promoters and had satisfied the photo-lust of the paparazzi and had crammed the agenda of the media and then, after years of mystery, and innuendo, and hanging his baby over a balcony, and being tried for pedophilia, and reshaping his body into a sculpture so skeletal and so removed from the robust cherubic-like child he had been, had finally given the world the option to ignore his misdeeds, his over-spending, his drug use, and his scandalous behaviors.

He had given the world a final performance—one that would wipe his tainted slate clean, one that would allow him to rise from the mire he made of his life and ride new waves of esteem and veneration, one that would crescendo him into virtual saint-dom—an extraordinary, untimely, unrehearsed death.

But he was always and ever just a kid. A very, very sad confused disturbed talented little kid.

EVS 08/13

THE GATEKEEPERS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 22 Jul 2013 14:06:00 +0000

Dreams are illustrations . . . from the book your soul is writing about you. ~ Marsha Norman

They’re Gatekeepers, and they prevent the unskilled culture-defacers from assailing the public with crap.They guard the entrance to creativity, allowing the select few—those who pass muster—to enter. Not the riff raff. Not the wanabees—those sad, misguided dilettantes who think their work shows merit—who try to worm their way through the slats.

If it weren’t for that Cadre of Connoisseurs assessing, ranking, and restocking the Aesthetic Empire, the eating, viewing, and reading public wouldn’t know what to eat, view, or read.

Take food. Without Big Food Houses, like Poach Board and Pot Watch, anyone and his second cousin could open a restaurant. BFHs put aspiring restaurateurs through a series of trial kitchens where chefs prepare innovative fare for taste testing, after which the Palate Committee flavor-edits the dishes, taking, say, six to ten months, eventually returning the recipes with recommended modifications that the would-be culinarian must integrate into menu options before contracts are finalized.

The Big Food House then spends the next year and a half designing and building the restaurant, and, once open for business, collects all restaurant proceeds, forwarding to the owner maybe eight percent of the profits in quarterly installments.

Gastronomic Gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard eateries, i.e., self-established restaurants whose owners believe their food actually tastes good.

Then there’s art. Painters, sculptors, photographers. Those quirky right-brainers who think that producing art is a way of life. Without Art Gatekeepers there’d be oils and watercolors and photographs and sculptures on display all over the place—museums, galleries, stores, street corners, gardens, offices.

Big Art Houses, such as Design Depository and Statue Statutorium, keep the art world under control. They stash submissions for review in massive warehouses, where they remain until the Talent Assessment Guild determines their attributes. The evaluation process is simple. TAG, made up of the administrative assistant and night janitor, stands in front of each work of art and throws Rock, Paper, Scissors. A coin toss determines who represents the artist.

Rock-over-Scissors means the piece is rejected, or if small enough, displayed over the urinal in the men’s room.

Paper-over-Rock means the art is returned to the artist for revision—with a note:

“Jackson – Uh, we think you sent us your floor tarp by mistake.”

“Ansel, a bit of color would be nice.”

“Say Vincent - Don’t give up. With some practice, you’ll master perspective.”

“Yo! Leonardo! My Man! – Everyone on the same side of a table? Hello.”

Now those artists, if they want a second chance with TAG, must edit their pieces according to where the dart lands on the revision wheel—Color Within the Lines, Smooth Out the Dots, Quit with the Umbrellas, Straighten the Watch, Add Velvet—anything to show they’ve at least parked at an art school.

Scissors-over-Paper means the piece is a keeper, and contracts are signed. Once a piece of art is chosen for public view, it’s put aside until there are upwards of twenty additional Scissors-over-Paper wins by the same artist—enough for a full gallery open. Could take two to five years, during which time the artist waits tables for a Pot Watch Restaurant.

Art Gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard museums, galleries, and studios, i.e., self-installed exhibitions whose artists believe their art actually looks good.

Then there are writers. Good writers. Bad writers. Mediocre writers. Doesn’t matter. They all want to be published. Somewhere. But especially by the Big Book Houses, like Reticent Review and Predictable Press. Ask any writer, and he or she will say that publication is a primary goal, so it's imperative to have Reading Gatekeepers. Otherwise, just anybody could write and publish a book. And if just anybody could write and publish a book, there’d be books everywhere. We all know that the reading public lacks wordsmith sophistication. They read books indiscriminately, ignoring taste, creativity, style, and quotation marks on the wrong side of the period.

It’s essential that Reading Gatekeepers guard the reading public from piles of word hash plopped beside gourmet prose at any reader’s table. How dare a writer expect to publish a book without it first being prepared, plated, and presented to judges who can attest to the quality and doneness of a piece of writing?

Big Book Houses judge a book by its cover. Therefore, it helps if an aspiring writer has a close working relationship with a Scissor-over-Paper art winner. Once the cover passes muster, the interior text is evaluated. Currently, the book must be about dogs, celebrities on drugs, or a vampire who looks like a teen-aged Christopher Robin, and there must be a plethora of words with only three syllables, at least one fancy font, and an appropriate dedication to one’s mother.

The publishing world has evolved to the extent that anyone—Grandma Jones, Aunt Agnes, Cousin Earl—can publish a book. But self-publishers have no gatekeepers. Self-published books aren’t legitimate. They’re written by amateurs. Ask the Reading Gatekeepers. According to them, self-published authors use bad grammar, change tenses, and incorporate too many adjectives and adverbs. Self-published books are puerile, shallow, and undeveloped. They’re not properly edited, they’re boring, they’re tedious— a scourge on the market.

It doesn’t matter that some, perhaps many, writers have dreams of seeing their words, their stories, their manuscripts, stand on a shelf between Shakespeare and Steinbeck. It doesn’t matter that, like restaurateurs and artists, they want to see their hard work come to fruition and become products they can sell to the public, or share with their friends, or give to their children, or put in Grandma's hands.

What’s that you say? Not all self-published books are full of crap? There are well-written, self-published books by excellent authors already in the marketplace? That these books are good? And selling? And popular? And that even some authors have left the Big House and gone indie? That it's not the self-publishing in and of itself that qualifies a book for the back porch, not good enough for the grown-up table, not worthy of the good china? And that just as establishing one’s own restaurant doesn't mean bad food or installing one’s own gallery doesn't mean bad art, self-publishing one's own book doesn't mean a bad read?

How radical.

If that's the case, then here's to all writers who dream of seeing their labor on the bookshelf or shining through the small screen of an e-reader or sitting on the coffee table in Grandma's house or in the hands of Grandma herself.

Go for it.

Don’t be intimidated by the elitism of The Gatekeepers—those people reading, and judging, books on their side of the gate. So what if they don't read yours? That doesn't mean no one else will.

EVS – 07/13

GANESH AT THE DOOR

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 17:46:00 +0000

. . . AKA Our Move to Delaware

fter a thirty-five-year career as a Unitarian minister, my husband Ed decided to change his life direction. He was ready for no more church: no more hospital visits, no more evening meetings, no more sermonizing, counseling, and funerals.

I agreed. I was also ready. Not that I didn't like church. I did. Ed made church interesting. But I suffered minister’s wife guilt, especially when I ducked Sunday services, potlucks, Friday Fun Nights, Third Tuesday Movies, and coffee hour.

So in October of 2011, Ed submitted his resignation as minister of the Unitarian Church of Hinsdale beginning January 1, 2013. Christmas Eve would be his last service, and December 31 would be his last day.

Ed had a plan. His mom and dad, Mary and Clint, then 95 and 96 years old, were becoming frail, and Ed wanted to live with them so they could stay in their home— the one they built when Ed was a baby—for the remainder of their lives. It was the right thing to do. It would doubtless include hospital visits, counseling, and maybe even funerals, but we figured a congregation of two would be easy to manage.

***

Moving in with Ed's parents was a long way off. Fourteen months. Plenty of time to get our household items sorted, donated, recycled, and packed. Plenty of time to update the house, stage it, sell it, move to Delaware, and care for the elderly.

But from October to the next July, we did nothing. We talked about it. We thought about it. We even looked forward to it. But we did nothing, as though we expected the Relocation Fairy to burst through our inertia and take action.

I continued designing books, Ed continued ministering, and we both continued drinking champagne on Sunday afternoons, riding kick bikes in Oak Park, eating tacos at La Cabanita, and taking walking tours of the city. But get the house ready? Nothing.

Friends would ask. "Is your house on the market?" - "Are you unloading stuff?" - "Need boxes?"

Our answers were the same. "No." - "No." - "Not yet."

We were in denial. At least I was. Maybe I didn't think it was real. Having lived in La Grange, Illinois, for 30 years, it didn't seem possible that I'd be leaving. I couldn't imagine myself not being in these rooms or using that sink or climbing those stairs. So I ignored what I had to do.

Every now and then Ed would say, "El, we have to do something about the house."

I’d say, "Today isn’t really good for me.”

***

As the summer of 2012 approached, we decided to spend the month of July with Ed's parents to test the elder care situation. Still having done nothing with the house, we loaded our technology and a month’s worth of clothes into a big black Enterprise Toyota Avalon—leather seats, Sirius, and On-Star, which I promised not to play with like before when I declined emergency services after I apologized to the agent for the accidental crisis call—and headed to Delaware.

A month with Mom and Dad was somewhat enjoyable, somewhat frustrating, somewhat humorous, and somewhat worrisome. Ed and I took care of Mom and Dad—shopping, cooking, helping, conforming—and when we were off duty, took drives into the country, explored the neighborhoods, walked the nature preserve, and found fun restaurants.

We worked as a team as we maneuvered in and out of the parents' habits and schedules. We laughed privately at the ridiculousness of some things and vowed never, ever, to be like that when we are timeworn and frail.

***

Mary and Clint are as sweet and lovable as two people can be when they're reaching the edge of life. And like many elders, they live in the past with stories of growing up on the farm when the world was "far better than it is today," and they live in the present with unyielding routines, rules, and recriminations.

¨ Only one box of ice cream open at a time. Even if you don't like it so much.

* "You shouldn't have opened that. The Banana Peanut Butter Mint isn't finished."

¨ The mayonnaise goes behind the coffee, not in front of it.

* "I couldn’t find the mayonnaise today. I don't want to make a sandwich and find out I've spread my roll with coffee grounds!"

¨ No keys to the house for us.

* "You might lose them."

¨ Air conditioner - 81 degrees.

* "Wait 'til you're 96, you'll see."

¨ Breakfast - 7:00, lunch - 11:30, supper - 5:00.

* "It's almost 5:00 and nothing's happening in the kitchen."

¨ No snacking between meals.

* "You shouldn't be eating those crackers. Supper is only a couple of hours away."

¨ Early light meal on Saturday. No eating later.

* “The kitchen closes at 5:00. Period.”

¨ Don't lift the Dirt Devil off the floor.

* "I'm not fussy. I just want it done my way."

¨ Wash all the Baggies. Hang them up.

* "You’re so wasteful."

¨ Buy exactly and only what's on the grocery list, which is determined by what’s on sale.

* “You paid too much for that chicken, you know."

¨ No doing laundry on Sundays.

* "You've got all week to do laundry. Except Monday. That's my day."

¨ No cooking things for later at lunchtime.

* "It’s lunchtime. Not cooking time."

¨ Bedtime at 7:00.

* "Wait 'til you're 96, you'll see."

Mary and Clint might live by routines, rules, and recriminations, but they find interest and joy in their projects. Mom likes baking, doing the laundry, ironing with starch, reading the newspaper cover to cover, watching "Judge Judy," and marveling at the beauty of her back yard. Dad takes care of the bills, loves genealogy, and makes sure the landscaping is up to par, even though he can't do it himself anymore. And they love their dinner conversations about days long gone—stories of hobo Peg-legged Pete who clomped to Mom's farm each spring and fall to change his clothes and have a meal, or slaughtering pigs in November, or planting onions right after St. Patrick’s Day—each story accompanied by Mom’s coconut cream pie, or lemon sponge cake, or the one permissible ice cream.

Ed and I kept our spirits high by listening, cajoling, laughing, and drinking. We had cocktails every afternoon at 4:00 as we prepared dinner. In the evenings, Ed and I read, wrote, or watched Hulu Plus videos on our Kindle Fires and iPad. By the end of July, the double-sized bottles of vodka and bourbon were gone, and our Verizon bill was close to $500.

The month lasted what seemed like - well, a month. Not so bad, really—almost doable. We figured we could keep our sanity and take care of the parents, so we drove home and calculated how long it would take us to sell the house. We had five months.

***

Throughout August, we sorted some of our extraneous household items into keep, trash, and donate. We packed a few boxes of office supplies. We dumped junk onto the curb for Waste Management, but local pickers grabbed most of it first. We took stuff to Helping Hands and donated a sofa and an over-sized chair to Sharing Connections. But we didn't do anything with our still-being-used household items. And we didn't call a Realtor.

Then we had four months. The more we put it off, the more we panicked—and to avoid feeling panicked, we put it off.

In September, Ed began his last half-year of work, giving him less time to devote to the house. I continued to write, design books, have lunch with clients, meet friends, go to movies, and ignore the house.

By the last week in October, we had managed to clean and stage enough to ask a Realtor to help us put our house on the market. We picked a top-notch Realtor—one with the best record in the Western Suburbs. We figured that since we had put off this exercise in ignorance so long, we'd need the royalty of real estate to bring us to closure. But we knew that even she, with her selling wizardry, wouldn't be able to do the job in our time frame. Putting a house on the market in late October, hoping it would sell by the end of December was dumb, really dumb, especially given the collapsed market.

Ed and I expected to sign with this woman, after which we'd sit in a holding pattern for at least six months drinking coffee at Starbucks while potential buyers tromped through the place complaining about this or that or the other thing. And then, after putting in an offer, they'd want things repaired, changed, rewired, plastered, and plumbed. We knew we’d be in one huge financial fix, shelling out several months' worth of mortgage payments after Ed’s paycheck had stopped coming in.

Of course, any potential sale could fail. “I sell a house three times,” the Realtor said. “Once to the buyer, once to the bank, and once to the inspector. The sale could fall through at any stage.”

Our house-selling anxiety rose to a new high.

Also in October, Ed and I began planning for several events that were to take place before the end of the year. One event was a late October trip to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, where I was to give a presentation on book design to the Southern Missouri Writers Guild.

Then there were three BLESS-ED Events to celebrate Ed's 30-year tenure as minister: a concert on October 20, a testimonial on December 1, and Ed and Ellie's Diner on December 16. Each celebration would be a huge party with music, speaking, hors d’oeuvres, and champagne. All ending with Christmas Eve—the big tearjerker—Ed's final service.

And I needed new clothes.

Throughout the month of October, I shopped for outfits at Veni Vidi Val’s in downtown La Grange. The owner, Val, and I had become good friends over the years, and her store was my place to shop.

On October 24, the day before Ed and I were to leave for Southern Missouri, I had an eleven o’clock nail appointment, and we had a one o’clock signing appointment with the Realtor.

At five minutes to eleven I stopped at Val's.

"Don't even know why I’m here,” I told Val, “’cause I can't stay. Have two appointments practically back-to-back. Nails now and signing with a Realtor at one.”

Val said, "Ellie, I thought you put your house on the market months ago."

"Nope. We've been dragging our feet, and now we’re in a real bind.”

"My husband rehabs houses, and he's currently looking for one. Can he take a look at it?"

Unbelievable.

"He can go there now."

I phoned Ed and told him a man named Silvano would be showing up. When I got home at noon, Silvano was sitting in our living room extolling the virtues of our house.

We never signed with the Realtor.

After a few more looks at the house, a couple of meetings at Starbucks, a nice dinner at Prasino's, and a nicer dinner at Alexander’s Steak House, we sold our house to Val and Silvano—as is.

No hassles, no headaches, no house fixing, no extra work. Just pack up and leave.

Palpable overwhelming relief.

I had sold the house in less than five minutes.

Must be a record.

There was, indeed, a Relocation Fairy.

***

We closed on January 11, ordered a PODS container and a dumpster, arranged for furniture pick-ups, called Salvation Army, took crap to Good Will, and pretty much became overwhelmed at what we hadn't done months earlier.

We started the real packing on Monday, January 14. Our house looked like those seen on the TV reality show, "Hoarders." Stuff strewn everywhere. Our bones and muscles ached from hefting, shifting, loading, packing, tossing, rearranging, and everything-elsing. The weather was cold, and on the last day, it was zero degrees.

Ed hired Frank—a displaced gentleman Ed knew from church drop-ins—to help us pack the POD. Frank was a godsend, practically packing the POD himself. He arranged everything and hefted the big pieces.

Throughout the packing and sorting, when we came across something we didn't want, we'd put it on the curb. Pickers took it within the hour. Pots and pans. Gone. Queen sized mattress. Gone. Baskets. Gone.

Ed put a sign against a tree. "Dryer. Free. Inquire within."

Dryer. Gone.

A mountain of boxes and bags sat on our front porch ready to be carted to a donation center. Neither Ed nor I had the wherewithal to take them.

The dryer guy came back the next day with an empty flatbed gardening truck. He took everything off the porch, and then he stood at the front door while I went around the house looking for more stuff to give him. Pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, dishes, doilies, candle holders, and on and on. By the time he left, his flatbed was overflowing.

Later in the afternoon, another metal picker came into the house. I looked for something to give him.

"Want a toaster?"

"Sure."

"Want a toaster oven?"

"Sure."

We gave him andirons, shovels, and hoes.

We gave Frank a TV, rakes, blankets, and a kitchen table set, all of which he shoved into the back of his van. Frank’s friend took two dressers, two beds, two love seats, and a chair.

We marveled at how quickly we were able to unload our belongings. Had these people not stopped by and taken what they did, we wouldn’t have had room in the POD for everything.

By the end of the day on January 21, the POD was so crammed full, Ed had to punch his foot into the back of the stuff to roll down the door. We had worked for twelve hours straight in zero degree weather. Back pain made me sag. My legs gave out under me. Ed's frigid fingers swelled up and stopped moving.

Note that January 21 was Obama's Inauguration Day, so we had the TV on all afternoon while we packed. It wasn’t until after we locked the POD that we realized the TV sat on the empty living room floor. After a couple of self-recriminating “duhs,” we placed the 43” flat-screen TV on the back seat of our 2-door Cabrio, leaving little, but just enough, space for what had yet to be packed into the car.

Before we left the house for the last time, I put a couple of inches of Scotch and water into an empty one-liter coke bottle, and Ed found a forgotten half-bottle of Madeira left over from Christmas Eve chicken picatta.

Exhausted, hungry, sore, weak, cold, and looking forward to a great dinner, the hot tub in our room, and a comfortable bed, we pulled out of the driveway at 8:00 pm—Ed guzzling Madeira, and I surreptitiously sipping Scotch and water—in the looney tunes clown car, piled so high that if I slammed the brakes, suitcases, bags, and boxes would tumble forward and bury us.

On January 22, we headed to Delaware.

***

And here we are. In Wilmington. Redesigning our lives.

Ed and I have the upstairs for ourselves, and we'll be phoning Salvation Army soon to clear out the parents' furniture so we can replace it with ours. The garage and the basement resemble, again, a house from “Hoarders,” but there is little we can do about that, much to the parents' dismay. Our important papers were stashed somewhere in the rubble, but the title to the car and my birth certificate mysteriously rose to the surface just when we needed them.

We convinced Mom and Dad to upgrade to Comcast’s Xfinity Triple Play, giving us cable, phone, and wireless Internet. We keep our liquor, club soda, soft drinks, and snacks upstairs—in case we’re thirsty and/or hungry between meals and after the kitchen closes. Cocktail time begins . . . whenever.

Ed and I have made a pact to stick together on all issues and to protect our lives, combined and individually, from being sucked by the undertow of an elder-person culture.

I’m continuing my writing and my book design business, which is expanding weekly. Ed and I joined the Brandywine Valley Writers Group in West Chester, PA, and have been to a couple of meetings—the second one on self-publishing, and after I put in my two cents about ISBN numbers, free Library of Congress Control Numbers, and Smashwords’ rules, picked up two invitations to be a presenter on panels about publishing and book formatting.

Ed is working on a Delaware, 12-Mile Arc, book project. He’s researching the area for local lore, places, and history to include in his book. We've been exploring the countryside, discovering Smith Covered Bridge, the Mason and Dixon Star Gazer Stone, the 1763 Birmingham Friends Meeting House used as a Revolutionary War hospital, everything about the Wyeth family, and Indian Hannah, the last of the Lenni-Lenapes.

We’re also taste-testing the subs around here. And no matter where we go, the subs are authentic, packed full, piled high, juicy, and delicious.

We have yet to visit Chesapeake Bay, Baltimore, and Washington, DC. We'll soon go to Philadelphia and wander across the Brooklyn Bridge into New York.

***

Ed’s mom and dad continue to live in their world of perfection—a world they began creating 75 years ago when they got married—a world of memory and reminiscence.

And as they continue to teach us the errors of our ways, we learn more about love, acceptance, understanding, patience, and grace.

We’re in a good place.

As long as we follow the rules, we’ll be okay.

Postscript

The Ganesh Connection

At the December BLESS-ED testimonial event, a church member presented Ed with a statue of Ganesh, a Hindu deity known as the Remover of Obstacles.

Ed placed Ganesh in a prominent place in our La Grange home where he could witness our final months' activities from a 360 degree vantage point.

Ganesh looked out for us as. He invited people to our curb so they could haul off junk. He led people into the house for giveaways. He sent Frank to carry boxes and load the POD. He tricked one of the pickers into leaving his industrial-sized packing tape dispenser on the kitchen counter. He dropped off empty boxes just when we needed more. He found room on the back seat for a big TV, and then he fit everything else into the car. He found my birth certificate and car title in a pile of rubble.

And it was Ganesh who handpicked Val and Silvano as our house buyers way back in October. Because that’s when the obstacles began to melt.

Ganesh. Our Relocation Fairy.

EVS - 04/13

ECHOES OF MARIAN HALL - Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 18:17:00 +0000

(NOTE to Reader: "Echoes of Marian Hall" is a serial story. Part One was posted in January, Part Two in February, and so on. Each part will make sense on its own, but it will make the most sense if you read them in order. See the titles above.)

THEME: TAKING A LEAP

All growth is a leap in the dark, a spontaneous unpremeditated act without benefit of experience. ~ Henry Miller

I arrived home at four. The twenty-eight mile drive from Marian Hall hadn’t erased my agitation. Katie hugged my knees; her world of joy reminded me of normal.

“So, how was it?” Ed asked. “Do you love it there?”

“Where to start,” I said. “Do we have any wine?”

After an hour of relating my day, Ed had it all figured out. “So these are troubled girls from dysfunctional homes who do something bad, go to court, get sent to live with other troubled girls from dysfunctional homes all in the same colorless, cinder blocked, stinky-bathroomed, linoleum-floored, musty-furnitured room of a dead-bolted apartment inside a locked institution surrounded by a chain link fence and watched over by a bunch of nuns who patrol the building clattering keys around their waists.” He took a chicken out of the fridge and rinsed it under the faucet. “Now that’s living.” He slapped the chicken onto the cutting board. “What, exactly, did you expect?”

“I don’t know – I didn’t think I’d care. That it’s just a job? Like babysitting?”

Ed cut the legs off the carcass and sliced through the joints.

“El, these are locked-up teenage girls. Did I mention dysfunctional?” He chopped off the wings. “They’re not home making a chicken dinner with their moms and dads, who could probably give a flying fuck.” He winced and looked around for Katie, who lay under the kitchen table drawing circles on her steno pad, imitating Ed working on his graduate assignments. “Right now they’re all in the same room, eating the same crap, knowing that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow are going to be exactly as it is right this minute. It’s not a happy place.”

Ed cracked the breastbone and hacked it into two sections. He wiped blood off the fleshy pieces and threw them into a bag of seasoned cornmeal and flour. White puffs danced as Ed shook the bag. He dropped the pieces into a hot iron skillet, the sizzle reminding me of Sunday dinners at home in the Adirondacks. Tender, crispy fried chicken, real mashed potatoes, smooth gravy—all expertly prepared by my mother who didn’t send me off to live in a reform school, no matter how disrespectful I was or how many curfews I broke. But then I didn’t get caught shoplifting or running off with a man twice my age or sexually abusing the next-door neighbor’s kid in the woods.

Bottom line. It wasn’t a happy place.

“There’s something else,” I said. Grease splatted my hand. I made sure Katie was still under the table.

“What else?”

“I got a strange feeling – especially with Sister Pauline. She scares them.”

“She’d scare me.”

“Gloria started to tell me about putting the girls in the hole. I think it’s a punishment room.”

“It’s probably just a time-out place. Like the principal’s office.”

“They put the dispunkals in a hole?” There she stood—right behind me, clutching her pencil and steno pad--innocence rising from her face.

It would be several days before I would give Ed a private update—where Katie’s budding mind wouldn’t absorb all the sadness.

* * *

On my second day, I worked the three o’clock shift. This time Diane, a veteran worker, would be on duty with me. She “kept things tidy,” according to Sister Pauline. I pushed the doorbell and after a couple of minutes Marvin, the handyman, spoke through the intercom. “Que voulez-vous?”

“I’m Ellie Searl.”

“Qui?”

“Ellie Searl. I – je travail - work here – ici – dans Apartment One.” I held up a finger as if he could see it.

“Eh? Qui?”

Was he deaf? Didn’t he remember me? I wondered how long this would go on. I wondered when I’d get my own set of keys.

“Je suis . .Ellie . . . Searl. . . . travail . . . dans . . . Apartment . . . Une.”

Marvin let me in. He laid a mop against the wall and motioned for me to follow him. “You come,” he said, and we headed toward Apartment One.

Muffled screeching came from within the apartment as Marvin unlocked the door—like someone was screaming into a pillow. Marvin ignored the commotion and walked away. Once I was inside, shrieks reverberated off cinder block walls—a hen fight in an echo chamber. A tall, dark-haired, burly woman—Diane, I assumed—stood between Greta and Marlene who were trying to hit each other. The other girls, fists air-punching, circled the fighters, egging them on, cheering—as if they had bets on the winner. I had walked in on a teenage boxing match.

My first reaction was to leave. Quit. Right then. I hadn’t signed up for referee duty.

Sister Margaret was outside her small room, hands twitching at her sides. “Someone should go get Sister Pauline,” she said when she saw me. I started toward the living room, but her shaking fingers clutched my sleeve. “Don’t get in the middle of that. Please. Go get Sister Pauline.”

By that time, Greta had thrown Marlene to the floor and was trying to kick her, but she lost her balance and fell on top of her instead. Diane dropped into the midst of it all to unglue the wrestlers.

“You little bastard,” Greta said. “You took it—I know you did.”

“I’ll get Sister Pauline,” I yelled to Diane.

Sister Margaret touched my arm and said, “Thank you, dear.”

“No!” Diane shouted. “I’ll handle it.”

Sister Margaret shook her head. She had tears in her eyes. She went into her room and shut the door.

I stood there. Like an idiot. Watching. Undecided. Scared. Then I got mad.

I moved in to the fight and bellowed. “STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU! NOW!” I pointed at Marlene. “GET UP.” I pointed at Greta. “YOU! SIT OVER THERE.”

Maybe it was pure novelty—the new worker having a fit, the one who the day before hadn’t made much of an impression. Whatever the magic, the girls sunk into a kind of stupor. Marlene and Greta rolled away from each other and stared at me. I glared back and continued to point toward the couch. “Move,” I said. Greta stood up and sank into the sofa. She stuffed her arms into a pretzel. One of circling girls pointed at me and laughed. Marlene just lay there, panting.

“Well, haven't you got the touch.” Diane sneered at me—as if I had stepped in her personal shit pile of responsibility. “What else can you do? Raise the dead?” She got up and tucked her T-shirt back into her jeans. “I have my own ways.”

It wasn’t clear why she needed to demean me in front of the girls. Hadn’t I helped? Wasn’t she the one who liked to “keep things tidy”? But then, she had lost control—and I had found it. Her credibility had been put to question. Apparently, I wasn’t building rapport with the veteran.

“You,” Diane gestured to Greta. “You’re outta here.”

Greta started to say something, but she must have thought better of it because she closed her mouth almost as soon as she opened it.

Then Diane ordered the others to their rooms—doors open—until supper. No talking, no music, nothing. “Just sit on your beds and shut up.” Some mumbled stuff about it being unfair and that they hadn’t done anything. “Or you’ll all get the same,” Diane responded. That got them moving. Marlene giggled like it was all a game.

Diane stuck her face into Marlene’s. “You think this is funny? . . . Huh? . . . Answer me!”

Marlene shrunk back and shook her head.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t,” Diane smirked. Somehow, she head managed to regain whatever distance had been lost—she was boss again. And the girls understood whatever it was she wasn’t saying.

Diane turned her attention to me. “You go patrol the upstairs,” she said in the same tone she had used with the girls. I felt reduced to underling status. “Make sure they follow the rules. Take notes.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Miss Kicker and I are taking a little trip to the zoo.” Diane grinned and cocked her head. Her composure, and her control, all back together again.

I watched them go out of the apartment, Diane’s arm around Greta’s shoulder. Had Greta’s head not been hanging, it would have appeared that Diane was leading a prized student to an award ceremony.

(Part Three - March)
EVS 02/12

ECHOES OF MARIAN HALL - Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 02:03:00 +0000

(NOTE to Reader: "Echoes of Marian Hall" is a serial story. Each part will make sense on its own, but it will make the most sense if you read them in order. See story titles at the top of the blog.)

THEME: GOOD INTENTIONS
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be. ~ Douglas Adams

I wonder if it smells the same. Rotting citrus. Meatloaf. Sour milk. Peanut butter. Disinfectant over vomit. Like an ignored school cafeteria.

Or if it sounds the same. Whispers, flushing toilets, sobs, pounding on metal doors, screams, record player needles scratching on forty-fives, keys clanking against the swish of black robes.

I remember my last conversation with the director, Sister Mary Esther, who by that time was Jeanne Marie in street clothes, but to me she was still a Sister of the Good Shepherd, regardless of the switchover to secular management.

***

She snorted. “It appears you don't like it here at Marian Hall.”

“I don't.” The words caught in phlegm. “There's too much chaos. It's dangerous. The girls aren't getting proper care.”

“Well, then,” she said, “there's no reason for you to stay. Go back to your area and get your things.” She opened a side drawer and rummaged around. I leaned in to get a peek at the rumored whiskey bottle, but she closed the drawer too quickly.

I wanted her to say it—to give me the exact reason, especially in the middle of my shift.

She looked up. “That's all,” she said. “You can go now.”

“Is there a particular reason . . . ?”

“I just told you.” She rolled back her chair and folded her arms. She looked strange in her green suit—less daunting, almost silly. “You don't like it here.” She rolled forward, picked up a pencil, and tapped it to punctuate each next word. “So you don't need to stay.”

“Then . . . it's not because . . . of something . . . .” I wanted to hear her say it.

“Marvin will take you home if you don't have a car.” She handed me an index card. “Give your summer address to Sister Paul . . . ah, Bertha René, so we can send your final check.”

She slapped her hands on the blotter and stood up. “One. More. Thing.” She leaned in. “What, exactly, did you say to the social worker?”

Little pins pricked at my cheeks and into my chest. “Nothing,” I lied. “I didn’t say anything.” My face burned.

“Nothing? You sure?”

I shook my head like I had palsy—little jerky tremors. “Mm, mm,” my phlegm said.

It was July 14. Bastille Day. And I no longer had a job at Marian Hall. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

***

The empty two-story brick building still sits at the end of Elm Avenue across the tracks from the Canadian-Pacific Railroad tracks in Beaconsfield, Quebec, twenty miles west of Montreal. In its last years, it was a middle-income rental retirement home until the owners kicked out the residents and closed its doors because it was too expensive to keep up. Before that, it was a youth protection home— a reform school, a locked institution for wayward, court-placed teenage girls—and I worked there.

It was July of 1971, and Ed, Katie, and I had just moved into our tiny Montreal apartment on Ridgewood Avenue, just off Côte-des-Neiges, practically across the street from the road to Parc du Mont Royal. Katie was three years old, Ed was about to begin his theological studies at McGill University, and I had found a job as a childcare worker at Marian Hall, an English speaking institution operated by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd. I was lucky. In 1971, on the tails of the FLQ (Quebec Liberation Front) crisis, Anglos, especially Americans, weren’t highly favored by the French and had difficulty finding work.

My teaching experience would serve me well in this establishment. I’d never been to Catholic school, but I had heard about it. Structured, regulated, ordered, contained. I figured the Sisters would keep a tight rein on the place; all I’d have to do is hang out and babysit for eight hours. It didn’t bother me that it was shift work—seven to three during the day, three to eleven at night. No overnight shifts. Ed arranged his schedule around mine so finding a sitter for Katie was of little concern. It was perfect.

Sister Pauline interviewed me. She was a small, middle-aged, dark haired woman with a round, stoic face—hard to read. But I could tell from her questions she wanted someone who could retain credibility and build rapport with a bunch of disgruntled girls. She asked all about my teaching experience and seemed pleased with my answers, which apparently sounded strong and confident even though the place unnerved me—bleak, dismal, wrapped in a chain link fence.

She told me what to expect when I started working. The girls would act as if they didn’t like me. They’d test my authority and talk back. “Expect sass,” she said. “They’ll want to get your goat right away. Remember, these girls were sent here by the courts for bad behavior. They’re from dysfunctional homes. They’re used to being pushed around. They’ll resort to arguing—fighting—with anybody, especially if they think things aren’t fair—and things are never fair.”

“What are they in for?” I asked.

“Theft, threatening behavior, causing bodily harm, continually running away from home, sexual promiscuity, abuse—all kinds—both perpetrator and recipient. Pretty much any trouble a girl can get into—and get out-of-control while doing it. They’re usually just put on probation, but if they’re repeat offenders, or if the parents can’t manage them, the courts send them here.”

Sister Pauline unlocked the door to the apartment where I’d work. “The main door to each of the three apartments is locked. The girls can’t get in or out without a key, and they don’t get keys—ever.” She stopped and looked at me. “That’s a big rule around here. Wear your keys around your neck under your shirt.” Sister Pauline lifted her keys. “I attach mine to my waist band and stick them in my side pocket.”

I already knew that. She rattled when she walked.

She guided me into the main hallway. “Once you’re inside, no other room has locks – not any of them. Except the medication office in the basement and Sister’s room just beyond the entrance here. One Sister lives in each apartment.” She knocked on the door of a little room just off the hallway. A petite elderly woman in a religious habit opened the door. “Sister Margaret, this is Ellie Searl. She’s the new childcare worker in the apartment. I’m showing her around.”

Sister Margaret smiled and put a soft, withered hand on my arm. “So nice to meet you, dear. I’m always here if you need anything.” Her eyes stayed on mine for an extra second, as if she wanted to say something else. She didn’t look at Sister Pauline. “Well, have a nice visit.” And she shut the door.

Each of the three apartments housed twelve girls and had a main floor, an upper floor, and a basement rec room. This basement had two brown, vinyl couches, some shabby upholstered chairs, a ping-pong table, TV, record player, and an open cabinet strewn with board game pieces, playing cards, coloring books, note paper, crayons, pencils, magazines, and coverless paperbacks. Sister Pauline huffed and straightened the shelf. “Somebody’s not doing her job.”

At the back of the rec room were a two-stalled bathroom with no window and an office with glass walls. “We keep all medications in here.” Sister Pauline unlocked the door and the medication drawer. She brought out a folder. “This has to be followed exactly.” She tapped the folder and pointed to about fifteen bottles of medication. “You dispense these pills every morning right after breakfast before the girls leave for their classes. Never, ever remove the pills—or the files for that matter—from this room. That happened once—about a year ago.” She hesitated and stared into the drawer. Her voice faltered. “One of the girls saw the medication crate in the kitchen and snuck it to her room.”

She shook her head as if to bring herself back to the present. “So . . . you must do all dispensing right here through that partition. Gloria, your apartment co-worker, will show you how it works when you start.”

“What happened to her? That girl.”

“Overdosed. Died.”

It was obvious I had more questions. What was the outcome? What about her family? How did the girls react? Who was in charge? Did she or he get in trouble? but Sister Pauline held up her hand—like a stop sign. I closed my mouth.

She returned the folder. “That’s why we don’t let the girls anywhere near this stuff. And that’s why it’s locked.”

There were eight bedrooms on the upper floor, all painted a sad, dirty ecru, like the color bananas turn when left to rot. I was surprised the beds were made and the clothes picked up. I expected the rooms to reflect the inner chaos of unfortunate lives and frenzied personalities.

She answered my thoughts. “They have to keep their rooms organized, or there are consequences. They don’t like the consequences.”

Sister Pauline led me into a single bedroom. “Most of the girls share a room. The girls in singles are new and require more supervision.” She smoothed the bed cover and walked out. She didn’t see me rearrange the teddy bear that fell over.

“Once they get the hang of being in close proximity to their housemates, the singles can upgrade to sharing when someone graduates, turns eighteen, or is sent to juvenile jail.” She caught my grimace. “Doesn’t happen often, but it happens. When they go home for a visit and get caught doing something really bad—like armed robbery.”

The communal bathroom was a paint-chipped moss green with four graffiti-scratched toilet stalls, a row of sinks, and an open, separate shower room with three showerheads and a drain in the middle of the black and white tile floor. Privacy didn't seem to be a concern.

The main floor was a large open room with a kitchen and another three-stalled bathroom at one end near Sister Margaret’s room. Near the kitchen were a couple of long tables with folding chairs. The living room section had two blue plaid couches, two vinyl brown recliners, and several ladder back chairs. There were no rugs, no blankets thrown over the recliners, no pillows on the couch, no books, no color, not even plastic flowers. The lack of comfort screamed at me. Could I stand this place?

It was too late to back out. I had signed all the forms. I would start in two days.

I began on a morning shift. At first, everything seemed strangely serene. By 7:05 a.m., the girls were scuffling off to the bathroom. I tried to introduce myself, but they ignored me. Weeks later, I would learn that so many childcare workers had been in and out of their lives that a different face on the floor didn’t matter. I was just another authority figure. Just another bully to dole out consequences.

The girls went through their morning routine with robotic precision, like a choreographed dance—from ablutions to cold cereal to anti-depressant medication to classes. Their lack of chitchat seemed unusual in light of what Sister Pauline had told me. Because I was new, communication with the girls and the infrequent orders, “Make your bed,” or “Wash your bowl,” or “Take your pill,” came from Gloria. The girls didn’t respond much to Gloria nor Gloria to them. Her attitude seemed stiff and limp all at once, as if too much starch had been ironed into her spirit—or not enough. I couldn’t tell if she disliked the girls or flat-out didn’t care.

After the girls went off to class, Gloria and I sat at a dining table and went over the daily routine. Girls got up at seven, dressed, ate breakfast, and went off to their classes in another part of the basement. They came back for lunch at eleven, went back to classes until two, and returned to the apartment to have one glass of milk and two cookies at the dining tables, then do homework. Once homework was finished, they had free time to hang out in the rec room before and after dinner. Down there they’d watch TV, dance to records, argue over whose noise was too loud, play cards, color, write letters, anything that kept them occupied until nine o’clock when they’d go up to their rooms for nine-thirty bedtime. All planned out.

The other rules were simple.

1. Make beds; keep room neat.

2. All girls on the same floor at the same times.

3. No girls upstairs between breakfast and bedtime.

4. Eating only at dining tables and only when scheduled—in assigned seats with assigned food.

5. All homework signed by childcare worker.

6. Chores done Friday afternoons on scheduled rotation—wash toilets, sinks, and shower area, mop floors and hallways, wipe tables and kitchen counters, dust furniture, clean out refrigerator, empty trash, straighten game shelf, wash windows, clean inside cabinets, sort and prepare personal laundry for weekly pickup by Sister Angela, the laundress.

7. Dead silence at lights out.

On Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays, girls who didn’t go home to visit family spent the entire day in the basement doing rec room things or eating at the main room tables. Gloria said they were the longest days. “The hours really drag because there’s nothing for the girls to do. That’s when the arguing and fighting gets going. You’ll have to be on your toes for that.”

“Why don’t all the girls visit their families?”

“Some families don’t want them. Or the girls are being punished.”

“Punished for what?”

“Not making their beds. Going upstairs or onto another floor by themselves. Stealing food. Talking back, especially to Sister Pauline. Doesn’t take much.”

“Talking back? She said they always talk back.”

“Wait ‘til you find what will get them sent to detention—the hole.”

“What’s the hol. . .?

Sister Pauline unlocked the door and swished in. “So, how are things?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Is Gloria explaining everything to you?” She looked at the empty tables. “Lunch will be here in a couple of minutes. Got things all ready?” She raised her eyebrows and smiled at Gloria. Her voice sounded like melting treacle.

Gloria jumped up, grabbed silverware, plastic glasses, and napkins, and started setting the table. She motioned for me to help.

“Good,” said Sister Pauline as she slammed the door behind her.

Lunch and dinner were prepared in a main kitchen and wheeled in on warming carts. The only foods kept in the apartment were breakfast items and snacks—cereal, milk, bread, crackers, peanut butter, jelly, fruit, and cookies. All girls ate their meals and snacks on a rigid schedule, hungry or not.

I heard a commotion in the basement.

“The girls are here for lunch. Brace yourself.”

A storm of humanity blew out of the stairwell and landed on the furniture. Just then, the main door opened and in rolled a steel cart. “Who’s on meals?” came from behind.

“That’s Sister Eunice, one of the cooks,” Gloria whispered. “She’s a stitch.”

Two girls sauntered over. “Yuck,” said one. “It’s salmonella craploaf again. With peas and jeez louise Jello.” The two girls took plates of food out of the cart and placed them at the table settings. The other girls, groaning in disgust, sat at their assigned places.

“Now, now, ladies,” said Sister Eunice. “I know you love it. You always eat it up.”

“’Cause we’re starving!” someone muttered.

“See you in a few.” Sister Eunice waved and left the apartment.

The meal was truly disgusting. Pale pink lumps played dead beside an oozing coagulant of mashed potatoes and beige gravy, sickly green peas, and a square of red Jello.

“What’s your name?” A girl across the table asked with her mouth full.

“Greta’s getting friendly,” someone sang in a na-na, na-na, naa-naa tone.

“Ellie,” I said. “Ellie Searl.”

“Cereal?” Greta laughed.

“Ellie Bellie!”

“Hey, guys, it’s Ellie Bellie!”

I laughed. I had heard all this before, so it didn’t bother me too much. At least they spoke to me. Maybe letting them tease was the only way into their lives.

Gloria put the kibosh on the greetings. “You girls don’t want to be reported, do you?”

Silence. Absolute silence. They all went back to eating. I was stunned.

“I’m from America,” I said, hoping to build some rapport. “My husband goes to McGill. We have a little girl, Katie. She’s three.”

“How nice for you,” Greta said. “Can I leave the table? I’m done.” She scraped back her chair. She had barely eaten anything.

I followed the routine the rest of that first day. Snacks, homework, free time. All regulated. All very much controlled. I ended my shift at three o’clock and went home. Exhausted. Curious. Uneasy. What was really going on at Marian Hall?

(Part Two - February)

EVS - 01/12

THE STORIES THEY HOLD

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 22:10:00 +0000

THEME: HOME
I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself. ~ Maya Angelou

I’ve never liked to rise earlier than the sun, but lately I’ve savored the first hours of each day. While I wait for a crack in the almost-morning sky, I imagine the treasures of my home. Memory treasures. Treasures our family has gathered through the years. Chairs and tables, vases and pictures. Sculptures and coats, lap throws and newspapers. All of these in a comforting disarray of living. We fill the rooms of our lives with love and bustle and happiness. My home is alive with the stories written by the people who matter most to me.

In the quiet of dawn, I absorb the sweetness of home, surrounded by the adventures of family, togetherness, and time, and I can play the stories over and over again. Across the room, on an unfolded afghan, lies last Sunday’s jointly completed New York Times puns and anagrams. Beside it is the broken-spined dictionary that ended one of our word scuffles. I laugh at my competitiveness, and vow to share next time. My coffee cup rests on the old blanket chest we bought so many years ago on a trip through the Canadian Rockies, the day we celebrated Katie’s eighth birthday around a pine forest campfire in Banff National Park. We made s’mores with leathery marshmallows, and her favorite present was a ballpoint pen with a floating canoe in the top.

I sit on the couch that reminds me of endless walks through city department stores and furniture shops looking for just the right one with lots of pillows and a high snuggle factor. The living room walls hold miniature seasonal photographs taken by Ed during a year’s worth of daily bike rides. In one picture, the mist hovers over newly budded trees beside a still river, and the pebbles reflect upside down in the smooth, flooded banks of the park. I had biked with him that day, and we drank hot coffee with our gloves on because of the early spring chill.

I look at the old upright piano that we bought for $50 when we had so little to spare. I can’t bring myself to give the piano away, even though I’ve promised to at least a hundred times. Too many piano lessons and too many hours stripping off the black stain to uncover the gleaming mahogany keep my piano cemented in my house of stories.

The sun streams into the room and makes lacy patterns on the floor. I remember that today is beginning, and I feel the surge of newness—the possibilities of creating. I’ll take the blessings of my home with me as I go through the day. And later, in the evening, I’ll watch the sun set on new memories captured by the spirit of home.

EVS – 12/11

SPOKES PEOPLE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 22:05:00 +0000

THEME: REMEMBRANCE
She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes. ~ Frank Deford

I joined the fall session because I wanted to get the district-required “Teaching with Intention” workshop over with as soon as possible. The class would begin again in November with fifteen more teachers, and then again in January, and so on every other month until each teacher had completed the course.

The six-week seminar would spotlight a new and improved instructional system— the latest fad dreamed up by some scholastic guru—to reverse shoddy teacher competence. And when this maharishi of scholarship blitzed the nation with a bigger, better paradigm, our administration didn’t want to be the only district holding chalk without a board.

Had our administrators stepped away from their desks long enough to sneeze, they would have observed an exceptional staff—a team of superior teachers whose expertise enlightened and enhanced the academic, social, and emotional growth of their students.

Using our teachers as spokes, the superintendent was bent on reinventing the pedagogical wheel. A mentor’s minion—a data regurgitator certified in Educationalese as a Second Language— was hired to upgrade our collective instructional skill sets. We, the spokes, started from a sound hub of proficiency, only to be stretched on a slant of educational bias to an uninspired circular stronghold while our levels of motivation and morale were put to question. And after redefining reliable techniques with new terminology and supposed groundbreaking methods, we returned to our solid center without having gone anywhere.

Charlotte was the paid representative, the spokesperson of the new model. She stood in front of the class beside the overhead projector with the markers and all the transparencies. Dwight, the superintendent, sat in the front row. I wondered if he planned to attend all six classes or if he was just there to check up on everybody. Regardless of his reasons, I thought his presence might put the kibosh on any teacher speaking honestly about anything.

During her welcome speech, Charlotte clutched a blue tissue and peered over skinny hug-the-nose reading glasses. She wore a neat little conservative-yet-stylish outfit—a red boiled wool embroidered Swiss miss jacket with silver buttons over a navy blue four-gored skirt. The lace collar of her white blouse sat under the curls of her bobbed russet hair.

After a short lecture to acclimate the class to the new concepts, the Anticipatory Set, if you will, she numbered a transparency 1, 2, 3 down the page, leaving space for more writing.

“Attributes.” She smiled. “Attributes of a good teacher. Think about it.” She paused. “Tell me, what are the attributes . . . ,” her eyes made contact with those who sat in an imaginary arc from left to right, and landed on Dwight, “. . . of a good teacher?” She walked into the center aisle of the classroom and waved a marker. “Move your desks into break-out groups and discuss this. I will give you . . . say . . . “she looked at the wall clock “. . . three minutes to come up with the attributes of a good teacher, and then we’ll share. O.K. now, talk among yourselves while I go around and listen in.”

The room fell silent. No one initiated a breakout group. A couple of teachers doodled on the empty pages of their notebooks. Another teacher folded her arms, sighed, and looked at her watch.

“Here,” Charlotte motioned to a teacher sitting near the door. “Just swing your desk around and face the other two.” He did. “Good.” She looked up. “Now the rest of you do that. Select someone to be the recorder and the reporter . . . they can be the same person. . . and share your ideas.” I’m sure you all can come up with a couple of attributes of a good teacher.”

Desks and chairs scraped as teachers formed their groups.

Dwight liked these ‘group discuss’ sessions, these triads, because he could exhibit his leadership skills After all, he was top banana with educational experience, having been a driver ed teacher, principal of some elementary school in Indiana, and a girls soccer coach.

Dwight matched Charlotte, with his blue wool suit, burgundy tie, and white shirt all starched and creased. And they understood each other. Both were in supervisory positions. Both followed the educational parade. Both liked the word schema. And neither had to integrate the newfangled concepts into a real classroom.

Dwight told his group that he knew the answers. He took notes of everything Charlotte said so he could say them afterwards. He more than likely knew that there were three attributes of a good teacher even before Charlotte numbered the transparency.

The room buzzed while Charlotte watched the clock and waited. After five minutes, she said, “It’s time to finish up your final statements and regroup.”

Had she been listening, she would have learned that Tyler licked Heather’s cheek during recess, that Jessica squeezed all the soap out of the classroom dispenser, that Russell saved eraser droppings in an empty Band-Aid can, and that not only was this workshop a colossal waste of time, but also some teachers were leaving as soon as they signed the attendance sheet.

“So what did you come up with? What are the attributes of a good teacher?”

“The attributes of a good teacher include knowing your subject area.” Dwight looked around to see who was nodding in agreement. No one nodded. No one spoke. No one said what he or she was probably thinking, like, “Well, duh.”

He continued while the others foraged their apathy for an attention span.

“A good teacher is always prepared,” Dwight said, looking around again for approval. Nothing.

Dwight had one more attribute to go. He continued, “A good teacher...”

“. . . is only good to the extent that students are interested.” A teacher shouted from the back. “The material has to be relevant—meaningful. Every single person in this room is a good teacher – with enough good attributes to stuff North America.”

This time teachers nodded. There were rumblings of ‘no kidding’ and ‘you got that right’ and ‘damn straight.’

Dwight scowled and looked at his notes, eyes darting around his paper, as though seeking instructions for workshop mutiny curtailment.

This wasn’t the first nor the last required professional development workshop led by a highly paid consultant. It was as though the district didn’t have faith in the collective talent of its own faculty. The district spent big bucks for hired help when most teachers could have led any one of the workshops, and not only bring a constructive twist to a stale idea, but also inspire teachers to maintain enthusiasm during the presentation. Reading, writing, new math, old math, inclusion, exclusion, learning centers, IEPs, SSTs, whole language, half language, street language, curriculum integration, differentiated instruction, make-it-up-as-you-go-along instruction—it wouldn’t matter.

Charlotte held up her tissue and said, “Wow, tough crowd. I guess I’ll skip the next part. Let’s take a short break, and when we regroup, we’ll share strategies that work best for you. That way we can learn from each other.”

Two teachers went home, one teacher went shopping, and the rest continued the first session with glazed eyes.

I went to three of the remaining five classes. The attendance dwindled and I understand that by the last session, only seven of the fifteen teachers showed up. I don’t remember much of what Charlotte talked about, but I did end up with a bunch of handouts and one lesson-plan design, which we were required to implement into daily instruction if we wanted to pass our performance evaluation.

The following year, the lesson plan wasn’t required anymore. Another guru had entered the scene and his taxonomy would alter the course of education altogether. I never had to institute that new system into my already established program because by then I had found a career that rolled along on a full tire and didn’t change direction with the wind.

EVS – 11/11

POOCHIE'S DAY

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 21:01:00 +0000

THEME: WHAT A CHARACTER
Who you are speaks so loudly I can’t hear what you’re saying. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poochie’s mom told him it was too early. “There’s no sense you goin’ there ahead of time, - you won’t get your candy any sooner.” But Poochie put on his pea coat and stuck a flashlight into his pocket. He huffed down the front steps and across the street. “Cover your ears,” Poochie’s mom shouted after him.

Poochie walked past the Methodist Church and down the hill onto the short, two-lane bridge that crossed the river, which was more of a creek than a river by the time it trickled out of the mountains and meandered into the lake at the town beach.

Poochie stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned over the railing. He worked up a bunch of saliva and spit into the creek, grinning and pointing at the glob as it slid off a boulder into a rivulet of clear water.

Sunrays glinted off the lake and made Poochie squint. He lifted his face to feel the warmth. If his mom had been there, she would have said, “The sun hasn't had time to turn up the heat.” Poochie yanked down his ear flaps, letting the strings hang over his shoulders. He picked up a pebble, rubbed it on his pants, licked it, and stuck it in his pocket, where it clanked against his flashlight.

Poochie plodded up the hill and crossed the street. He walked past the abandoned gas station and peeked in the windows of the firehouse before stopping outside of Goodenough’s. The grocery didn't open until 9:00 a.m., but Poochie didn't think much about time or schedules or tradition. Poochie didn't think much about anything.

For the first few minutes at Goodenough’s, Poochie directed traffic. He guided a Trailways bus down the hill, imitating its brake squeals and engine guns as it crossed the bridge, went up the hill, and disappeared around the corner to the other side of town. Passengers pointed and laughed at the disheveled fat man in orange boots pretending to be a traffic cop. Poochie laughed and waved, the bright bulb of his flashlight reflecting on the fender.

When he tired of playing street cop, Poochie wandered to the front door and plopped onto the rotting bench next to buckets of dead plants and cigarette butts. He poked inside his pockets for a treasure and pulled out a wad of gum; it was hard and covered in coat-lint. He stuck the lump into his mouth and gnawed it down to a good chew.

The ear-splitting scream of the fire siren made Poochie jump off the bench and stand in stunned, unexpected excitement. The sensations were almost unbearable. A fire. Probably a big one. He watched, gape-mouthed, as police cars and volunteer firemen careened from all directions and skidded to stops, drivers jumping out and running inside. Poochie grabbed his flashlight and headed to the firehouse. They’d need him.

He hustled into the street, almost getting run over. The driver rolled down his window. “Watch out, will ya, Poochie? Yur gonna get yourself hurt.”

Poochie made a beeline to the fire truck and hopped onto the runner. The fire chief shouted from the side of the truck. “Why don’t you just run along home, now, ok, Poochie? We’ll let you know when you can help out. Today’s not such a good time.”

Poochie jumped off the runner defeated and sad, but mostly confused— his dilemma larger than his brainpower. He wanted his candy. But this was a special surprise. A fire. And he wanted to go to it—and help.

A fire at the fairgrounds the summer before had thrilled him. The fire had started in the horse stable while Poochie was helping park cars in the middle of the racetrack. When he saw the flames shooting up on the other side of the fence, he stuffed his flashlight into his pants pocket and ran over to the stable to watch. He marveled at the sparks as they flew up and up and up into the tree, crackling against branches. Red shards leapt against the bark and bounced to the ground, catching leaves on fire. The horses screamed horrible whinny cries. Poochie had never heard those sounds before - nothing like the soft purrs he remembered.

The scared horses, eyes wild, heads thrashing, jerked and trounced as the owners dragged them to safety. Poochie was sad that two horses died. The blackened, charred hides and the acrid smell of burnt horseflesh stayed in Poochie’s memory and mixed with the exhilaration and horror and devastation—sensations he didn’t quite understand and could never talk about. His language too inadequate to explain anything that ever really mattered.

***

Poochie watched the firefighters put on their protective clothing and jump onto the truck.

“Poochie! Get outta the way,” the fire chief shouted. He grabbed Poochie’s sleeve and dragged him off the ramp just as the truck backed up. Poochie’s knees buckled and his feet scrapped along the cement. He fell into the weeds, landing on his behind and elbow. He started to cry. Tears streaked tracks of white down his dirty cheeks and fell through his second day growth of beard. The chief helped Poochie up and brushed him off. “Go along now, Poochie. Go on back to Goodenough’s— or go home.”

Poochie wiped his eyes and looked up at Goodenough’s. He remembered his candy. It was Saturday, September 25, 1965, and it was Poochie’s 35^th birthday.

***

Poochie didn’t have much between the ears, but he always knew when it was his birthday. It was the one thing he loved more than anything. Even more than Christmas. Poochie’s mother had downplayed Christmas as he was growing up because they couldn’t afford both. Poochie didn’t understand too much about celebrating a religious holiday and rather than have two special days for Poochie, she settled on having Poochie’s birthday be the one day of the year he got things he wouldn’t otherwise have. Each year she made him a big vanilla cake, with his name spelled out in wild blackberries. As Poochie got older, she helped him spell out his own name with the blackberries. And then she let him put on the candles, counting them as he went. As long as his mother was next to him, he was allowed to light his own candles before he blew them out. Poochie also received a nice present from his mother – a present of his choosing. Usually he chose a new flashlight—another, bigger, better flashlight—for seeing in the dark, making shadows, and directing traffic anywhere, especially at the fair.

At Christmas, Poochie’s mother filled a stocking with the same things every year—candy, mittens, socks, a big orange in the toe, and flashlight batteries. She hung the stocking on the footboard knob of Poochie’s bed so he would find it right away when woke up on Christmas morning. Poochie would come running into the kitchen with his stocking and announce that he had “thomthin thpethal” on his bed. Every year he’d wonder who put it there, and every year his mother would say, “Santa put it there.” And every year Poochie would ask “Hooth thanta?” And his mother would answer the same way every year. “Santa brings growing boys a stocking of goodies on Christmas Day.” And then Poochie would want to know where Santa lived and if he had a birthday and was it on the calendar at “Goodynuth.”

All his growing up years, Poochie didn’t make much of a connection between his filled stocking on Christmas and the lights and decorations all over town. But he did know that getting a stocking full of goodies meant the calendar would soon be at Goodenough’s.

When Poochie was very little, the Chamber of Commerce had begun the tradition of making a calendar documenting the birthdays of everyone in the village. Each year the birthday calendars were delivered to all the businesses in town two days after Christmas. And as soon as Poochie saw his goodie stocking hanging on his bed knob, he knew the birthday calendar would be at Goodenough’s in two days. And he would be there to greet it. Because Myrna always circled Poochie’s birthday on her store calendar.

Billy’s Diner had a calendar. So did Vrooman’s General Store and the post office and the bank. But Poochie didn’t like to go to those places. He liked it at Goodenough’s. Myrna was nice. She didn’t make him feel bad. And she didn’t shoo him away when he wanted to look at the calendar.

***

The year before, Poochie waited an hour in a snowstorm for Myrna to come and unlock the store. When Poochie finally got inside, he stood next to the cash register until the delivery kid plopped the calendar on the counter. Poochie waved the calendar in the air at Myrna, still in the back stomping snow off her boots and turning on the lights.

“Se-cul my name, se-cul my name,” Poochie shouted. He had waited so long for this day, this moment, this second, when his birthday would be circled on the calendar.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Poochie.” She sighed. “Just hold on.”

She had once confessed to a co-worker that “Poochie was a confused bag of innocence, affection, and full-blown exasperation. I can manage about five minutes before I go batty—kinda like my grandchildren, or my dog, who pester and pester and pester until satisfied. Drives me crazy. But they give a bucket-load of unconditional love.” She laughed. “And you can’t help but love ‘em back, as obnoxious as they are.”

“Ok, Poochie, let’s open the calendar and find your birthday,” Myrna said. “Why don’t you do it this time?”

“I wanna penthil.” Myrna put a pencil on the counter and watched as Poochie opened the calendar. He began at January and turned each page, pointing at what he recognized in the picture. Every now and then he looked up at Myrna and told her what he saw. “Thath a boat. . . an . . . an thath . . . thath a twee . . . wif a leaf,” until he came to his own month. He stopped turning the pages and pointed at the word September. He knew that one.

“Theptemba,” Poochie said and grinned again at Myrna. He placed his index finger on September 1 and slid his finger across all the boxes, some with names typed in them, saying each number out loud, until he came to September 22. “Thath my buthay. Theee? Thath my name . . . Poohie Whee,” he said proudly, and he pointed to his name typed in capital letters POOCHIE WHEAT. He picked up the pencil and drew a shaky circle around the day. “I come heah an git candy on my buthay, wite?”

“Yes, Poochie,” Myrna said. “You come here and get your candy on your birthday. Now run along home, Kiddo, I’ve got work to do.” Myrna said.

Poochie watched Myrna hang the calendar next to the announcements on the bulletin board, right inside the entrance to the store, where everyone could see it. “Bye Munah, I be back,” Poochie said as he walked out into the snow.

Beginning in January, Poochie visited Goodenough’s almost every day. He’d leafed through the pages of the calendar until he came to September. And as he had done the day the calendar had been hung up, he’d place his index finger on September 1 and slide across all the numbers, saying each one out loud, “un, too, thee, fuh, fi, si, sen, . . .” until he came to September 22^.“Thath my buthday. Thee? Thath my name. . . wite theh.” He’d tap the date and turn around looking for people to show. Mostly it was just Myrna who saw.

***

“You look happy, Poochie,” Myrna said as she walked up from the store parking area. “Must be a special day, or something!”

“Hi, Munah, theys a fya,” Poochie said. “A big un!” Poochie spread his arms wide.

“I know, Poochie. I saw the trucks go by, and I heard the sirens.” Myrna unlocked the door and they went in together. “It sure does sound like a big one. Do you know where it is?”

“Na, they thay I can’t go,” said Poochie. He went to the calendar and took the pin out. The calendar was old and yellowed—streaked from almost a year’s worth of Poochie’s fingers leafing through the months, looking for his name.

“Ith my buthday – tuday, Munah,”

“Well, Poochie, I guess it is. And I think I have something for you,” said Myrna. “What would you like? You can go to the candy counter and take five things. Your choice.”

Poochie didn’t get many choices. He was used to being told what to wear, what to eat, and where to go. He looked at the Mounds, Baby Ruth, 5^th Avenue, Mars, Milky Way. He looked at Tootsie Rolls and Good and Plenties and Necco Wafers and Bit-O-Honey. And gum. Black Jack and Spearmint and Chicklets. Poochie stared at the shelves of candy. He picked one up and put it down. He touched one and another one and another one. He began to rock and breath hard—a whimper rose from his throat.

Myrna came up behind him with a wax paper bag, and said, “Here Poochie – let me help you. I’ll make it a surprise. You stand over here.”

Poochie’s breathing settled. Myrna plopped a handful of candy bars, some gum, and a package of licorice into the bag. “I gave you more than five, Poochie. It’s nice to have a lot on your birthday.” When she turned around, she saw that Poochie had gone to the window and was watching one of the fire trucks pull into the station.

“Here’s your candy, Poochie,” Myrna called.

Poochie grabbed the bag and practically tripped over his orange boots in his hurry to get out of the store and down to the fire excitement.

Maybe he could help.

EVS - 10/11

GATEKEEPERS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 20:56:00 +0000

THEME: DREAM ON

Dreams are illustrations. . .from the book your soul is writing about you. ~ Marsha Norman

They guard the entrance to creativity, allowing the select few—those who pass muster—to enter. Not the riff raff. Not the wannabees who try to worm through the slats, those sad, misguided dilettantes who think their work shows merit. They’re gatekeepers, and they prevent the unskilled culture-defacers from assailing the public with crap.

If it weren’t for that cadre of connoisseurs assessing, ranking, and restocking the Aesthetic Empire, the eating, viewing, and reading public wouldn’t know what to eat, view, or read.

Take food. Without the Big Food Houses, like Poach Board and Pot Watch, anyone and his second cousin could open a restaurant. BFHs put aspiring restaurateurs through a series of trial kitchens where chefs prepare innovative fare for taste testing, after which the Palate Committee flavor-edits the dishes, taking, say, six to ten months, eventually returning the recipes with recommended modifications that the would-be culinarian must integrate into menu options before contracts are finalized.

The Big Food House then spends the next year and a half designing and building the restaurant, and, once ready for business, collects all restaurant proceeds, forwarding to the owner maybe eight percent of the profits in quarterly installments.

Gastronomic gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard eateries, i.e., self-established restaurants whose owners believe their food actually tastes good.

Then there’s art. Painters, sculptors, photographers. Those quirky right-brainers who think that producing art is a way of life. Without art gatekeepers there’d be oils and watercolors and photographs and sculptures on display all over the place—museums, galleries, stores, street corners, gardens, offices.

The Big Art Houses, such as Design Depository and Statue Statutorium, keep the art world under control. They stash submissions for review in massive warehouses, where they remain until the Talent Assessment Guild determines their attributes. The evaluation process is simple. The appraisal committee members, made up of the administrative assistant and night janitor, stand in front of each work of art, and throw Rock, Paper, Scissors. A coin toss determines who represents the artist.

Rock over Scissors means the piece is rejected, or if small enough, displayed over the urinal in the men’s room.

Paper-over-Rock means the art is returned to the artist for revision—with a note:

“Jackson – Uh, we think you sent us your floor tarp by mistake.”

“Ansel, a bit of color would be nice.”

“Say Vincent - Don’t give up. With some practice, you’ll master perspective.”

“Yo! Leonardo! My Man! – Everyone on the same side of a table? Hello.”

Now these artists, if they want a second chance with TAG, must edit their pieces according to where the dart lands on the revision wheel—Color Within the Lines, Smooth Out the Dots, Quit with the Umbrellas, Straighten the Watch, Add Velvet—anything to show they’ve at least parked at an art school.

Scissors-over-Paper means the piece is a keeper, and contracts are signed. Once a piece of art is chosen for public view, it’s put aside until there are upwards of twenty additional Scissors-over-Paper wins by the same artist – enough for a full gallery open. Could take two to five years, during which time the artist waits tables for a Pot Watch Restaurant.

Creativity gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard museums, galleries, and studios, i.e., self-installed exhibitions whose designers believe their art actually looks good.

Then there are writers. Good writers. Bad writers. Mediocre writers. Doesn’t matter. They all want to be published. Somewhere. But especially by the Big Book Houses, like Reticent Review and Predictable Press. Ask any writer, and he or she will say that publication is a primary goal. It’s imperative to have reading gatekeepers. Otherwise, just anybody could write and publish a book. And if just anybody could write and publish a book, there’d be books everywhere. We all know that the reading public lacks wordsmith sophistication. They read books indiscriminately, ignoring taste, creativity, style, and quotation marks on the wrong side of the period.

It’s essential that gatekeepers guard the reading public from piles of word hash plopped beside gourmet prose at any reader’s table. How dare a writer expect to publish a book without it first being prepared, plated, and presented to judges who can attest to the quality and doneness of a piece of writing?

The BBHs judge a book by its cover. Therefore, it helps if an aspiring writer has a close working relationship with a Scissors over Paper art winner. Once the cover passes muster, the interior text is evaluated—there must be a plethora of words with more than six syllables, properly embedded fonts, and an appropriate dedication to one’s mother.

The publishing world has evolved to the extent that anyone—Grandma Jones, Aunt Agnes, Cousin Earl—can publish a book. But self-publishers have no gatekeepers. Self-published books aren’t legitimate. They’re written by amateurs. Ask the experts. Self-published authors use bad grammar, change tenses, and incorporate too many adjectives and adverbs. Self-published books are puerile, shallow, and undeveloped. They’re not properly edited, they’re boring, they’re tedious— a scourge on the market.

It doesn’t matter that someone’s father, a gentleman in his early 90s, wants to publish a series of stories and see them in print before he dies. Or that a Mid-west bride wants to write her story of how she met a retired NYC police officer while playing on-line Scrabble, fell in love, and got married. Or that a crime writer, who after two and a half years of Big House rejections, decided to publish his book himself. It doesn’t matter that some, perhaps many, writers have a dream of seeing their words, their stories, their labor, their book, stand on a shelf between Shakespeare and Steinbeck. It doesn’t matter that, like restaurateurs and artists, they want to see their hard work come to fruition and become a product they can hold in their hands – or give to their children—or share with their friends.

What’s that you say? Not all self-published books are full of crap? There are well-written, self-published books by excellent authors? That it's not the self-publishing in and of itself that qualifies a book for the back porch, not good enough for the grown-up table, not worthy of the good china? And that just as establishing one’s own restaurant doesn't mean bad food and installing one’s own gallery doesn't mean bad art, self-publishing one's own book doesn't mean a bad read? How radical.

If that's the case, then here's to all writers who dream of seeing their books on the coffee table or shining through the small screen of an e-reader, go for it. Game on! Don’t be intimidated by the elitism of gatekeepers.

Dream . . . on!

EVS - 09/11

FAIREST OF THEM ALL

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 14:24:00 +0000

THEME: HEAR NO, SEE NO, SPEAK NO, YOU KNOW
"Shall I tell you what the real evil is? To cringe to the things that are called evils, to surrender to them our freedom, in defiance of which we ought to face any suffering." ~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The pressure for women in our culture to be skinny, gorgeous, de-wrinkled, tight-bottomed, big-boobed, and balloon-lipped is an evil yet to be tackled. According to magazines, billboards, TV ads, and fashion gurus, every woman who isn't a Heidi Klum clone, or close to it, should wrap her body in cheesecloth and squeeze out the hideousness until all that's left is a plasticine replicant of her former self. Or if not that, then she should spend a month or two at a Female Restoration Institute until her shape, hair, skin, and lips are trim, voluminous, porcelain, and pouty respectively.

If a woman is anything less than magnificent, she’s an abomination, and she shouldn't leave the house. Until she can muster up enough time, energy, and dough to morph into the pinnacle of pure perfection, she should opt out of the social milieu entirely and grow moldy in the basement.

I admit to have fallen into the trap of spending big bucks on creams and lotions to debilitate wrinkles digging trenches around my eyes, mouth, neck, and brow. And I've even sat in the cosmetician's chair for the full make-over—colors and shades chosen specifically for my skin tones: light beige foundation, buff powder, three levels of smoky teal eye shadow, navy blue eye liner, thick, black, lash-lengthening mascara, light-brown eyebrow pencil, suntan bronzer, ruby blush, peach lipstick, and coral lip liner. The transformation was astounding. I looked exquisitely sullen and devious from the neck up—like Cat Woman in pedal pushers and sneakers.

"Now it's easy to apply these items, Ellie, real easy," the cosmetologist had said. "I'll draw a picture of your make-up routine and write out the steps of your skin preparations."

Using my unique color pallet, she painted over a sketch of a woman's profile so I would know exactly which colors to slather, smooth, spread, glop, or powder on and over the appropriate parts of my skin, eyes, lashes, brows, cheeks, and lips.

Then she wrote out the steps I should take prior the final make-up application. Scrubbing, sloughing, cleansing, reactivating, tightening, rehydrating, and moisturizing—each step requiring a specific lotion, mitten, bar, cream, gel, stone, astringent, paddle, cloth, or spray—each step "absolutely essential" to my beauty regime.

"And we have all of these items right here." She waved her hand down the shelves of skin care products.

Walking away without purchasing the items necessary to a Researched-based Years-Off-Your-Age Skin and Beauty Treatment is akin to wearing dirty underwear. Why a woman wouldn't take full advantage of a Personalized Beautification System was beyond understanding.

"Do you already have these items at home?" she asked, apparently astonished that I used such products considering the condition of my face.

"Similar," I said, thinking of my oatmeal soap and Cold Cream. "I probably have enough."

“What do you use to cleanse?”

“Ah, mild soap,” I said.

“Ooh, nooo! Never use soap on your face. That’s why your skin is so dry—and why those crow’s feet have a foothold there.” She tapped my temple, and then she pulled a bottle off the shelf. “Here—you must use this—Eau d' Savonette. It’s wonderful—especially for your skin type. It’ll take years off your face. You’ll notice a difference in less than a week.”

Three ounces. $55.50 . “How long does this last?” I asked.

“If used correctly, it should last you . . . I'd say . . . at least two months.”

$55.50 times six. $333 a year. $16,650 to wash my face for the rest of my life.

“And of course you’ll want this specially formulated, age-reducing moisturizer.” She reached for a small jar. “Even if you buy nothing else, you must use this—Le Crème de Hydratante Amande or the cleanser won’t work as well.” She opened the jar and breathed in the aroma. “Hmmmm, I love this stuff. It’s my favorite of all the scents. Isn’t it wonderful?” She stuck it under my nose. Almonds and vanilla.

“How much is that one?” I didn’t think I’d buy it, but I was curious. “And how long will that last?”

“This goes for . . ..” She turned it over. “Oh, guess what. It’s on sale! It usually sells for $95.00, but it’s on sale for . . . wow! $87.50.” She looked up. “I think the sale ends today—I can find out.” She put the jar on the counter and started off. “Oh. I forgot." She turned around. "That jar should last you, ah, if you use it without fail, day and night, about three months.” She walked off to check on the sale.

I recalculated. $87.50 times four. $350 for the first year, $17,500 for the rest of my life.

Altogether, I’d have to spend $34,150—until I was dead—if I wanted to take years off my face.

Might be worth it. They’ll look into my casket and say, “My, but doesn't she look young. Wonder what she used."

EVS 08/11

A SOCIAL CALL

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 28 Jul 2011 20:53:00 +0000

THEME: WELL, DUH
To spell out the obvious is often to call it in question. ~Eric Hoffer

She shouted from across the street. “Hey! Do you people believe in Jesus Christ?”

I stopped raking and looked up. She stood in her doorway, hands on hips, feet planted—square—like a drill sergeant, as if my answer could knock her over. A full-length, flour-dusted apron covered her dress.

“Of course we do,” I said. “He was a great leader . . . and teacher. Everyone should follow his example.”

Quick thinking. Can’t argue with that. I continue raking.

“But do you-all believe that the Bible is the word of God?”

I dragged a bunch of leaves into a pile. “Great book, the Bible,” I said, and stretched the rake toward some thin branches at the base of the maple tree. I reached down to disengage a twig from the prongs. “Lots of good stories . . . good lessons.” I flashed Sunday School where I colored pictures of Jesus giving bread and wine to the hungry throng. Jesus’s robe. Periwinkle. My favorite crayon. “Especially for kids.”

So far, so good. Maybe she'd go back to her biscuits.

"What about the miracles? You guys believe in miracles?"

I hadn't memorized my thirty-second elevator speech about being a Unitarian Universalist. Having been brought up Methodist, I knew what the traditional world thought of people who ventured into what was considered pagan territory. Blasphemy. I still struggled with putting my religious philosophy into concepts that described my spiritual leanings in such a way that those of the Christian faith wouldn’t view me as a wicked, irreverent heathen, who not only was hell-bent for, say, Hell, but also shouldn't be left alone with fire and children.

I glanced at my front door and willed my phone to ring or Katie to call me inside or Ed to come out and take over the yard—and the conversation.

I nodded my head. "Well now, weren't they just wonderful, those miracles,” I said. "Changed a lot of people's lives, they did. Hm-mm!”

It was October of 1980, and Ed, Katie, and I had recently moved to Poland, a suburb of Youngstown, Ohio—the city where, two years before, Ed had begun his ministry at the Unitarian Church of Youngstown.

Until we bought a house in the suburbs, we rented a second story apartment on Elm Street near the church. It was a perfect location. Walking distance to church and Katie's elementary school, close to downtown Youngstown, and less than a mile from Youngstown State University, where I was enrolled as a graduate student. Our city neighbors were cordial and welcoming, never seeming to wonder when we would start throwing devil darts in their direction. But I wanted to build some home equity, and I wanted Katie to go to a "good" junior high school, so I insisted we buy a house in the suburbs, especially if we intended to stay in the area any length of time.

When Katie came home from her first day at Poland's middle school, she said, "I hate it there. Everybody's white. I can't tell them apart." She slammed her books onto the kitchen table. "They all wear horses on their shirts." She looked at me. "And why do they call black people, N-----rs?"

I didn't have a good answer for her, so I just said, "Some people are afraid of diversity, Katie. They're afraid of things they don't understand or have no experience with."

Katie's previous elementary school was multi-cultural. Whenever she talked about her school friends, she'd refer to them by their names and attributes – not nationality or race. "Kevin is a good artist," she'd say. Or "John is funny." Or "Margie is smart." It wasn't until she brought home her class picture that I learned that Kevin was Korean and John was African American and Margie was Mexican.

"Well, I liked my old school better."

It became obvious after a few weeks in our new community that the neighbors were afraid of people like us–people who looked at the world through liberal, non-creedal eyes, people who didn't go to a recognizable Christian church.

The afternoon we moved to Poland we were visited by a lady from the Welcome Wagon. She handed me a basket of goodies and a list of the churches in town.

"We have lovely churches here," the lady said. "If you're Methodist, there's a beautiful Methodist church across town. You Episcopalian? Now, that's right around the corner. First Presbyterian is between Piggly-Wiggly and the cemetery. And if you're Catholic, you'll go to St. Mary's–that's right behind your property – you can see their parking lot through your living room window."

Finally, I said, "We go to the Unitarian Church in the city. My husband is the minister there."

The visitor gasped and stepped back, "Are there any more of you people around here?"

And now it was time for me to explain to my neighbor that I was a decent American who wasn't about to throw a match into my pile of leaves and dance around the flames.

How to put my beliefs into a few, succinct words to prove I'm as good a person as anyone—that she needn't be afraid? Should I just spout off the seven principles of Unitarian Universalism? The principles that UU congregations around the world affirm and promote? Respected principles that most people live by anyway, regardless of their religious affiliations?

That "we people" believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person?

That we promote justice, equity, and compassion in all human relations?

That we accept one another and encourage spiritual growth in others?

That we believe in a free and responsible search for truth and meaning?

That all people have the right of conscience and the use of the democratic process?

That our goal is a world community of peace, liberty, and justice for all?

That we respect the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part?

And should I throw in something like, "If all people lived their lives based on UU principles, which, by the way, are akin to Jesus' teachings, there'd be less animosity and fewer wars—perhaps leading to harmony among nations"?

Or were my beliefs too radical—too wild—too outlandish for this traditional faith and creed-centered community?

Rather than fill the air with what could be perceived as holier-than-thou platitudes, I walked across the street, smiled, and stretched out my hand. "I'm Ellie," I said. "What's your name?"

I figured that was a good place to start.

EVS – 07/11

THE GOOD EDITOR

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 14:36:00 +0000

THEME: SAYING TOO MUCH
If you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it.
~Earl Wilson

A good cook knows how to edit. Take meatloaf. Most recipes call for some kind of filler—like breadcrumbs. The right amount guarantees a moist, savory meatloaf feast. Too much and it's dry, tasteless, stick-in-your-mouth lump.

A good writer knows how to edit. Take Mark Twain. In his short story, "Advice to Little Girls," he wrote, "Good little girls always show marked deference for the aged. You ought never to 'sass' old people unless they 'sass' you first."

Now that's succinct.

He could have written: If you're a good little girl, you should be respectful, obsequious, and well-behaved when in the presence of anyone older than you are, like your parents, grandparents, and school teachers, and not only that, if you're a good little girl, you should never say nasty things to older people, like saying 'you're a poopy-face,' to a teacher or saying 'you have ugly brown moles on your neck' to your grandmother, even if she has ugly brown moles on her neck; however, if one of these older people calls you a poopy-face first, well, then, you are entitled to call him or her a poopy-face right back.

But he didn't.

A good landscape architect knows how to edit. Take the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Their designers have created acres of floral magnificence. Walled English gardens, ivy-covered fountains, lily ponds, flowering perennials. A blooming wonderland.

Understated in its overabundance.

And a good conversationalist knows how to edit. Take me. I pride myself on knowing how to listen and respond—how to engage in conversation with sensitivity, diplomacy, and confidence. I say all the right things at the right time. I listen for cues and follow the path of my speaking partner, keeping my ego at bay.

I'm honest, yet prudent. Curious, yet discrete. Interested, yet unassuming. I laugh, scowl, sigh, grin, cringe, smirk, weep, and wince—with accompanying gestures—at the appropriate times, exhibiting empathy, commitment, and compassion.

High enthusiasm. Low maintenance.

Now that's darned good conversational editing.

Too bad it's not always the case.

A few years ago at the Theatre of Western Springs, in Anne Chislett's production of "Quiet in the Land," I played a Southern Ontario Amish wife and mother who wanted a telephone. My role called for a Farm and Ranch dialect—the kind of Midwestern accent with thin vowels, clipped word endings, and a touch of nasal twang. Country speak. Not sophisticated. Some people call it hillbilly. I had trouble capturing the accent. My mouth wouldn't cooperate—the words refused to take on the back-woods tone the director wanted. I didn't know anyone with the accent. Even an instructional CD didn't help. Try as I might, I couldn't replicate the Farm and Ranch dialect.

Until I went to a wedding. There, across the round table laden with roses, candles, silver, champagne, water carafes, and party favors, sat a lovely lady who spoke softly to those near her throughout the soup and salad courses. My husband, who officiated at the wedding, and I spoke softly to those near us. Finally, feeling unfriendly and slightly uncomfortable that we hadn't introduced ourselves, I looked directly into the eyes of the lovely lady and said, "We haven't met. I'm Ellie Searl. This is my husband Ed."

The lovely lady smiled and said, "Oh! So glayd t' meecha. Wadda be-udaful weddin', ya did der, Revrin Ed."

"That's it!" I shouted. "That's it!" I pointed at her.

"Wa's et?" She pulled her head back.

"Your accent. Midwest Farm and Ranch. You've got it!" Excitement overtook common sense. "It's perfect. I'm supposed to talk just like you in an Amish play. It's about a bunch of farmers."

Silence. Everyone—stunned.

"What's the matter with you?" Ed whispered. "You fall into a stupid pit or something?"

There was no going back. I couldn't apologize; it wasn't an accident.

The lovely lady got up and left.

The others at the table resumed their meals, and soon the clicking of knives and forks drowned the hushed voices of recrimination.

I don't remember much about the main course.

It might have been an unedited meatloaf.

Because I do remember a dry, tasteless, stick-in-my-mouth lump.

EVS – 06/11

ROOM MOTHER DAZE

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 08 May 2011 12:15:00 +0000

THEME: AUTHORITY
He who establishes his argument by noise and command shows that his reason is weak.
~Michel de Montaigne

When Brett entered first grade this past year, his mom Katie not only agreed to be Art Master for the second time, she also volunteered to be the Room Mother. She'd teach Brett's class about famous artists, and she'd plan parties, organize treats, and become friends with the other mothers.

"And," she said, "This will give me a solid foothold in the workings of the school."

"Aren't you doing enough already?" I asked.

"Mom – it's okay," Katie said. "Being a Room Mother is the best way to stay on top of things. It'll be fun."

Parent-Teacher Open House was the only September event that needed Room Mothering, so it wasn't until October at the Halloween party that Katie first encountered the Mighty Moms lurking behind the cubby buckets.

After the costume parade, witches, princesses, and Supermen wriggled in their seats anxious to dive into the big cupcakes and apple cider. Wally's mom had brought three dozen oversized dark chocolate chip cupcakes, slathered with thick swirls of creamy chocolate icing sprinkled with orange pumpkin-shaped candies- cupcakes to stir the saliva glands in young and old - cupcakes Wally and his mom had purchased together at Albertson’s store bakery.

Calvin's mom had brought little dented white ones with a clear glaze slopped across the tops and down the sides, puddling onto the tray – not exactly eye-catchers for the six-year-old sweet tooth. But those cupcakes were homemade.

When Calvin's mom saw the store-bought cupcakes, she sneered, "Why did I bother to spend all my time making cupcakes from scratch when I could have just as easily gone to some old store and bought them."

No one answered. It wasn't a question. Wally's mom, embarrassed and humiliated, sidled out of the classroom. Calvin's mom phoned the PTA president. Then, much to Katie's chagrin and the children's disappointment, the chocolate cupcakes were set aside leaving a tray of sloppy white half-balls next to the cider.

Wally's chocolate cupcakes were distributed at the end of the day, creating cupcake chaos as costumed children whooped and ran out the door, shoving the fat treats into their mouths, smearing chocolate over cheeks, knuckles, masks, wands, tiaras, capes, backpacks, lunch bags, and the upholstery of their parents' cars.

"I felt so sorry for little Wally," Katie said, "Stripped of his place of honor. He was so proud of his cupcakes. At least the kids got to eat them later. I can't believe Calvin's mother - or the PTA, for that matter."

"Wasn't there anything you could do to stop her – them?" I asked, knowing if there had been, she would have.

Katie tried to put the kibosh on parental interference during the following parties, but it was a losing battle. The Mighty Moms, backed by the PTA, insinuated themselves into Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Pajama Day, Grandparent Day, No Homework Day, Lost Tooth Day, and the Round-up Auction, for which Katie cellophane-wrapped two big baskets, decorated them with butterflies, and filled them with gift cards, candles, candle holders, and placemats - only to find her baskets dismantled, the gift items stuck into other baskets. She finally found her baskets, stuffed with auction-processing papers, lying on the floor behind the auction cashiers in the check-out area.

Too defeated to complain, Katie decided to get through the rest of the year by using low-maintenance strategies. Don't over-plan, don't over-do, don't over-expect, and don't over-react.

When Teacher Appreciation Week approached in late April, Katie phoned me and asked what my school did to appreciate my work as a teacher – she was looking for ideas.

I told her that there was no falderal. No Hallmark Holiday. In the middle of May, my colleagues and I would receive a thank you card from the school board, a token gift decorated with the district logo, like a key chain or a school calendar or a lapel pin, and a simple mid-week buffet luncheon served in the teachers' lounge, prepared by the PTA - a tossed salad, a platter of sliced meats and cheese fanned out on curly kale, a variety of rolls and breads, pickles, potato chips, condiments, and a tray of lemon squares. The administration unlocked the Coke machine for the day, and we’d eat during our regular lunch periods. Unless the PTA moms told them, the students didn't know their teachers were supposed to be appreciated that week.

After much thought, Katie decided to plan, with Brett’s class, an after-lunch surprise party for Ms. Howard. They'd decorate the room, sing songs, and present the teacher with a lovely gift - something personal, like a spa basket or a couple of tickets to the theater or a dinner out with her husband. Katie wanted to put her own signature on teacher appreciation. Classy, tasteful.

"Does that sound like I'm overdoing it?" Katie asked me. "I'd like to make it a little more special than what you used to get."

"Sounds perfect," I said. "Wish you had been my room mother."

A few days before spring break, Katie received a four-page notice from the PTA president, outlining what the PTA moms had decided the Room Mothers would do to celebrate their teachers.

Katie called me up. "You won't believe this," she said.

"First of all, there's a theme. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The catch phrase is ‘Our Staff Make Learning Sweet.’ And – get this - Teacher Appreciation Week is going to be celebrated All Week Long. ALL WEEK. Every. Friggin. Day. All related to sugar and candy and teacher sweetness."

"My teeth hurt," I said. "Did any of these PTA mothers ask the teachers what they wanted? Five days of teaching children overdosed on sugar isn't instructional paradise."

"No," Katie said. "It’s all secret."

In order to give parents enough lead-time to stuff their kid's backpack with the appropriate item on the appropriate day, the Room Mothers had to send home, with the students, at least a week ahead of time, a packet outlining the activities planned for each day of appreciation week. The packet had to contain five pages – one for each day – each a different color, each describing that day's activities and the accompanying parent and student responsibilities. Packet preparation meant composing, typing, printing, folding, stuffing envelopes, labeling them with students’ names, and distributing them before or after school - without the teacher noticing.

"That's just the preparation," Katie said. "Here's what's going on Each. Day."

Sunday, the day prior to Teacher Appreciation Week, was Door Decorating Day. Room Mothers had to decorate the classroom door with a Willy Wonka design and a 'Sweet' message - using pieces of candy to represent the class, like a giant lollypop for the teacher and Jolly Ranchers for the students.

"Be sure to decorate the door on Sunday so it will greet the teacher first thing Monday morning," Katie read.

"How are you going to get into the building?" I asked. "Do you have a key?"

"It's California, Mom. Classroom doors lead to the outside."

"Maybe California rodents will eat the candy. Little rats running around with Gummy Bears stuck in their teeth."

Katie went on.

Monday was Welcome to Teacher Appreciation Day – the day Ms. Howard would ooh and aah over the door, place her hand on her heart, and say something like, "All This for Meeee?"

Monday was also the first of four days that Katie would hide somewhere and collect money for the gift certificate that would be presented to Ms. Howard at the Friday afternoon culminating party, and the candy bar poems the children were to write to Ms. Howard – 'Be my Almond Joy' or 'I'm all Butterfingers Around You' or 'Your Happiness is My Payday' - with the showcased candy bars attached to the poems, which, once collected, Katie had to bind into a book.

"Mom," Katie said. "What the hell is the Ms. Howard going to do with thirty-one candy bars? This is ridiculous. I'm not doing that part."

I could hear a pen scratching.

"Better watch out, Katie," I sang. "You're gonna get in trouble with Cupcake Bully and her cohorts if you break the rules."

Tuesday was Fresh Flower Day. Each student was to bring a fresh flower to the teacher. Katie had to be on hand that morning to collect the flowers, put them in a vase, and present the arrangement to Ms. Howard.

"Get . . . a . . . vase," Katie said. I could hear her pen again.

Wednesday was Oompa Loompa Day. Students were to come to school dressed as Oompa Loompas - green hair, orange faces, brown shirts, white overalls, and blue soccer socks.

"Okay – Wednesday's a bust," I said. "Can't teach orange faces and green hair."

Thursday was Book Binding Day. Katie had to finish collecting the poems and take them home to collate, leaving blank pages in the back for the forgotten ones. Then, after Bridget's nap, go to Staples for bookbinding and stop off at the mall for a decent gift certificate.

"Just a few hours of my time . . .," Katie said. ". . . every single day – including Sunday – INCLUDING SUNDAY!"

"Katie," I said. "This isn't asking too much, is it? It's a cinch for someone like you – you’re just a mom - with plenty of time on her hands. What do you do all day anyway? Other than raising two kids, housecleaning, laundry, cooking, shopping, working twenty hours a week from home as a customer service rep, taking your son to little league, attending church, chairing two committees, and serving as the first grade Art Master, you don't do so much. What's the big deal?"

"Yeah, right," she said. "Listen to Friday."

Friday was Dress as Your Favorite Candy Day. Peppermint Patties, Smarties, and Baby Ruths - adding yet another distraction to the already disrupted educational environment.

Then, as if gratitude hadn't been stretched far enough into Oompa Loompa Land, there would be a Teacher Appreciation luncheon in the teachers' lounge.

"What'll they serve - a variety pack of Hershey's Chocolate with pralines?" I asked.

"I feel like I agreed to bake a dozen cookies and ended up project manager of a Mrs. Fields factory."

"The teachers are going to hate it," I said. "I guarantee they don't want their classes interrupted by a bunch of Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs running amok all week."

Katie, being the Good Mother, clenched her teeth and followed the instructions as directed. The week's worth of activities took more than two weeks and cost Katie about fifty dollars – far more than any one parent's contribution to the gift certificate.

At the culminating class party, Katie presented Ms. Howard with the book of poems and the gift certificate. Ms. Howard appeared appreciative and thanked the children for the sweet things they had done for her that week. The children clapped and laughed and disappointedly picked at tiny half-pint cupcakes with sloppy glaze puddling down the sides and asked Wally where his good cupcakes were.

Katie phoned on Friday afternoon. "Hell Week is over."

"So - did Ms. Howard thank you?"

"Sort of," she said. "It's hard to tell with her. She doesn't have much of an affect."

"All that and you can't tell?"

"I didn't do it for me, Mom. I did it for Brett," she said. "But never again."

"Not even if there's a Room Mother Appreciation Week?"

"Not even - but I am thinking of joining the PTA."

EVS 05/11

HOME ON THE RAILS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 20:24:00 +0000

THEME: CHEAP THRILLS

The only thrill worthwhile is the one that comes from making something out of yourself.

~ William Feather

The Expectation

A romantic adventure with my husband Ed. Riding the rails in mid-July of 2009.

The Promise

"We'll take you through the Heart of the West! Eight states and across the mighty Mississippi—past deserts and mountains, missions and pueblos, ranches and wheat fields. Carving through curving canyon passages only a few feet wider than the train itself. You'll see spectacular landscapes and pristine vistas. You'll be mesmerized by this land's beauty and allure."

The Anticipation

Fullerton, CA, to Chicago on the Southwest Chief - the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway. Over two thousand miles of the Old West along the Santa Fe Trail: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Illinois. Ed and I would leave Fullerton on Monday evening and arrive in Chicago Wednesday afternoon. Two pleasant, relaxing days riding the rails, soaking in the wonder, beauty, and mystery of the Old West.

Cities like Needles, Flagstaff, Gallup, Albuquerque, Dodge City, and Kansas City – haunted by Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and Billy the Kid. Echoes of gunfights and gambling. Honky-tonk pianos and saloons. Matt Dillon, Chester, and Kitty on slatted sidewalks in a cloud of gun smoke. Donkey carts hauling flour, salt, and tobacco. Shawnee, Comanche, Navaho, and Zuni. Silver and turquoise. Hand-woven blankets and baskets. Good pawn and babies in papooses.

The exquisitness of an ever-changing landscape. A purple and orange sunset over the Mojave Desert, the terra cotta of Canyon Diablo, the clear rush of Little Colorado River, the Red Cliffs of New Mexico, the Rio Grande, Apache Canyon, Pecos River, Starvation Peak, Sugar Creek, and Nauvoo. Flowering deserts and eagles soaring over shadowed cliffs.

And the train. Wine in the lounge car. Swivel seats. Elongated windows for a panoramic view. Gracious, romantic meals in the dining car. White linen tablecloths, fresh flowers, porcelain. And finally in the luxury of our reclining, plush seats with headrests, footrests, and overhead reading lamps. Comfy pillows and snuggle blankets. We'd watch the red sun-ball disappear below the horizon as we slowly drifted off to sleep, soothed by the train’s muted whistle and left-right sways. The soft clickity-clack of the rails, gently beating time to its own lullaby.

The Trip

We arrived at the Fullerton train station an hour early to pick up our tickets and check bags. A café of sorts, with a sticky counter and the odor of diesel and mustard, offered a variety of snacks: nachos loaded with a thin cheese sauce, microwave pizza and burritos, wrinkled hot dogs revolving on heat rollers, hermetically sealed skinny sandwiches, candy, chips, soda, coffee, and milk. Good enough for regular travelers with families to feed and entertain. Too mediocre for us. We'd dine in style on the train.

We waited on an outside bench and watched commuter trains drop off day workers going home to same-old, same-old, not beginning an exciting journey through the Old West.

About a hundred Boy Scouts charged the platform waving backpacks and duffle bags.

"Please, please, don't let them be in my car," I said. Sharing my ride with card-playing, joke-telling, coke-swilling teenage boys who were probably on their first big trip away from parental supervision wasn't in my game plan.

Our train pulled into the station and hissed to a stop. There it was – the Southwest Chief - rising two stories high. A series of double-decker cars with passenger seating in the upper level and storage below. One car – a little car - a half car with lower level seating - trailed behind like a railroad afterthought. Several conductors emerged and placed three-tiered stepladders in front of open doors. Ed and I headed forward to be near the lounge and dining cars - away from the Boy Scouts.

"CHICAGO PEOPLE – CHICAGO PEOPLE - LAST CAR! LAST CAR!"

We turned around. A uniformed man waved his arms at the back of the train. "AAAALLLLLL CHICAGO PEOPLE – LAST CAR! LAST CAR!"

Dismayed, Ed and I hugged our carry ons and threaded through the mass of khaki to the end of the platform.

"You two going to Chicago?"

We nodded.

"Can't we sit up there?" I pointed to the upper level.

"You're Chicago. You're in there." He pointed to the railroad afterthought. "Turn right."

We stepped into a hallway that held shelves of luggage, stairs leading to the upper level, and four bathrooms, which emitted a stench that I prayed wouldn't waft through the door leading to our seats in the other half of the car. The glare of an overhead fluorescent light made Ed's face look green.

Our little car had four rows on either side of the aisle, and except for the first row on the right, each held passengers sprawled across empty seats - protecting their territory so no one would sit there. We claimed the first row and placed our carry ons in the wheelchair area in front of us.

No plush reclining seats with headrests and footrests. Instead, burgundy plastic with rusty metal reclining levers, bumps that rose two inches behind the neck, and seat extensions that clicked into place under the knees, leaving the calves and feet to hang in mid air. The seats faced the door to the other half of the car. And the overhead fluorescent light shone through the car window directly into our eyes.

"We have to sleep facing . . .."

The electric click of an intercom interrupted me. "EIGHT O'CLOCK DINNER SERVICE IS NOW BEGINNING AND THE DINING ROOM IS CLOSED TO NEW DINERS. EIGHT THIRTY DINNER SERVICE WILL BEGIN AT EIGHT THIRTY. SHARP. BE SURE TO MAKE A RESERVATION. NO RESERVATION - NO DINNER." He repeated it – three times. So began the regular pronouncements by the soon-to-be-familiar Train Voice.

The door slid open and a conductor entered. "Tickets, tickets."

"Can we sign up for dinner?" I asked him. "And can we move to another car?"

"A hostess does that." He punched our tickets and shoved them into the metal holder above our seats. "You're Chicago - you stay put."

Soon after we made our eight thirty dinner reservations, Train Voice declared that the eight thirty dinner service would begin precisely at eight thirty and anyone who signed up for eight thirty dinner service better high tail it or they'd be out of luck. That's not exactly what he said, but pretty close. Three times.

We opened the door to the hallway, held our breaths, walked up the circular stairs, and made our way through six passenger cars, the snack bar, the lounge, to the dining car. The passenger cars had blue cloth seats with white head protectors over nicely sized headrests. Except for those people who sat with a hundred Boy Scouts, I was envious of the passengers in the upper level.

"When did Chicago become chopped liver?" I said.

The snack bar offered much the same food choices as the Fullerton Station café, with the additional breakfast items of Cheerios, strawberry yogurt, and hermetically sealed cheese Danish.

I grimaced. "What's that smell?"

"Nachos? Armpits?" Ed said. "Hard to tell."

I was glad we were having a gracious dinner in the dining car. Wouldn't want to be stuck with such unappetizing fare on my romantic adventure.

The lounge car was a series of booths filled with people drinking beer and wine, playing games, reading, and chatting. A few swivel seats offered views through floor to ceiling windows, but the people there had swiveled themselves into conversation circles, ignoring the sun as it danced over the Mojave Desert.

We entered the dining car and headed for an empty table.

"You there. You don't seat yourselves." A fellow in a white chef's jacket holding a plastic tray with two sweaty glasses of water covered in Saran Wrap stepped in front of us. "This way."

"I think he's Train Voice," I whispered.

He led us to seats opposite two gentlemen. Single travelers – ushered to their seats – no choice. We sloughed off the disappointment and introduced ourselves, making the best of forced togetherness. We chatted about nothing in particular and watched the orange sun-ball slink behind cactus and sandy hillocks.

The faux-fabric tablecloth and napkins looked like the interfacing used to reinforce jacket lapels – much like the covering on airplane pillows. A white plastic vase held dusty fake roses. We ordered off the crumpled, stained, one-card menu. Chicken en croute for me; vegetable lasagna for Ed – both of which were heated in the microwave and served on melamine plates. Our dinners were overcooked and chewy on the outside, lukewarm on the inside.

It was past ten when we returned to our car. The fluorescent light was still on. It would stay on all night. Necessity overcame repulsion, so I went to the bathroom. I calculated how many more times I'd have to use the wet-floor, toilet-paper-strewn facilities before we got home. Too many. Along with everything else inside the train, bathroom cleanliness wasn't addressed in The Promise.

Sleeping comfort became an all-time priority. We found a stash of miniature pillows in an overhead bin and placed them under and behind our necks, backs, and elbows. We lengthened our seat extensions with ersatz footrests of piled carry ons. I made an eye mask out of Ed's bandana to block the fluorescent glare.

Ed listened to old time radio on his mp3 player, and I tried to sleep. Finding a comfortable position was next to impossible. Every part of my body ached. My back, my head, my neck, my elbows, even my wrists. The undersized pillows didn't alleviate the discomfort. Several times I had to rearrange my carry-on-hassock after it fell apart by the jerking of the train. I think I finally drifted off to sleep around eleven thirty.

I was jolted awake at midnight. A bunch of preteens ran down the stairs, pushed open our door, and shouted into car. "Hi!" and "You're dumb!" and "Wake up!" Then they sang and danced and whooped beside the bathrooms.

After the third time yelling into our car, I pushed open the door to the hallway and said, shouted actually, "You kids quit it! Now! Or I'm going to get the train police."

They laughed at me and ran up the stairs before I could finish my tirade. They repeated their routine – twice - before an Amtrak hostess put a stop to it.

The night passed slowly with the glare of the light in my eyes, the jab of the armrest in my back, and the numblike tingles in my right leg. At least one part of me could sleep.

Morning came with the sun rising someplace in the West. I wasn't sure. The scenery was pleasant enough, but until my brain could function, the view became a low priority.

We had signed up for EIGHT O'CLOCK BREAFKAST SERVICE, so we honored our commitment even though we knew what to expect. Breakfast with strangers, plastic dinnerware, pillowcase tablecloths, dusty fake flowers, surly hosts, and crumpled menus. We had over-cooked-under-cooked egg frittatas and sweaty glasses of warm orange juice covered with Saran Wrap.

During breakfast, the train stopped at Flagstaff, and we watched a sea of Boy Scouts disembark and board Greyhound Buses that would take them into canyon territory.

"Look," I said. "The lucky guys get to ride in comfort. Plush seats, head and foot rests, a nice little bathroom in the back."

"Those bathrooms stink," Ed said.

"We already have stink – at least we'd have sleep."

For the rest of our trip to Chicago we endured the graceless amenities of the Southwest Chief - dubbed DamnTrak soon after breakfast. A thirty-minute stopover at the Albuquerque station offered a chance to walk without tilting and browse the tourist-trap market. Silver and turquoise jewelry, baskets, and woven rugs. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't. Like the jewelry, my adventure had lost its luster.

The remainder of our meals came from the snack shop. Hermitically sealed sandwiches for lunch, microwaved pizza for supper, Cheerios and yogurt for breakfast. We sat in our plastic seats, and between fits of sleep, watched with droopy eyes as the probably gorgeous landscape rolled by. The preteens continued to run up and down the stairs, push open our doors, and shout into the car. But I didn't care. They couldn't hurt me anymore.

The Home Arrival

As AmTrak approached Chicago Wednesday afternoon, it went right through our town of LaGrange. We knew Amtrak didn't stop there - that we'd be taking a commuter train from Union Station back home. When we sailed past LaGrange, I waved at main street and whispered, "See you soon."

We arrived in Chicago's Union Station on schedule. After collecting our bags, we lugged our stuff to the commuter platform and found a train that was just about to leave for the suburbs. We were glad that this was the last time we'd have to wrestle our luggage onto a train.

The conductor approached us. "Tickets?"

"We need to buy them," Ed said. "Two for LaGrange."

Ed smiled at me. He knew what I was thinking – a hot bath, a dry martini, and a good night's sleep. We had planned that I would stay at the station with the luggage while Ed walked the five blocks to our house to pick up the car. In fewer than thirty minutes we'd be home.

"Doesn't stop in LaGrange," the conductor said. "You're on an express. Won't stop 'til Downers Grove."

Too exhausted to place blame for this added layer of distress, we succumbed to defeat and watched our home sail by for the second time that day.

EVS – 04/11

TARNISHED TIARAS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 19:49:00 +0000

THEME: RUMORS
Rumors generally grow deformed as they travel. ~ Edward Counsel

Ah, what fools we were, Ed and I, when raising our daughter Katie. We can hear them whispering. "Ellie and Ed didn't give Katie what every little girl should have - that all-important, rise-to-stardom opportunity." And they’re right. We didn't. Shame on us.

Because of our neglect, Katie missed out. So determined to raise our child on good old-fashioned values, we neglected to provide that one life experience that would have sent Katie straight to fame. Little girl beauty pageants. How could we have been so remiss?

And because of our selfishness, Katie now doesn't have a houseful of pageant nostalgia - the gowns, the ribbons, the awards, the trophies, the tiaras - to touch and pet and pine over - reminding her of those golden moments in the limelight. And because her home is bereft of the icons of eminence, she has nothing to show her own little girl, who, at twenty-two months, is ripe for the pageant world.

So - if we could do it over . . .

. . . we'd move to the South, where the good pageants are held - where pageant moms have an over abundance of beauty-contest enthusiasm and the morphologies of Pillsbury Doughboys. We'd buy a house with shelving for pageant paraphernalia and plenty of room for prancing around in Las Vegas showgirl outfits. We'd over-spend on contest necessities and cut back on non-essentials, like food, clothing, and the mortgage. We'd keep cases of caffeinated beverages on hand for when Katie got the droops during late night rehearsals, and we'd bribe her with toys and MacDonald's when she refused to swish the boa across her butt.

I'd start right off calling Katie 'Princess' and 'Perfect Preciousness' and 'Sweet Cinderella' to raise her expectations of the general public. She'd learn that she was the best, the prettiest, the cutest of all the contestants – far superior in all categories. She'd learn to love being in beauty pageants as much as I loved sticking her in them. And regardless of long car rides, musty motels, lethargy, and sitting for hours in itchy starched crinoline, she wouldn't cry. I'd scold her - in front of people - if she did, 'cause "Queens don't have meltdowns, Missy."

I’d enter Katie in contests as early as, say, two weeks old. She’d wear something expensive, something beyond my budget, something over-the-top - perhaps a pink polyester flouncy tutu with sequins and baubles – something that stuck out - a layered shelf of petrified mesh. She'd have pink striped leggings with sparkles and matching socks with treads. I'd strap a papoose board to her back, making it look like she could hold her head up even though she was still wrinkle-red from a nine-month bath. Talent? No sweat. Head Flopping. Performing would be a cinch - just remove the board.

As she got older, I’d hire a pricy pageant coach so Katie would get the best of instruction in how to tilt her head and put on those Wow! facial expressions – wide, batting eyes and plastic smile.

A professional make-up artist would transform Katie from natural child to tart – skin-toned cream to hide facial discolorations, pink cheek powder for the big-girl look, tomato red lipstick for the pouty look, black eyeliner painted to a cat-point just above the outside corner of each eye, neon confetti eye shadow that shimmered under the lights, and false eyelashes, thick and caked with mascara.

A hairstylist from some hoedown would tease Katie's hair and stick in curly, bleach-blond extensions, making Katie's head look like a yellow poodle sat there. Katie would cry and whine, “That hurts. You’re pulling my hair."

I’d tuck my spandex tank-top back under the belly pounds I’d put on special, and say, “Shucks, sweetie, y’all wanna to luk nahse for the jedges now, don-ja? So shuddup and quit yer squeelin.” I'd talk like that because I'd want to fit in, being in the south and all.

She’d stand in the shower in her underpants and scream and cover her face with her hands while I spray-tanned her whole body orange-brown. I'd say, "Hold steel, now. Yer gonna git tha goo in yer ayes, iffin ya move 'roun." And while the tan glop dried, Katie would walk like a pig farmer in manure so her thighs wouldn’t scrape together and mess up the layer of sticky fakeness between her legs.

We’d practice her routine.

“Now swing your hips, baby girl – thas righ’ – now tear off yer skirt, yeah - toss it ta here! Lookin’ guud! Swish yer’ bitty butt! One! Two! Tharee! Fouh! Woo hoo! Y’all got it goin’ on!”

And when she was called to the stage, Katie would be a darling in her strapless yellow puffy dress, lacy ankle socks, white Mary Janes, and coiffed up do with fake diamond fascinators clipped above each ear. And she’d sway and slither and sashay across the stage with cutest damn frozen smile you ever saw, showing off those perfect white, flipper teeth, throwing kisses and making eye contact with each judge simultaneously.

Then we'd sit in the hotel lobby and wait for the judges to announce the winners. I'd munch on a couple of Paydays and Katie would finish off the last Mountain Dew.

Katie would say, "Did I do good, Mama?"

And I'd answer, "Coulda done betta, Suga' Pops. Yer smyle was a tad stupid lookin'." I'd shake my head in disappointment and sigh, "Cain't do nothin' bout it now. S'all up ta them jedges."

Of course, Katie would win something. Maybe not the High Supreme Queen or the Supreme Queen or even the Queen. But she'd get a tiara and a trophy the size of church steeple and a stuffed animal.

Once in the car, I'd chew on another Payday and look in the rear view mirror. Katie would be falling asleep, holding tight to her stuffed animal, streaks of mascara flowing down her cheeks.

"Oops," I'd say, "Gotta git y'all may-kup remover."

I'd pick a peanut out of my teeth and turn onto the main highway.

"Ya know," I'd shout into the back, "y'all gotta work harder iffen ya wanna win." I'd pause and wait, but there'd be no answer.

"Maybe next time, Honey Bee," I'd say to the road. "Maybe next time."

EVS 03/11

SWITCHING CHANNELS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 16:46:00 +0000

THEME: FIGHTS
It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog.
~ Mark Twain

Sometimes my husband speaks from brain quarks. The other day, as we drove past the hideous concrete landscape of strip malls, auto dealerships, and fast food restaurants, Ed said something unintelligible to me in a nasally, Mr. Peavey voice. I thought he was referring to the ugliness.

“Huh?”

I expected him to say something funny about obese alley – those side-by-side hip packers: Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and Burger King, our personal favorite for veggie burgers and crispy chicken sandwiches.

"I'm channeling Harrison Ford," he said.

I took a beat to reconnoiter. "Yeah, right,” I said. “Harrison Ford. A dweeb."

"No, really. In BLADE RUNNER. He talked like a weenie to get information from the snake lady - like this . . ." Ed squeezed his face into a prune. "Have you felt yourself to be exploited in any way? - Don't you remember?"

I didn't.

Then Ed asked, "Do you ever channel anyone?"

I thought about how I often I become our daughter Katie, especially when I'm excited - or mad.

"Katie," I said. "I feel like Katie sometimes. I hear her voice when I say stuff."

I smiled. Katie and me. One entity. I liked that.

"And then there's my mother. I feel like my mother - a lot - too much. I see her in the mirror - with that mouth and - Oh, God - I can't talk about it."

I looked at my hands, my arms – at my mother's knuckle-wrinkles, her undefined wrists, her dry skin and age spots. I yanked at my sleeves and recoiled, cringing at the likeness. I wondered if Katie felt that way.

"So," Ed said. "It's okay to channel Katie. It's not okay to channel - or resemble - or be – your mother? Ever write about that?"

***

Our grown daughter, Katie, an only child, and I have a remarkable relationship. At least, I think we do. According to Katie, we do. Ed and I live in the Chicago suburbs. Katie lives with her family in California. We see each other a few times a year, but our regular connection is by phone. She tells me, in great detail, about her life, and I tell her about mine. We give and get the truth – straight from the heart. Advice and all. "Mom - you're retired. You're supposed to relax and enjoy life now. You work too much on your projects. You need balance." Or "Katie –meeting someone in a parking lot? Some seller you found on Craig’s List? Someone in a white Cadillac? To buy an ersatz Louis Vuitton purse? You who locks her doors to ward off serial Killers? Hello!”

We joke, we laugh, we cry, and we compare notes about terrible, guilty pleasure TV shows - shows like "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and "The Bachelor." Don't you think Camille is manipulative? Michelle is such a snake. Will Brad be sorry he chose Emily?

When Katie was a baby, I smothered her in kisses and hugs. "You can never spoil a child with too much love," a wise woman told me when Katie was little. I cemented that in my heart and gave Katie enough love to cover the planet.

Ed and I encouraged Katie to tell us what was on her mind - regardless of the discomfort it might trigger. We didn't censor her emotions, her thinking, or her reading material. When she was ten the book Coma was on our dining room table. I had read the first two pages and refused to continue. Katie picked up the book and walked toward her room. "I don't think you'll want to read that," I said.

"I can read it," she said to the cover. "I can read anything." And she disappeared down the hall. Ten minutes later she stormed into the dining room and heaved the paperback. It skidded across the table, plowing my grade book, pen, and first period essays onto the floor. "That's disgusting!" she said and plopped into a chair.

If readers remember, Coma is about an intensive care facility with brain dead patients suspended on wires from the ceiling. These "samples" are kept alive and healthy until there's a need for vital organs, which are surgically removed and then sold on the black market. I believe the first two pages of the book details one such surgical removal - not good reading for a kid, I wouldn't think. But the incident instigated a bunch of questions about blood, guts, comas – and the black market.

Through Katie's adolescent years, our patterns of communication paralled a yo-yo in motion. Katie continued to say what was on her mind: "I don't want to talk about it" followed "You know, Mom, there was drinking at that party."

Ed and I continued to guide her journey to responsible independence: "You need an adult driver to take you to the rock concert" followed "No, Barry can’t take you – he just got his learner’s permit."

Ed and I trailed at her heels with ready support as Katie leapt—then faltered, then jolted, then graciously cruised—into adulthood.

I feel energized and comfortable when I channel Katie.

***

My mom was our small town’s delight. Everybody loved Norma Volckmann. A pro-active woman. A natural at everything – cooking, golfing, playing bridge, ice skating, knitting. Mom took meals to the needy, made better-than-best chocolate chip cookies and devil’s food cake, wrote clever ditties for celebrations, headed committees, and directed the church choir. Mom returned to college in her fifties and received her teacher’s certificate in special education, which she then taught with humor and grace.

What better mother could one have?

It probably happened in many households during my generation. Moms and daughters not very close. My mom’s lack of affection toward me probably came from her own upbringing. “Nobody ever showed affection or said I love you in my house when I was growing up,” Mom said once. "It just wasn't done in my day." She sighed. "We laughed a lot, though."

They did laugh a lot. My mother’s family of eight sat around the dinner table and gabbed and laughed until someone decided to cover the pie and do the dishes. They say laughter is the best medicine, but Aunt Bebe ended up with stomach ulcers, Uncle Charlie ended up with never-ending hiccups, Uncle Tuey ended up with an early heart attack, and my mother ended up with my father.

When my dad came to the house to date my mom, he'd sit in the living room and wait until Mom was ready. Dad didn't join in the table banter. “He was too shy,” Mom said. “An only child.”

Whole-hearted laughing didn't follow my mom into the home she made with my dad. Probably because of my father, who got nervous when people hung around the dinner table gabbing and laughing. He sat at the head of the table waiting for that part of the conversation when the laughing stopped and the arguing began. It was the potential arguing that made him nervous.

When I was a kid, we ate a dessert of surface humor – pie a la sterile punch line. Humor of least resistance. Nothing of significance discussed. World affairs? Intimacy? Religion? Off the table. Not allowed.

By the time I knew her, my mother used laughter to wash away anxiety. And she sighed - at everything. I suppose my mother had the nails knocked out of her when she made a home and family with my father. Instead of being a whole-hearted, easy laugher, my mother morphed into a sigher. She sighed at everything. She sighed when I asked for new shoes, she sighed when Dad brought in the zucchini from the garden, and she sighed when she looked out the kitchen window and watched the grass grow.

I avoided being anywhere, at the same time as my mother. Close proximity to my mother made me tense and self-conscious. I might have to talk to her, and talking to Mom made me feel agitated and awkward, as if my clothes were on backwards. Mom asked me questions – putting me on the spot about my friendships, or asking if I liked any of the nice boys. Always that word. Nice. It gave me the creeps. And then Mom would suggest that I phone my nice friends. “Why don’t you call your nice friends and see if they’ll come over?” Especially Danny Smithfield. “Now, there’s a nice boy,” she'd say, “Why don’t you phone Danny Smithfield?” making me uncomfortable and itchy. “Why, when I was your age, I had lots of boyfriends.”

If Mom had developed a closeness with me before I could walk or talk, then maybe I would have been more receptive to these heart-to-hearts. When we were together, like at church, or at the store, and ran into someone who played bridge with Mom, someone I didn't know, my mother made it look like we had a close mother-daughter bond. On one such occasion, Mom put her arm around my shoulders, an action as phony as Ritz Cracker apple pie, and introduced me.

“Agnes, this is my daughter, Eloise. She’s going into ninth grade in September.” Then she patted my arm and looked into my face, and said, like she was trying to impress her friend, “You’re going to really study this year, aren’t you, Eloise? We want you to get into a good college - like Colgate where your brother Dicky goes - well except a girls' college.” Then Mom turned back to Agnes and said, as if she were a martyr and I were a deaf mute, “She’s turning thirteen in November; she’s one of the youngest in her grade," she looked at me and tilted her head, ". . . and, well, sometimes it’s hard for her to keep up." She wiggled my shoulders. "Isn’t it now, Eloise?”

If shrinking into the woodwork had been possible, I would have disappeared altogether, slipping into nothingness, in order to escape the nods of sympathy and understanding for the mother of a dolt.

And to make matters worse, I always felt as though I were getting the short end of the proverbial stick, having been called naughty and lazy since I was a little girl. As it was, I endured my mother’s efforts to engage in conversation, but all it did was ratchet up my anxiety to higher levels of discomfort.

In September of 1988, when Mom and Dad celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, my brothers and I gave them a scrapbook filled with a lifetime of photographs. Mom laughed at the early pictures of her and Dad. She oohhed and aahhed at the pictures of her first son. “There’s Dickie. What a sweet baby,” she said. She looked at Dick and said, “You were such a good little boy.” After several pages she came upon her second child. “Oh, look – it’s Davey.” She looked at Dave. “You had such funny ears. But you were real cute.”

Then, a few pages later, she came across a third baby. She stopped - and stared - and screwed up her face. “Who’s that?”

Everyone laughed. Everyone but me.

Someody said, “That’s Eloise.”

“Eloise? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Eloise?" She studied the picture and screwed up her face. "She sure was naughty."

When Mom ended up in a nursing home with the onset of Alzheimer's, my brothers and I visited whenever we could. During one visit, while I was out of earshot, Mom told my sister-in-law Carol, that I was a wonderful daughter and, "I don't know what I would have done without her." Nice to know.

I feel stifled and parched when I channel my mother.

***

Ed pulled into Burger King. "I'm in the mood for a veggie burger," said Mr. Peavey aka Harrison Ford aka brain quark.

I laughed. It felt good to be me again.

EVS - 01/11

SPOT ON

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 00:03:00 +0000

THEME: PAYING ATTENTION
I think the one lesson I have learned is that there is no substitute for paying attention. ~ Diane Sawyer

My mother and father-in-law, Mary and Clint Searl, are 94 and 95 years old. They are in such good shape - body, mind, and soul - they could put most teenagers to shame. They'd probably tell you they're getting too old for this or too tired for that, but they have spunk and spirit and drive and a boatload of positive energy – the kind that adds spark to life and makes children giggle.

They tell the stories of their lives, most of which they've told many times, but which I never tire of hearing. Mom, the daughter of Austro-Hungarian parents and the eldest of ten children, growing up on a New Jersey farm. Dad, one of five children, growing up in a New Jersey mill town. They tell their stories, and I ask questions to stretch the details.

Mary and Clint live on Faulk Road in Wilmington, Delaware – close to the Pennsylvania state line - in the same house Dad built in 1950 for $5000. For years, until Delaware and Pennsylvania changed their northern border, Mary and Clint's back yard sat right on the state line - the arc known as the Twelve-Mile Circle - just east of the Mason-Dixon Line. Dad was dismayed when the two states moved their border away from his property line. Dad liked his deed the way it was. "Big part of history," he said. Eventually, and with great reluctance, Dad changed his deed to match the new boundary once he realized the muddle an out-dated deed would create for the executor of his will.

Until a few years ago Mom and Dad kept a lush vegetable garden - corn, squash, lettuce, tomatoes, beans, asparagus, peppers, peas – which were eaten right off the vine or jarred or canned or jellied or stewed or pureed for future home-made dinners. They cultivated their yard with maples and holly trees and elms, many of which Mary planted herself when she found sprigs out on the back roads.

More recently, Mom and Dad find simpler tasks to satisfy their need to be productive. They don't do the outdoor tasks much anymore – they've given up gardening, mowing the lawn, and plowing the snow. But Mom does Cryptic Byword every day and still makes lemon meringue pie. Dad continues his interest in stamp collecting and anything related to history.

My husband, Ed, phones his parents every day. He talks to his mom at great length about anything and everything – recipes, gardening, TV shows, the Pope, pedophile priests, condoms, corrupt politicians, lack of moral standards, and, of course, football and baseball, which Mom follows almost as much as Ed does, especially the Philadelphia Eagles and the Phillies. Then, when his dad gets on the phone, he and Ed discuss mechanical or technical issues – the importance of this engine, that genealogy, or the other form.

I usually don't get involved in these regular phone visits. The other day, however, when Ed was talking to his dad, I heard my name mentioned. When he hung up, Ed said, "Dad sent you something in the mail. He didn't say what it was, but he wants you to call him as soon as you get it."

The something I received highlighted Dad's appreciation for my writing. It was like getting a pat on the back in the mail. The envelope contained a greeting card with a photograph of Mary's garden, taken by my sister-in-law, Natalie Searl. Inside the card was a short note from Dad and a folded yellow legal-sized sheet of paper. The note read: Ellie, I scribbled this for something to do this morning. I figured it would be a good test of your skills in word usage. Dad.

On one side of the legal paper was a pen and ink illustration. On the other side was an accompanying story about Spot– the brown and white Springer Spaniel the family owned when Ed was a kid – and how Spot saved a lady's life one winter day during a terrible blizzard.

I knew the family had a dog when Ed was little, but Ed never told me much about him. I figured either Ed hadn't spent much time with Spot or too many years had diluted the memories. "Do you remember much about Spot?" I asked Ed. "Did you play with him?'

"He was an outside dog," Ed said. "He had his own house. Pretty much all I remember is I had to put him to sleep when he got cancer."

I phoned Dad to find out what he wanted me to do. As I figured, Dad wanted me to write up the story in a fashion that would highlight Spot's tenacity, his quick wittedness, his determination to get Mary's attention so Mrs. Gaynor would get some help. Dad didn't think he had captured the essence of the story in the little he had written. He wanted readers to see and feel the action.

He thought I could take his wording and his illustration and write a story that would zoom in on the dog running back and forth between the lady in the snow pile and the side of the house, stretching the chain, dragging it in the snow, yipping and barking and pointing, trying like mad to get Mary to notice him from her window.

But I think Dad told it quite well. And the precision of his illustration makes it complete. Here it is in his own words – exactly:

"Spot Saves a Human's Life"

"Spot was a Springer Spaniel hunting dog who lived outside all his life. On this freezing winter day after an 18" snowfall, Mrs. Gaynor, our neighbor, attempted to break a path through the snow on a down-hill slope of over a hundred feet to Mary's back door. She fell and was unable to rise and would have died without Spot's drawing Mary's attention by barking and showing agitation by pointing and leaving chain marks in the snow.

Mary's attention was made to his behavior when he would point to her and then change his path and pointing to where Mrs. Gaynor was lying. Mary decided to go to the basement back door and saw what Spot was barking at, and rescued the victim and saved her life. She would have died before her son would have returned from work eight hours later."

I was thrilled that Dad thought enough of my writing to want me to fashion his story into a tale he thought he couldn't tell. However, if I had rewritten it, it would have become distorted, no longer a vision of Dad's memory, no longer a story straight from his heart that he could relate – with full ownership and authentic emotion - when people gather around the table over Mom's lemon meringue pie.

We all have stories to tell, and they are best told in our own voices. Maybe Dad will be dismayed that I chose not to rewrite the story of Spot's heroic rescue. But I'll bet Dad will be glad when I ask him to tell that story again – in his own words - the next time we visit. And his story will be spot on.

EVS 01/11

THE ESSENTIALS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 17:47:00 +0000

ENDINGS - If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.
~ Orson Wells

It’s nearing the New Year - time to reconnoiter - time to think about how I’ve lived my life and see if my activities stand up to snuff. What unpleasantness could have been avoided if I’d been a better person? I don’t want to go into 2011 continuing behaviors that screech along the chalkboard.

Usually end-of-year self-scrutinizing comes in the guise of New Year’s Resolutions. However, this year I’ve decided to think of my life in terms of the Seven Deadly Sins. If I’ve fallen into the mire of sin, I'll cleanse my soul and waltz into 2011 with angelic purity.

Note: The sins aren't in the order I found them on the Internet. I alphabetized them. Makes me feel organized.

Anger: A variety of things anger me, and I should let those go as they create stress and might make me sick. But there are two individuals who rile me to distraction. One person is Mark Levin. He’s an evening talk-show host who rails against anything democratic – he's much like Rush Limbaugh, but worse. Mark Levin labels all liberals liars – all of them. I’m a liberal, so I'm a liar. He calls us names, like scumbag, idiot, and dolt. During the presidential campaign, he called Hillary Clinton “Her Thighness.” He referred to Barak Obama as Barak Millhouse Obama, drawing attention to his actual middle name, Hussein, so people would be afraid of him. Whenever a liberal phones Levin’s show, he hangs up on them, saying something like, “You don’t know squat, you moron.” However, he venerates callers who agree with his pro-right opinions. Levin and his cadre of like-minded thinkers seem to take delight in tearing apart the motives of the Left – you know who they are - those liars, those bleeding heart socialists - dangerous Commies who, apparently, have some grand scheme to DESTROY OUR NATION.

When I can’t sleep, I listen to the radio. Occasionally, I switch to Levin’s program to hear what he’s up to, but he agitates me so much I need Alka-Seltzer to realign my stomach.

Then there’s Sarah Palin. Almost everything about her makes me fume, but I became particularly irate when she killed a caribou on her Alaskan TV show. I didn’t see the show, but according to my source, Sarah Palin couldn’t kill the beast right away - she shot several rounds before she hit the mark. Actually, I heard that she gave the rifle to someone else - someone who could shoot straight and kill the poor thing. My research didn't produce evidence of that, so I guess she eventually put the bullet where it belonged all by herself. Then she took the caribou home to her family and showed it off, taking kudos for a good kill.

Sarah Palin insists that killing animals is Alaska’s way of providing food for their families during a winter drought. Makes me wonder how much freezer space Palin set aside for caribou steaks beside her Edy’s Triple Fudge Ice Cream, Ding Dongs, Lean Cuisines, and Green Giant peas.

My vitriol rose again when Palin bought a massive bear rifle so she could protect Kate Gosslin, her eight, Palin’s entourage, the helicopter pilot, and the camera crew from big, bad bears during a tricked-out overnight camping expedition in the cold-drizzle wilderness. “Don’t worry, I’ll save ya,” Ms. Palin sang as Kate shivered under the tarp. I envisioned Palin aiming the shotgun at a charging grizzly before hightailing it out of there, while Kate plus eight and the rest of the troupe high-fived the bear.

Looks like anger will be with me in the coming year. Mark Levin’s mouth and Sarah Palin’s gun-toting run for the presidency won’t be going away any time soon, and I’m not about to change my attitudes concerning either of them.

Envy: I’m envious of people who have nicer or better things than I. And I’ll agree that being envious of having things is harmful to the psyche, causing brain damage. However, I'm envious of all those writers out there who’ve published with the Big Houses. I’ve been writing two novels for a while now. In order to hit the shelves in national book stores, I have to finish one, hire an editor, make revisions, write a proposal, send query letters, find an agent, and land a publisher. Ed, my husband, has accomplished all of this – seven times. Two books and five anthologies. I’m envious of him. I can’t help it.

My writing partners and I self-published two excellent books. Both anthologies; both available on Amazon.com. ( Little Did We Know: Making the Write Impression by Bernadette Adora, Mary Lou Edwards, Carolyn B. Healy, Ellie Searl, 2009; and You Couldn’t Make This Up – Real Stories, Real Life by Ellie Searl, Carolyn B. Healy, Mary Lou Edwards, 2010). I’m proud of these two books (see Pride), and I intend to self-publish more of my writings. But self-publishing, as popular as it has become, isn’t the same as making a name for one’s self with, say, Simon & Schuster, Penguin, Random House, or any other house of the “Big Six.”

Self-publishing is the wave of the future. Some well-known authors can’t wait for their contracts with the Big Houses to be up so they can go the self-publishing route. Because, in self-publishing, an author retains control - on-demand printing, fewer gatekeepers, more profit, and specialized distribution. It gives me hope that well-known authors respect the process of self-publishing. However, I suspect I'll have to break into the limelight of authorship before my self-published books go global. In the meantime, I’ll remain envious of those who are – in the limelight. It doesn’t look like I’ll give up envy any time soon.

Gluttony: A tough one. Gluttony can wreck the body, especially the heart. Overeating is stupid, unattractive, even deadly. But I’m a glutton when it comes to champagne and potato chips. Fill a flute with champagne, i.e., sparkling wine- we don’t buy the expensive French stuff - set it next to a bowl of Cape Cod or Tim's or an unrecognizable brand from Aldi, and I’m good to go. Extra dry ersatz champagne pairs well with a crispy, brown, kettle-cooked chip. That’s a Sunday afternoon feast – goes nicely with solving the New York Times crossword puzzle and watching football with Ed.

I'll try to ease off the indulgences, but I won’t give them up entirely. A smidgen of gluttony will go with me into the New Year.

Greed: I don’t want more things – I have enough “stuff.” That kind of greed I can do without. But is wanting more money considered greedy? If so, I’m guilty. Come to think of it, who isn’t? Doesn’t everyone want more money? The housewives of Beverly Hills have more money than God, but even they say they’re not satisfied with “the little” they have.

Why do people enter sweepstakes or buy lottery tickets or spend hours at a Casino? They want more money, that’s why. I’ve done all of those things - I admit it. Entering sweepstakes is the most disappointing, in my opinion. The chances of winning a million dollars a year for life are slim to slimmer. I stopped bothering with sweepstakes after my first entry. I’ve bought lottery tickets, but the most I’ve ever won was enough to buy another lottery ticket. I participated in a group lottery when the winnings were $300+ million. My $5 in the pool brought me nothing. I’ve tried my luck with other contests and I’ve bet on basketball games. I’ve played video poker at a casino.

I’ve allowed greed to lead me down its precarious path, trying my luck with Coke contests, March Madness bets, and slot machines - winning some, losing more, and getting grumpy.

There has to be one thing I can win, somewhere. Will I give up being greedy? Not likely. Who doesn’t want more money?

Lust: Why is lust sitting in list of sins? Lust? A sin? I suppose if you’re a pedophile or a pervert or a dirty old man, then, yes, you’re corrupt, and you should stop it. However, I don’t think that’s what the writer of the Seven Deadly Sins meant. I think Mr. Sin felt guilty about his overwhelming desire to bed women - or men. Perhaps he coveted someone, or several, in his village - the girl in the town square, his sister's husband, his neighbor’s daughter, the men in the field. His sense of perversion led him to label his sexual longing as nasty. And in order to assuage his guilt, he applied this nastiness to everyone for all time. “If you lust after others,” he probably wrote, “you’re a big fat sinner.” He wanted to add, “like me,” but that would have branded him a big fat sinner, and he couldn't have that, being the Decider of Sin and all.

Lust is a natural sensation and everyone experiences it. I challenge anyone to assert that lust hasn’t entered his or her arousal field at least once. I have lust for good-looking men. Take Chris Noth, the actor from “Law and Order,” “Sex and the City,” and his most recent show, “The Good Wife.” Now he’s one hunk. Then there’s George Clooney and my husband Ed. They’re all hunks. I’m glad sex exists. Can’t imagine life without chemistry. Can you?

Pride: This is one I display a regular basis, and I don’t care. I’m proud of many things I do, and I’ll say so in church if I have to. Sure, there are some things I’m ashamed of, but when that happens, I turn the shame around so I can be proud again. I like to hold my head high, and the only way to do that is engage in behaviors that make me proud of myself. What’s the alternative – walk around like a bad dog with my proverbial tail between my legs after I’ve accomplished something? Of course not, and nor should you.

Feeling pride is a gift we give ourselves after accomplishing a goal – any goal. “Good for me,” we say. Remember Minnesota's US Senator Al Franken when he played Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live? He’d look into the mirror and say, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." It might have been comedy, but it sent the message: It’s okay to be proud.

I’ve received compliments from people who like me and enjoy my work. I even have an award named after me at Gurrie Middle School – the “Ellie Searl Writing Award.” Proud? You bet. I place my accolades into a pride bank I carry in my heart. Sometimes I take out a prideful attitude and wear it on my sleeve. And so should you. Yes, pride is a good thing. It’s staying with me in 2011.

Sloth: I don’t approve of people sitting around in their underwear watching TV until it’s time for supper. But I have to confess that it is 11:17 am on a Tuesday morning, and I’m in my bathrobe working on my computer as I watch TV. I’ve had my coffee and breakfast, I’ve checked my email, I’ve brushed my teeth, and I’m writing this portion of my blog. Now, is that sloth? Or is that attending to the important stuff before moving on to the morning routine, the mundane, the boring, like getting dressed so I can look presentable enough to answer the door without embarrassing my family?

I produce a lot of work - I write, post blogs, format books, design web sites - and because I have a laptop, I can do work anywhere. Most of the time I have music in the background for better concentration. But every now and then, I sit in the living room and turn on TV. And so what? So what if I watch it? So what if one of my favorite shows is “The Price is Right"? I know, most of the advertisements are geared to geezers, with their Hoverounds and Depends and AARP Life Insurance. I like the excitement Drew Cary brings to the show, and I can write while the drivel plays in the background. Is that sloth? Or is that multi-tasking? I sometimes watch “Jeopardy” and “Law and Order” and “Two and a Half Men” while I work. There was a time I thought “Two and a Half Men” was vulgar, and I refused to watch it. But now that I’m not in the business of providing a moral example for seventh graders, I have found the show to be kind of funny. Recently I’ve become hooked on “The Good Wife.” The show is set in Chicago, and stars Chris Noth, who is some hunk (see Lust).

Conclusion: It appears that I'll start the New Year as I ended this one, savoring anything and everything that fuels my senses. I refuse to flatline my way through 2011. Those so-called deadly sins kindle my spirit. They’re the spark plugs of my soul, giving me energy, enthusiasm, and eagerness to greet the vagaries of life. Cease being angered by ne’er-do-wells? Stop my progress manifested by envy? Ban the enjoyment of sweet and salty? Lose the fantasy of making millions? Thwart my desire for hunks? Quit patting myself on the back? Never lounge in my pj’s? Nuh-uh.

Seven Deadly Sins? They're not deadly, and they're not sins. They're life affirming - and they're essential.

The Seven Essentials. Welcome 2011.

EVS - 12/10

S.M.A.R.T.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 23:36:00 +0000

BOUNCING BACK - A hard fall means a high bounce . . . if you're made of the right material. ~Unknown

I received my Master's Degree in Guidance and Counseling in 1978 from Youngstown State University. I've never been particularly proud of that - Youngstown not the garden spot of the universe, and the local university not the finest example of scholastic institutions. When a university names its football team The Penguins, something's off kilter. Penguins can't fly, and they can't run. They flap. Football flappers? Not a good image.

Right from the start, I worried about the educational quality of that town. Higher learning I didn't expect. However, Youngstown State was the only school in the vicinity that offered a postgraduate degree in counseling, so I enrolled there a few months after Ed, Katie, and I settled into our apartment and Ed began his ministry at the First Unitarian Church.

I wasn't particularly optimistic for lower learning, either, but I hoped Katie's education wouldn't be a huge disappointment. We had moved from Fayetteville, New York, a suburb of Syracuse, where Katie had attended an excellent school.

While I studied Carl Rogers' Client Centered Therapy and role-played I-messages with fellow students at the university, Katie became ensconced in fourth grade at Harding Elementary School. Her teacher, Miss Miller, was a single woman who lived with her ailing mother, and who, according to Katie, couldn't get married until her mother died.

After a few weeks in her class, it became clear that Miss Miller doled out punishments and rewards according to an emotional pendulum manifested by the ups-and-downs of her mother's medical condition. Every morning, Miss Miller updated her students on her mother's health - skin rashes, knee pains, food allergies, spastic bowels – either to justify her bad mood or to receive commiseration from her class.

Katie gave us a running commentary.

"Miss Miller's mother's pills are giving her fits, so we had to eat lunch without talking."

"Miss Miller’s mother kept down all her supper, so we got two recesses today - with candy.”

"We have to write an essay about Being Appropriate because Miss Miller's mother is constipated."

Ed and I considered scheduling a conference with Miss Miller and put a halt to this dismal intrusion into Katie's education. No child of ten should be subjected to the slow demise of a teacher's parent. We weren't concerned with Katie's school program. Her homework suggested that the curriculum included the ususal fourth grade material - multiplication, division, US geography, and the weather cycle - that a barometer measured air pressure, "Whatever that is," Katie said. But we wanted to put the cabash on the personal issues brought into the classroom.

Katie was conflicted. She didn't mind the stories because they provided a diversion from the tedium of classwork. But she didn't like the unpredictability of Miss Miller's vacillating temper that accompanied the stories and the melancholy they spewed into the atmosphere. Regardless of the dilemma, Katie didn't want us to intercede on her behalf. She said she'd be mortified if we scolded her teacher for talking too much about her mother's ongoing health issues.

"I can handle it," Katie assured us. "I won't let it bother me."

At the end of the first quarter, Miss Miller announced that she refused to give students an 'A' unless they completed Extra Credit.

"A-students demonstrate exceptional effort," she told the class. "A-students submit more work than is required by the curriculum. That's what A-students do. B-students, on the other hand, do only what's required, and that's not good enough."

Katie refused to do extra credit. As far as she was concerned, she deserved her 'A.' Period. She had followed the entire program as it was presented to her - completing homework accurately and on time, acing her tests, participating with enthusiasm, and listening with baited breath to the health updates of Mother Miller.

The extra credit issue made Katie mad. She figured, probably rightly so, that Miss Miller came up with the extra credit idea out of frustration that her mother refused to die. To Katie, extra credit was a devise to lord it over somebody. "She can't bully her mother, so she's bullying us."

"I'm not going to do more work than necessary just so Miss Miller can feel better when she goes home to clean up after her mom," Katie said. "Just 'cause she's got extra work doesn't mean I should."

But Miss Miller stuck to her guns. Until Katie completed an additional project, she would receive a 'B.' Therefore, much to Katie's chagrin, Ed and I scheduled a conference with Miss Miller.

We found her to be polite and gracious. During our discussion, we dropped hints about discontinuing her ceaseless updates on her mother's health.

"Katie is sorry your mother is deathly ill," I said. "She cries a lot," I lied. "Maybe you could hold back a little on the, say, more distressing news."

Because Miss Miller agreed to stop talking so much about her mother, we agreed that Katie would do one extra credit project.

Ed spent the next week helping Katie build a barometer and teaching her what air pressure meant. Katie received an 'A,' and all was well. We think Miss Miller's mother died that summer because she discontinued her Extra Credit requirements the following school year.

Katie's fifth grade teacher recommended Katie for the gifted program after she demonstrated higher than average talent. It was during the parent orientation that Ed and I wrestled with the shortcomings of fifth grade. Ms. Cran, the fifth grade teacher and the leader of S.M.A.R.T. (Students' Minds Are Remarkable Things) announced, "The gifted program here at Harding will focus on essential communicable skills." Ed and I wondered which disease Katie would come home with first.

One of the early assignments of this gifted program was to research a famous person using the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature. Miss Cran assumed her eleven-year-olds knew how to use the guide - "You're all gifted," she sniffed. "You're supposed know these things." No instruction. No field trip to the school library. Nothing. Ed and I took Katie to the Youngstown library and taught her what to do.

One afternoon, Katie pounded up the stairs and slammed into the apartment. "I'll show her yet. One of these days I'm going to be famous, and then she'll see!"

"Oh, my," I said to Ed. "Let's get out of this town."

In February of Katie's ninth grade year, Ed accepted the position of minister at the Unitarian Church of Hinsdale, and we moved to the suburbs of Chicago.

Katie attended Lyons Township High School, where she spent four excellent years building a solid foundation for the University of Wisconsin at Madison. Badger. Now that's a mascot. An animal that can run up to 19 miles-per-hour and maintain its hold with utmost tenacity.

EVS 11/10

BURNING BRIDGES

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 23:22:00 +0000

OUT OF THE ASHES - It's best to have failure happen early in life. It wakes up the Phoenix bird in you so you rise from the ashes. ~ Anne Baxter

Camping became our temporary way of life in June, 1970, when Ed, our almost-two-year-old daughter Katie, and I left our townhouse in Burlington, Vermont, and crossed the border into Canada, thinking we'd never return to the States again. As many readers already know, we had left our country for Canada because we didn't support the war in Vietnam.

We purchased supplies at the Hudson Bay Company in Montreal –green canvas tent, two-burner Coleman stove, three red sleeping bags, plastic dishes, eating and cooking utensils, wrought iron frying pan, two pots, five-gallon water container with a spigot, yellow and white cooler, picnic basket, clear plastic tarp, some rope, and a folding potty with disposable plastic bags that clipped under the seat.

For the next three months, our home was a tent, picnic table, and campfire in a string of campsites through Quebec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and back again to Ontario. Camping with my family in the Quebec Townships and the Eastern Provinces that summer gave me a euphoria I hadn’t expected. The beauty of the Canadian countryside, combined with the joy of finding security in a new land, eased much of the grief I felt about burning bridges with our country, our neighbors, our friends, and our families - especially our families.

No one, aside from my brother Dick, knew we had left the states, and it was beginning to wear on me that I hadn't informed my parents we would live and work in Canada until the US Selective Service overturned its decision to reject Ed’s application for Conscientious Objector status – probably forever. Ed had told his mom and dad soon after we reached Montreal. They were distressed about their son's life-altering decision, but supportive and accepting nonetheless. My parents, on the other hand, would probably not be so generous. My father in particular. He wasn't the accepting type. He followed a strict set of societal conventions - conventions he designed, which included everything he did or did not personally endorse, regardless of the standards held by rest of the world. I figured our blatant act of unpatriotic behavior would push him so far over his acceptability edge, he'd be apoplectic. Ed and I decided it wasn't wise to explain our fugitive actions over the phone; it would be far more prudent to tell my parents face-to-face.

We set up our tent in a downpour on a wooded hillside in Fredericton, New Brunswick, and climbed into the warmth of sleeping bags. We read stories to Katie and listened to the rain pound against the canvas. When Katie fell asleep, Ed and I talked about how and when to tell my parents. It was time. I'd leave the next morning, and I'd take Katie with me so my parents could hold their granddaughter prior to the death knell of future visits to their home.

The rain beat down as Ed helped me pack the car and settle Katie into her seat.

"Be safe," Ed said, and we started the long journey to my hometown - 520 miles of two-lane highways through western New Brunswick, Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, across Lake Champlain on the Essex Ferry to Westport, New York. The ten-hour trek in the rain heightened my anxiety. When mountains didn’t interfere with radio reception, music and local programs helped tamp my fears. Would we make it back to Ed safely? Would Katie be okay? Would I need car assistance? And to make the trip more nerve-wracking, my imagination played a continuous tape of the agreed-upon explanation of our decision to leave the US - to make Canada our permanent home.

I envisioned my parents’ overarching disapproval. I conjured up the reproaches, the arguments against our decision, the interrogation: What if you're arrested? Why can't Ed be a medic without arms? What will you do for money? Where will you work? How will you live? When will you come home? When will we see you again? I didn’t have answers to most questions. We could explain our war resistance decisions, but Ed and I hadn’t taken the time to address the issues of future living. Our one-step-at-a-time philosophy had given us enough courage to drive into Canada with the few items that would fit into our Chevy, shop at the Hudson Bay Company for supplies, and drive into the hinterlands of the Eastern Provinces – as though we were tourists on a very long trip.

Katie was a good car traveler. She switched between cooing and sleeping, waking long enough for a jar of chunky chicken and carrots, a couple of Arrowroot crackers, some tepid milk, and one diaper change - potty training not a viable option while using public toilets, camp ground outhouses, and a portable folding john with a disposable plastic bag clipped under its seat.

Our unexpected arrival at 9:00 pm sent my mom and dad into tizzy mode. “Why are you here at this hour?” . . . “What are you doing out in this rainstorm?” . . . “Where’s Ed?” . . . “Want something to eat?"

I put Katie to bed and joined my dad and mom on the kitchen porch. They rocked in their wicker rockers and watched the rain bounce off the porch steps. I sat on a side bench and tried to make small talk. At first, I considered pretending all was well, inventing stories about drives through the Vermont countryside and idyllic picnics on Three Brothers Islands. But I couldn’t bear the suspense. I blurted out my rehearsed anti-war, anti-draft message.

“Last September, Ed decided to become a Unitarian minister," I started. I cleared my throat, not knowing how my parents were about to take the next part of the surprise. "We don't approve of the Vietnam War, so Ed applied for Conscientious Objector status, telling the Selective Service that he intended to be a Unitarian minister. And last week he got a letter from them. They turned him down. Said he was being “expedient – ‘cause he’s a Catholic, and Catholics don't aspire to be Unitarian ministers." My nose ached. I could feel the tears collect. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be strong - sure of myself. If I had to answer questions, I wanted to be on top of my game. This was the hardest thing I ever had to tell my parents. "Then Ed got his draft notice," I said.

“Remember three Saturdays ago when you guys invited yourselves to lunch?” I continued. “Well, the day before that, Ed was supposed to report for induction into the draft - we were all packed and ready to leave for Canada. We went the next day instead. We’ve been camping across the Eastern Provinces ever since. Ed’s waiting for us now in Fredericton, New Brunswick - at a campsite.” I breathed again. And waited.

Silence. Mom stopped her chair and looked at her hands. She wiped her eyes. I could hear the continuous splat of raindrops into puddles and Dad’s rockers squeaking over the wooden slats - back and forth, back and forth - like a metronome clicking the beat of expectancy.

Then Dad, who hated defiance, who riled against disrespect and shameful behavior, said, "If I were in your position, I'd do the same thing."

If ever there was ever a moment of glory, that was it - my dad showing unconditional approval of an act of what some called national treason. My heart softened for this man who had, for years, hidden his own heart under a boat-load of reprobation and disparagement.

Mom nodded, then shook her head. "Well," she sighed. "I guess we won't be seeing much of you then." She looked at me. "What about Katie?" She asked, as though Ed and I would send Katie down-stream in a basket while we made a new life on the other side of the border.

"She's fine." I smiled. "She'll be fine." I said, hoping that she would be fine.

As the evening stretched toward midnight, we talked about the possibilities and pitfalls of making a life in a foreign, albeit similar, country. I answered as many questions as I could and marveled at the calm with which my parents accepted the news of our decision and the significant lack of day-to-day strategies to make it a success.

The relief was palpable, turning my trip into an adventure, giving me hope for the future. Katie and I sang songs on the ten-hour ride back to Ed, who, regardless of the rain, would most likely have been enjoying his own adventures hiking through the woods or walking along the back roads of Fredericton.

We arrived late Sunday evening - tired, relieved that the skies had cleared, and happy to be with Ed again. Katie saw him first. She ran to where he was sitting - on the bench of a picnic table, huddled half-naked inside a sleeping bag. Aside from walking to the outhouse with a towel wrapped around him, he had stayed the entire gloomy, rainy weekend in the tent - cold, wet, and miserable. Before Katie and I left for the weekend, we had placed a food-laden cooler and the water container into the tent, and the stove and kitchen supplies onto the picnic table, so Ed would have what he needed for at least three days. However, in our haste to get the explanation-party on the road, we had neglected to take his clothes out of the trunk. All of his pants, shirts, and jackets were in the back of the car as it made its way to New York and back. We had left Ed with enough to eat and drink, but nothing to wear save a tee shirt and a pair of red plaid boxer shorts.

Only Ed can tell you how it felt - stranded without clothes, semi-protected by a leaky canvas covering - for three days in the rain. His delight at our return rivaled the elation at finding a six-pack of Genesee and an all-night diner when lost for a month in the desert.

Despite Ed's discomfort, the news of my parents' unconditional acceptance at our decision gave us enough high-octane emotional fuel to continue our journey into the unknown. In September of that year, we became Landed Immigrants of Canada, rented a nice apartment on the Richelieu Canal outside Ottawa, Ontario, and found decent jobs. When we moved to Montreal in 1971, Ed enrolled in theological school at McGill University, I landed a job at Marian Hall, a youth protection home for girls, and Katie learned how to shop in French at the Farmers Market..

In 1973, Ed received a letter from the US Selective Service - he had been placed into the draft lottery system, and because his number wasn't called, he was no longer a candidate for the Draft. Apparently, FBI investigators reported that Ed had begun to study for the ministry - and Senator Patrick Leahy, then Vermont State's Attorney for Chittenden County, Vermont, refused to prosecute.

In the summer of 1976, the bridges rose from their invisible ashes, and we returned to live in the US, where Ed has been a Unitarian Minister ever since.

EVS 10/10

ACROSS THE GENERATIONS

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 16:57:00 +0000

CORRUPTION - Corruption is like a ball of snow, once it's set a rolling it must increase. ~ Charles Caleb Colton

FAIRLAWN CEMETERY

Located in the Town of Prattsville, NY, on the left had side of the road on Rte. 23, about one mile past the bridge heading towards Grand Gorge. This cemetery is active and is in excellent condition.

Section 4, Plot 84

Louise A.K. Volckmann, b. 1884, d. 1957

Frederick P. Volckmann, b. 1883, d. 1968

I don’t remember much about my grandmother, other than she was very generous, sweet, and loving, and she adored my father, her only child. Her home smelled like violets and her lemon sponge cakes seemed to rise a foot off the plate. She married my grandfather in 1907 when she was 23 years old, and my dad, born in 1912, became a new love in her life. Her husband, my grandfather, spent the remainder of their marriage resenting that he would have to share his wife's attention with his son.

Grandma died of a massive stroke in the summer of 1957, a few days after her fiftieth wedding anniversary. A Volckmann family reunion combined with a golden anniversary party had been scheduled, so family members, already planning to attend, gathered at my grandfather’s house in Prattsville, NY, and rather than salute fifty years of marriage, they mourned the death of my grandmother.

Grandpa cried and handed out the monogrammed gold pens - party favors designed for the anniversary – now sad mementos of death. Grandma was laid out in the living room beside the grand piano, which my grandma promised to Dick after she and Grandpa died. The grandfather clock, promised to me, ticked in the silence. Friends and relatives sat around the edges of the room on silk-covered Victorian chairs, whispering about Fred and whether or not he would be able to carry on without Louise. My brothers, cousins, and I had to eat in the kitchen so we wouldn’t bother anybody. Grandpa sat in the corner of the dining room, his elbows on the table heavy with funeral food, and sobbed - his wife’s death rendering him inconsolable. Grandpa had lost the only person in the world who would accept him for what he was.

My grandfather was not a nice man. Whenever my brothers and I visited his house or sat with him at dinner or rode in his car, he seemed to enjoy being rude. He was never the kind of grandparent who delighted in being with his grandchildren. Instead, he’d grumble about us under his breath or just go about his business as though we weren’t there – so when he died eleven years after Grandma, not one of us shed a tear.

Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who thought poorly of Fredrick P. Volckmann because only five townspeople came to Grandpa’s funeral in 1968. And with the family members who felt obligated to go, a total of twelve showed up. It wasn’t that my grandfather lived so isolated in the Catskills that he couldn’t find any friends. My grandfather was such a curmudgeon that no one in or around Prattsville thought much of him. His many years of grumbling about this or that or the other thing gave him a reputation as the town grouch. So when he died, few noticed. And of those who noticed, few cared.

My husband Ed sat with me and our baby daughter Katie near the front of the funeral parlor and watched my dad scowl down at his dead father.

The undertaker sidled alongside the casket. “Does he look ok?” he asked. “I tried to give him some color. He was kind of pale.”

“He looks pink – and puffy,” Dad grumbled. “And where the hell did you get that awful suit?” Dad pointed to the ill-fitting beige polyester suit with brown piping. It bunched under Grandpa’s armpits and pulled across his belly at the button. “That’s not his.”

“Francis brought it over.”

“Who’s Francis?” Dad snapped. “You mean Florence?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Volckmann.” The undertaker blotted his forehead with a yellow stained handkerchief. “Florence, yes. She said that suit was the one your father wore for special occasions.”

“Norma!” Dad called to my mother. “Did you see what they put him in?”

Mom sat in the back of the room speaking to Florence, Grandpa’s second cousin and family busy body, whom nobody really liked, but everybody tolerated because for the eleven years after Grandma died, Florence lived with Grandpa - keeping him company, being his traveling companion, doing the shopping and the laundry and the cooking and the housekeeping – something no one else in our family would have volunteered to do. Of course, once the will was read, it became very clear why Florence put up with Grandpa until he died.

Mom looked over at Dad. “What?” And, as was her style, shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute,” then turned back into conversation with Florence, not giving any more attention to my dad, the only one at the viewing, who, up to that point, had actually viewed the body of his dead father.

Ed, Katie, and I joined Dad at the casket. “I’m sorry about Grandpa,” I said, knowing I wasn’t really sorry but figured Dad needed me to be. Grandpa never seemed happy – growling to anyone who’d listen, complaining about us, his only grandchildren, that we weren’t grateful and didn’t acknowledge him enough. “I hope he’s happier in heaven.”

Dad nodded and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “He looks horrible.”

Later that afternoon, the attorney came to my grandfather’s home for the reading of the will.

“Mr. Volckmann, your father left you the Cadillac, his diamond pinky ring, and the silver tea service,” the attorney said. He didn’t look up. No one looked up. “He left $3000 to each of the grandchildren, Dick, Dave, and Eloise. If they haven’t finished college, the money goes to their education.” The lawyer cleared his throat. “To Florence, he left the property, the barn, the house, and all the furnishings.”

No mention of the piano or the grandfather’s clock. I thought about the many visits to my grandparents’ house when I was a kid. I didn’t like my grandfather much, but I had fond memories of my grandma’s sponge cake, the vanilla pudding smell of the kitchen, the Little Lulu comic books in the bureau drawer, the huge bathroom upstairs where I played dolls on the green carpet, the whoosh of the waterfall in the river behind the house, the pine log swing in the back yard, the ferns that grew between the green slates of the side patio, and the red-handled pump under the arbor that drew cold water. Regardless of my feeling for my grandfather, I loved the house that rested in the center of the Catskill Mountains. And now it no longer belonged to our family. Now it belonged to Florence.

My heart broke for Dad at the reading of his father’s will. There Dad sat – the rightful heir to this lovely land in the Catskills - listening as his growing-up home was assigned to some distant cousin, a woman who had spent the past eleven years with a bitter old man so she could get her hooks into his valuable property. Dad was forced to relinquish his inheritance to a conniving woman we all thought was doing everyone a favor. How Florence got my grandfather to name her as his main beneficiary was unclear. That my grandfather didn’t leave the house, furnishings, and land to his only son was unfathomable – unforgivable. And the overwhelming hurt that must have caused my dad was incomprehensible.

It was at the reading of the will that it hit me. My dad was just like Grandpa. Disgruntled and forlorn. For years, I blamed my father for being a miserable, overbearing person. He seemed angry all the time – wanting his own way, finding fault with others, feeling left out, demanding attention, and chastising those who didn’t meet his standards, which was frequent. But after being confronted with my grandfather’s wretched disposition and his last will and testament, I realized Dad must have lived in a household of fear and emotional corrosion.

In spite of Grandma’s devotion and love, living under the shadow of Grandpa’s nastiness and constant disapproval, Dad never had a chance to develop into a confident, happy man. Grandpa didn’t offer my Dad the positive bonding vital to father-son relationships. Throughout his growing up years, my dad must have been under so much pressure to please his father, he didn’t notice his confidence was in a continuous process of decay.

Instead, Dad imploded, becoming uncomfortable in his own skin. His self-esteem diminished each time he didn’t meet Grandpa’s standards. With Grandpa’s constant disapproval, Dad must have seen himself as a failure. And with his energy being used up to please his father, his sense of self couldn’t develop.

My grandmother probably tried to mollify the ongoing humiliation, but with men like my grandfather, she didn’t have the wherewithal to combat the stifling oppressiveness. With my grandfather at the controls, Dad never learned how to love himself or the people around him. Instead, he learned to feel inferior, becoming full of insecurities, which he eventually protected behind a wall of fury and resentment – a fury and resentment that seeped into the life Dad started with my mother and into the home that raised my brothers and me.

“Of course, I will give it all back to you in my own will,” Florence said, in what was most likely an aberrant, fleeting state of guilt. But that never happened. She kept it all, willed it to her son, and our family never went to Prattsville again.

Family interactions are not simple incidents between two or more people in a household at any given time. Family interactions give birth to whole personalities, creating behaviors, emotions, and attitudes. Family interactions significantly impact the mind of a child, co-opting opinion, rearranging viewpoint, solidifying disposition, influencing judgment, ultimately defining character and sense of self. Once the child becomes an adult, the self-images gleaned from what seemed like simple family interactions are carried into, and beyond, the next generation.

Our job as parents or guardians is to recognize those destructive behaviors and interactions that erode the spirit and leap to eradicate anything that even hints of the insidious corruption of the soul.

EVS 08/10

“In a house which becomes a home, one hands down and another takes up the heritage of mind and heart, laughter and tears, musings and deeds. Love, like a carefully loaded ship, crosses the gulf between the generations. . . . Let us build memories in our children, lest they drag out joyless lives, lest they allow treasures to be lost because they have not been given the keys. . . . It is needful to transmit the passwords from generation to generation.” from Generation to Generation by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

IN A BORROWED WORLD

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 19:50:00 +0000

Borrowing - I not only use all the brains that I have, but all that I can borrow. ~ Woodrow T. Wilson

A conflict of values can alter a state of well-being at any time. Such conflicts might cause discomfort, complications, or upheavals. In our case, a conflict of values caused us to transform our lives, and in June of 1970, my husband Ed, our two-year-old daughter Katie, and I moved to Canada. It was like borrowing a country.

The US Selective Service, still filling slots for the Vietnam War, had denied Ed’s request for Conscientious Objector status. What person raised Catholic, they wondered, would choose to become a Unitarian minister? Pure expediency, they determined - then they drafted him. Ed and I refused to support the war, so we packed what we could in our car and left the States for Canada. For the next three months, we tent-camped through the Eastern Townships of Quebec and New Brunswick, across the Bay of Fundy into Nova Scotia, and back again to Ottawa, Ontario - looking for a place to live.

In mid-August, we met Norm and Diane Crawley at the Unitarian Church of Ottawa. They ran a safe house for American draft dodgers, and because we looked like an honest, upstanding family, they asked us to housesit while they went on a month’s vacation. During our stay in the Crawley’s home, Katie celebrated her second birthday, and a volunteer from the Aid to Immigration and Draft guided us through a maze of escapade and intrigue so we could become Landed Immigrants of Canada (see “Canadian Landing” posted 11/09).

By early October, we were ready to live on our own again. We found a lovely apartment in the suburbs of Ottawa that cost $300 a month – rather expensive for us at the time. But we had a little money from an inheritance set aside for emergencies. Ed and I decided that, after three months of camping, one month of living with seven strangers in someone else’s home, and a two-year-old daughter way past ready for potty training, living in our own place had become an emergency.

Ed continued to look for a good theological school and a full-time job, and I found a part-time job at as an aide in a private kindergarten owned by an aging woman who used Sesame Street as her main teaching tool, except when the show repeated a letter because, “The kids had that letter last week.” Educational reinforcement and child development held less importance than pocketing the cash from parents too uninvolved to notice.

I left the kindergarten job in early December when I found a sales position in downtown Ottawa at a gem and jewelry store, owned by Tom and Nancy, a couple from northern Ontario who seemed generous and enthusiastic to hire me. I started work just as the Christmas season lit up the city with greenery, red berries, twinkle lights, and lots of snow.

Tom and Nancy showed me around the store, explaining the basics of all the precious and semi-precious gems on display. There were bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and individual stones ready to be set into original designs. Aquamarine, opal, amber, tanzanite, onyx, peridot, rose quartz, and smoky topaz. I learned where the gems were mined, which ones stood up to everyday wear, and which ones didn’t. Carol, the other salesperson, and I became friendly and often chatted with each other on our time off. She taught me how to use the electric cash registers at the front of the store and the manual one in the back near the office, and she showed me how to arrange the agate geode bookends so they’d display their best sides.

The T-shaped store had display cases continuing through the shop to the left and an office to the right where we kept our coats and purses, ate lunch, and gossiped about the customers.

A perk of the job, a requirement actually, was to wear pieces of jewelry as a marketing technique. Each morning Carol and I chose which of the beauties to wear. We decked ourselves in turquoise bracelets, amethyst necklaces, and jade earrings. It worked. Customers noticed. We sold items right off our bodies.

A couple of weeks after I began work, Nancy asked me why Ed and I moved to Canada. I told her the truth - that we didn’t support the war in Vietnam, so when the draft board refused Ed’s Conscientious Objector request and drafted him, we left the country. When I finished the story, Nancy said, “Oh,” and went off to rearrange a set of bookends. Her response troubled me. Most Canadians Ed and I had met were sympathetic to our cause.

It was on the day I told my story to Nancy that I wore a pair of 14 karat gold and jade teardrop earrings. Carol and I went out to lunch a couple of blocks down the street. A little short on cash, I borrowed a dollar from Carol. I felt somewhat irresponsible for not having enough money to cover my meal, but Carol smiled and said she didn’t mind.

A soft snow began to fall as we walked back to the store. An hour later, I realized one of the earrings was gone. I felt sick. Had I lost it? The guilt of borrowing a dollar from Carol diminished in light of losing an expensive earring. How would I explain this to Tom and Nancy? I scoured the floor, searched the office, and checked the folds and pockets of my winter coat. I made some excuse to leave the store and walked toward the restaurant, head down, searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The sloppy sidewalk made it practically impossible to see anything but slush mixed with dirt as shoppers trampled through the snow. But right there, at the edge of a ventilation grate, I saw a pop of green and gold. The jade earring. In perfect condition. Ah - saved from telling Tom and Nancy that I had lost the earring in the first place.

About two hours after that, the electricity went out. The snowfall had turned into a severe storm and knocked out the power on our side of the street. A generator provided enough electricity to light up a portion of the front display areas and to run one of the automatic cash registers. Nancy asked me to monitor the back area and if necessary, use the manual cash register beside the office. Tom, Nancy, and Carol stayed in the front of the store and chatted. They glanced in my direction every now and then, but I couldn’t hear what they said. The storm kept away customers, so I didn’t have much to do other than hang around in the dark. I located a stool, a flashlight, and an old Life magazine from the office and sat there until closing, passing the time by reading under the dim light.

Before I left for work the next morning, I received a phone call from Nancy. “You don’t need to come in anymore,” she clipped.

“Not at all?” I asked. “What happened?”

“The weather is keeping people home . . . .” She cleared her throat. “We don’t have much traffic. Sales are down. We’ll put a check in the mail.”

I had only worked there two weeks. How could they have changed their minds in two weeks? Nancy’s hostile tone indicated something more had happened. She hung up before I could ask.

Ed, Katie, and I drove into the city so I could return the dollar to Carol. Ed and Katie window-shopped while I went to the store.

Nancy stood at the cash register sorting bills. A customer twirled the earring display. Harry Belafonte sang through the speakers, “for hate is strong, and mocks the song . . .”

“Hi, Nancy,” I said, thinking she’d be glad to see me. “Is Carol here? I came to return a dollar I borrowed yesterday.”

“No, she isn’t,” Nancy said. She dropped some dollar bills into the drawer. She looked up at me square in the eye. “And if she were, she wouldn’t want to see you.”

My stomach flipped. Huh? “What?”

Nancy looked back at her money. “Carol’s not here . . . you should leave.”

“What happened?” Never before had I felt so immediately confused and startled and unjustly attacked.

“You know what you did,” she said.

“I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

Nancy heaved a sigh, plopped her palms on the counter, and leaned forward. “Yesterday . . . when the electricity went off . . . you were the only one in the back . . . money was stolen from Carol’s purse. You were the only one back there,” she emphasized.

My mind went dizzy, then blank. I lost focus, the idea of stealing - anything - was so alien to me. Maybe in the next split second I looked guilty because I didn’t move – I just stared at the counter.

Finally, I spoke. “I didn’t do that,” I whispered. “I don’t even take money from my husband’s pants pockets when I hang up his clothes.” I sounded silly. Then I remembered the jade earrings. “I trampled through the snow yesterday looking for an earring you wanted me to wear. I thought I’d lost it. Do you think I’d go to that kind of trouble if I were a common thief?” My incredulity at the injustice turned my voice into a frenzied whine. “And why would I trek all the way back here to return a stupid dollar to Carol if I had just stolen money from her?” The more I talked the madder I got. “Never, in a million years, would steal from anyone!”

Nancy waved her arm in dismissal. “Well, whatever happened, we don’t want you here anymore.” She grabbed the dollar I still held in my hand. “I’ll see that Carol gets this.” She walked off to attend to the customer, who by that time had received quite an earful.

Harry Belafonte’s song followed me out the door. “And in despair I bowed my head . . ."

By the time I reached Ed and Katie across the street, I was choking back sobs, and by the time I finished venting the incident to Ed, he was half-way to the store.

Katie and I trailed into the shop behind Ed and watched as he yelled at Nancy for accusing me of stealing - and for firing me, which by that time had become an afterthought. “Ellie is about as honest as they come. And a more loyal person you’ll never meet.”

At once, my emotions stumbled over each other – pride for Ed, anger at the false accusation, pity for myself, dismay at losing my job.

“Funny, coming from you,” Nancy sneered. “You two left your country. What kind of loyalty is that?”

It didn’t take a genius to figure what had happened. Nancy, Tom, and probably Carol didn’t approve of our life choices, and no matter what we did or said, we’d never convince them that I hadn’t stolen money from Carol’s purse, much less merit working there.

It was through a conflict of values, followed by borrowing with good intentions and good will, that had led my family and me to this time and place. Guided by our moral codes, we had left the life, values, and resources of one country and borrowed those of another - temporary homes in Canadian campgrounds, comfort at the Crawley’s, and volunteers who helped us become Landed Immigrants.

But it was through telling the truth about those very life choices that condemned me. My tenacity to search for and find a jade teardrop earring, and my determination to return a borrowed dollar carried no weight. Prejudice, discrimination, and intolerance had defined me. They labeled me a thief. No recognition of unmerited indictment. No reluctance to shovel me into yesterday’s snow.

The frustration of defeat in the face of injustice overwhelmed me. I had no recourse. If I reported the situation to the Canadian version of the Better Business Bureau, Nancy and Tom could have recanted calling me a crook, and they could have said they had to let me go because they didn’t have enough customers to keep me on staff. What employee advocate would find a merchant culpable of business related injustice in the face of economic decline?

Up to that point, even with the selective service denying Ed CO status, my world had been a fair one. This foreign accusatory world held me hostage. I wanted to hang these people from the nearest store rafter, but I was powerless to combat them in any way that would offer justice.

Later that day and into the next, I composed a letter to Nancy and Tom about honor, fairness, and social conviction. I moralized. I gave examples of my good character. I threw in times I could have cheated and didn’t. What I thought I’d reap from this moral scolding is anyone’s guess. I suppose I wanted them to understand that following my conscience, even if it meant leaving my country, didn’t equal petty thievery.

I never heard from them. Never had the satisfaction of a simple apology. I had to let it go.

Every now and then, I fuss about the incident and the stinging indignation that followed, but I refused to let it tear me down. In fact, it helped strenghten my depository of strength and resilience - a depository I draw from when I need to borrow a little fortitude.

EVS 08/10

A SLICE OF SUMMER

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 18:39:00 +0000

COMING HOME - There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits. ~ Robert Southey

My first significant A+ on a paper came in seventh grade from Mr. Feltman for a one-page, one-paragraph story about a terrible summer afternoon when I was five years old. It's been decades since I wrote that story, but here is what I remember:

It was lunchtime. Mom, at the kitchen counter, stirred lemonade into iced tea, my two older brothers stood beside her making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I sat at the table, coloring, my crayons scattered across the enamel. A man walked onto the back porch and spoke through the screen door. I thought he asked, "Do you want a Collie?" I looked up from my coloring book and said, "We already have one. His name is Teddy." I scraped back my chair. "Want to see him?" Then the sad man said he had run over our dog with his car. Teddy was dead. We walked to the highway and looked at Teddy as he lay on the pavement, eyes closed, as if he were asleep. I patted his tummy and cried and tried to wake him up, but he didn't move. No more Teddy. No more Teddy chasing sticks and lapping water over the edge of his bowl. No more Teddy snuggling his nose under my arm as we sat on the porch steps. No more silky amber coat and firm presence. No more best friend. My heart ached. The story ended with how Teddy had given me an irreplaceable security and comfort, a special belonging to the world. That he had taught me the importance of unconditional love and shaped the buds of my spirit.

I wrote that story with my 12-year-old heart, giving little thought to structure or form or convention. Mr. Feltman must have understood the vulnerable ego of a young writer because he didn't mark the paper, didn't comment about paragraphing or organization, and didn't tell me to rewrite it. He accepted my story as it was - raw, coarse, unpolished - a heartfelt memorial to my best friend. It was probably over-the-top maudlin, but it was pure and honest.

When I became a seventh grade English teacher, I used Mr. Feltman's wisdom to guide me in directing the writing efforts of transescents - tweens teetering on the bar between silliness and sophistication. I understood their writing brains and the need to have their thoughts and feelings acknowledged - that passion held merit. Whatever is put on paper, as long as it's sincere and offered with integrity, carries value. Accuracy, organization, and structure will come - in time - by reading and through instruction. Research, study, and lots of practice of technique and style can transform a budding writer's work from rough emotion to a solid piece, but original ideas don't rise from the texts of authorities. Ideas come from the font of existence - the harvest of life- the breadth and depth of being - the stuff that lives in the soul. Only authentic, slice of life experiences inform the writer. No one can teach what grows in the heart.

My real writing life began after I stopped teaching and had time to focus on the one passion I had only dabbled in when I was too busy keeping a working schedule. After I quit my job, I had the house to myself - my daughter off in California, married, with children of her own, and a husband at work. I had the luxury to spend time writing whole stories uninterrupted. I became part of a writers group and built a literary blog of personal narratives - slice of life stories about rich experiences living and working in several cities across the US and Canada. And I joined the ranks of other writers who go to prominent writing workshops.

I started with two classes at the 2009 Iowa Summer Writing Festival in Iowa City. Both classes, led by authors of bestsellers, maintained a perfect blend of stimulating instruction with support and affirmation. Both teachers appreciated the personal writing styles of their students and acknowledged the voices that spoke from the center of student writings. Both teachers demonstrated ways to enhance writing and move toward mastery, advancing our skills through thoughtful critiques and helpful lessons in technique, style, structure, and word choice. Both leaders smoothed the rough edges of my style and elevated my level of expertise. I left Iowa nourished and confident. It was an experience I wanted to repeat, so I registered for a week of classes at the 2010 Iowa Summer Writing Festival.

Because I wanted to test the waters at a new venue, I sought entrance into a another writing workshop that only accepted applicants based upon the quality of their work. In February, I applied for a class in non-fiction, which would be taught by a well-known author, and I submitted a 20-page piece of writing for review. In March, I received a congratulations-you've-been-accepted letter. I could barely contain the excitement at having received official accolades for my writing. It was like getting an A+ on a paper. Like having my art displayed on a museum wall. I bragged to my friends.

In July, I travelled across the country to the first of my two summer writing workshops - the one that had accepted me based upon the merit of my work. I knew what to expect. After all, hadn't I been to Iowa? Hadn't I fit in well with seasoned writers? Hadn't I been appreciated for my writing? Admired for my flair? Respected for my style and voice? Valued for my ability to analyze, with finesse and expertise, other student papers? I hit the mark at Iowa. How different could writing workshops be?

Yes, I knew what to expect. I'd have a week of stimulating classes led by an author of bestsellers. I'd participate in critiques of my writing and those of my eleven fellow classmates. I'd kick-start my enthusiasm and flesh out new writing strategies. I'd hone my already sharp skills. I'd find fresh approaches to writing my slice of life stories. They'd play new melodies and sing songs with crisp lyrics instead of humming along to the old tunes. I'd be immersed in exciting ways to spiff up my golden oldies.

At the beginning of class, we circled the room, introducing ourselves and telling a bit about our writing - current projects, writing style, preferred genre, publications. This was a very accomplished group of women. A couple of them had published articles in periodicals and online journals. One woman had just sold her novel to a well-known press. Another woman wrote stories and read them on National Public Radio. When it was my turn, I mentioned, with pride, that I wrote slice of life stories, that my genre was mostly memoir and personal narrative. I added that I had a collection of stories in mind about people in my hometown and that I was considering a larger project centering on the experiences of my family after we left the States for Canada during the Vietnam War Era.

When it got back around to the teacher, she said, "Well, first of all, slice of life stories don't sell. They're not popular. Agents barely look at them. Unless there is an on-going story holding them together, I wouldn’t recommend trying to pitch stories like that to an agent."

Womp! This I didn't expect. Excuse me? Slice of life stories don't sell? Hel-lo-o. What about NPR's Ira Glass and "This American Life?" What about CBC's Stuart McLean and "The Vinyl Cafe"? What about Alice Munro? Don't they write short stories? Aren't they slices of life? And aren't they published? At the sounding of this death knell, my writing confidence, still bursting at the seams from my welcoming experiences at Iowa, lay at my feet, looking up at me with doleful eyes, asking, "What just happened?"

All the usual questions students ask during the first hour of class popped into my head. Am I in the right room? Should I check the number on the door? And if I am in the right room, do I belong here? Did I sign up for the wrong course? Should I stay? The old fears of student-hood came hurling down at me and lodged in my notebook. My ego took a nose-dive. I went into a writer tailspin. This wasn't the stimulating, fostering environment I'd expected. My slice of life stories? The mainstay of my repertoire? No longer viable? Had I spent over 1000 dollars and travelled 2000 miles to be stuck in a writing workshop cul-de-sac?

It became clear that this writing environment wouldn't be about the excitement of the process - passion for writing was a given. This workshop would be about following recipes for publication. About what's good and what isn't, according to the market. About what agents want and what they don't. About what will sell and what won't. I certainly wanted to be published. What author doesn't? But I wasn't burning to pound my chest at the summit. I still loved the climb.

However, and here is the clincher, this class would teach me what I needed to know - the difference between professional authorship and amateur verbiage. The difference between really good writing and really bad. This class would show me the ropes - the nitty-gritty - which, according to the teacher, each of us in the class, as demonstrated by our papers, needed to learn.

This class wouldn't be about appreciating the heartfelt thoughts dredged up from the bottom of a writer's soul - it would be about how to get those thoughts on paper so they don't sound like they were written by a seventh grader - or even by a somewhat inspired adult. Mr. Feltman had left the premises. I wasn't in Iowa anymore.

"After all," our author/instructor said, "you didn't pay all that money to have me pat you on the back with a 'job well done,' then send you on your way. I believe," she continued, "that you came here to discover how to apply excellence to your writing. How to prepare your novels for publication." She told us we'd study the experts, have lessons in authorship, and critique the papers we had submitted, pointing out what works, but focusing on what doesn't. "Don't expect to be comfortable."

My paper would be critiqued on Thursday. That gave me four lessons in the art and excellence of writing and six critiques of student work before it was my turn. By the time my paper came up for review, it was clear that the good stuff received a quick wave of the arm and a, "That's ok, but it'll work better if you tweak it." And the bad stuff got hollered at. By Thursday, I pretty much knew what was bad about my paper. I still thought some of it held promise, but I didn't expect much praise, considering that lambasting literary lousiness was the primary objective.

First of all, and I already knew this, we were advised to use the active, not passive, voice. On one student's paper, the teacher had circled the word was 23 times - all on the same page - and told everybody. Wanting to be prepared for the censure, I counted the was's and were's in my paper before my critique. But use of the passive voice never became an issue. In fact, the instructor gave me credit for using funny, active verbs - albeit too many of them, she said, in the first paragraph.

My downfall turned out to be quite different than that of the other students. My big no-no centered on demonizing characters, which is a really, really Bad Thing to Do. Now, I knew that. Don't demonize your characters. But I did it anyway - I couldn't think of anything good to say about him without lying. And I got hammered for it, pretty much by the entire class - as I should have been. I wrote about a despicable, self-righteous, horrible little orthodontist for whom I worked when we lived in Syracuse many years ago - and I let him have it with both ink cartridges. I demonized him something awful. Eleven pages of harangue.

Had I leaned back from my keyboard and analyzed this diatribe with a discerning writer's eye, I might have noticed that I presented my boss as a one-dimensional lout in a lab coat, not a well-rounded human being with a couple of good qualities mixed in with the bad - good qualities, mind you, that all people possess regardless of how low a person gets. Even criminals feed cats. I thought about Tony Soprano and how well drawn and engaging - how human - his multi-faceted role as son, husband, father, friend, mob boss, thief, and cold-blooded killer. Tony grilled steaks on a back yard barbeque for birthday parties. He took Prozac to diffuse the panic attacks he suffered after his sweet family of ducks flew away.

Perhaps I should have written that my dentist boss brought me homegrown tomatoes in September or that he gave discounts to kids who didn't break their wires. That would have illustrated a nice side of the orthodontist, but no, I didn't do that. I didn't give him even an ounce of nice, piling instead, a heap of nasty on his poor, probably dead-by-now soul. That was bad writing. Big-time bad. I've since rewritten the piece and posted it on my blog. It's now for the audience to decide if my character has been humanized - if he's palatable enough for a reader's stomach.

Throughout that week, my writing ego tied itself to my ankles and clanked along, dragging itself through the dirt, kicking up dust and grime. Slice of Life trailed behind, whimpering for attention, before it gave up and went home. And even though the string almost broke, my writing ego stayed attached regardless of the scrapes and bruises it encountered along the way. I managed to suffer through the trauma of discovering the blunders in my writing and how good it could be if I'd only do this or that or the other thing. I left that workshop worn out - exhausted - and humbled, knowing I had many paths to travel before reaching that milestone of excellence in writing, never mind an agent's eye.

Three days after returning to Chicago, I drove to Iowa to start my second writing workshop - a class called "Word Yoga: Exercises to Allow Your Prose to Stretch, Focus, Breathe." I sat in the room and waited for the introductions, wondering what, if anything, I'd say about my now almost defunct idea of writing slice of life stories.

At the beginning of class, B. K. Loren, the class instructor, wrote on the chalkboard, "Everything is OK!" Then she announced, "We leave our egos at the door in this class. We're here to experience the joy of writing. This isn't about publishing - it's about being in the experience. And no matter what level of writer you are, you'll be better by the end of the week."

With B.K.'s guidance, and the encouragement that swirled through the class that first day, my ego climbed back into the saddle, waved at me, and sauntered off to play in the sun while I embarked on a series of writing exercises that would rekindle my writing spirit and inject energy back into my stories. Yes, there would be lessons in the difference between good and bad writing - between professional authorship and amateur verbiage. But the focus would be on the process - the passion - the climb.

By the end of that first class, I had wandered back into my imagination and found Teddy, Mr. Feltman, and all the loyal characters of my slice of life stories waiting for me - to pick up where I had left off.

I had come home.

EVS 07/09

"Inspiration does not come from obsessing about some end product. It comes from loving every step of the process." ~ BK Loren

DR. MARVIN'S GOD

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 22:15:00 +0000

RELIEF - Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow, too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief? ~ William Blake

A string of spittle landed on the left toe of Dr. Marvin's brown Oxfords as he dumped a saliva-soaked cotton wad into the trash container. He pulled a tissue from his lab coat, bent down to wipe his shoe, and groaned in pain. On his return to Randy in the dentist chair, Dr. Marvin looked out the window and barked, “Do you see that? Someone’s in my spot – again.”

Moaning from back pain and complaining about his filled parking spot had become daily rituals. Dr. Marvin's back ached all the time. “One of these days I’ll get it fixed,” he’d announce, on and off, to no one in particular. But he smoldered if someone parked in his private spot, which was pretty much every day.

I needed my job so I usually remained silent when Dr. Marvin fumed about the overarching transgressions of humanity - but my mouth shifted into gear before my brain turned on.

“You don’t drive to work,” I said.

“They don’t know that,” he sniffed and held out his hand. “Pliers.” I slapped the instrument into his palm.

From the point of view of the patients, there was no indication I was a teacher by trade and worked as an orthodontist’s assistant because I couldn’t find a teaching job when my family moved from Montreal to Syracuse, New York, in September of 1976. My husband Ed had finished theological school at McGill University and was about to start a year’s internship at the Unitarian Universalist Church. We were excited about the launching of his new career, but dismayed at the timing. Schools had opened for the year - all positions filled - so to supplement Ed’s stipend, I accepted a job with Dr. Marvin and put my seven years of teaching experience on a resume, which languished in the new applicant file of every school district in the area.

Dr. Marvin stuck the pliers into Randy’s mouth and checked that the band on the lower left molar had bonded and dried. He reattached the wires and tilted his head in the direction of the window. “Can’t they read? It has my name on it – right there in big letters – Reserved for Dr. Marvin.”

I could see Nancy’s reaction at the reception desk. Her expression changed from amused to uncomfortable. It was a small office. The waiting and reception areas were in close proximity to the patient room. Randy’s mom, the likely parking-spot trespasser, had surely heard Dr. Marvin’s grousing. I waited for Nancy to tell the woman to move her car, but Nancy had moderated her boss's crabbiness for two years, and she was probably sick of softening onslaughts and defusing insults. This time, Nancy didn't say anything.

“Ok, now,” Dr. Marvin said as he unhooked the clip from Randy’s paper bib, “Like I told you before – stop chewing gum and eating candy." He sighed and shook his head, as though he knew Randy would break the rules. He clunked the pliers onto the metal tray and shook his finger at Randy’s nose. “I had to replace two bands today. Your mother’s not going to be happy with you when I tell her these braces aren’t coming off any time soon.” He raised the chair. “And Randy . . . don’t forget . . . Jesus and God watch you, too. All. The. Time." He bent closer to Randy's face. "They see you chew gum and eat junk.” He scowled and folded his arms. “And. They don’t like it. One. Bit.”

Plopped into everybody's doghouse, Randy's body wilted and his eyes fill with tears. He slumped to the reception desk where his mom waited for him, hands on hips. “I heard what Dr. Marvin said,” she barked. “You’re gonna pay for your own teeth, if this keeps up. You hear me?” She turned around. “And Dr. Marvin, I’m so sorry I parked in your spot. It won’t happen again.”

Even though I offered an encouraging, “Good job,” and Nancy gave him a comic book, Randy’s spirit seemed crushed by the time he and his mom left the office.

But Dr. Marvin’s spirit had perked up considerably. He strutted into the waiting room holding his King James Bible and gloated, “See? She knows she shouldn’t park there.” He paused - then opened the Bible. “Ok, now where were we? Ah yes, Proverbs 14 – Verses 15 to 20.” He looked up and smiled with what I assume he thought was a redemptive glow, one that would beam radiance directly into God’s heart, but to me it looked more like ecstatic arrogance eating the meek for lunch.

Thus began The Bible Reading - Dr. Marvin’s third daily ritual. I was amazed that Dr. Marvin could read all the ‘eths’ without stumbling.

“Do you know what that means?” he asked after he finished. He looked from Nancy to me and back to Nancy. “Do you see what this is teaching us?” He raised his eyebrows.

Neither of us spoke. I knew what it meant, and I’m sure Nancy did too. But did he? Following each reading, Dr. Marvin instructed us on the message. But did he grasp it? Not a whit. Even if God himself waltzed in and thumped Dr. Marvin across the forehead with his worn Bible, would he realize he had missed the meaning altogether. And regardless of the sanctimonious policies he placed on the world, he wasn’t even close to being a prudent man who looketh well to his going. He was a fool who rageth. He was ever-too-soon angry, he dealeth foolishly, and he despiseth his neighbour. Did he instruct us about love and goodness and mercy and forgiveness and how to recognize evil? Always. Did it dethrone his arrogance? Never.

To Dr. Marvin, anyone under forty was irresponsible and all their children ill mannered. But he liked us. He liked Ed because he was completing his studies in religion, although I doubt Dr. Marvin would have approved of Ed's liberal religious philosophy. He liked Katie because she said please and thank you and didn’t mess up his magazines. He liked me because I was a fast learner, could mix dental impression cement just right so that it resembled the pasty gunk of cornstarch and water, and like his wife of 35 years, was amenable - accommodating - compliant.

At five-foot-four with graying sandy hair and freckled cheeks, Dr. Marvin looked like a happy, gentle, fifty-year-old horse-jockey. At first meeting, he was the perfect Welcome Wagon greeter. Big smile, cheery blue eyes, warm, firm handshake. His charisma engaged me right away. Congenial. Convivial. During the interview, he showed interest in my background, Ed's ministerial studies, and our daughter Katie's creativity. We chatted about the benefits of living in Syracuse and how the lake effect plays havoc on winter travel. He talked about liking Karen Carpenter and hating the Bee Gees, which wasn't unusual with his generation. And he said if I took the job, he'd straighten Katie's teeth, even though she was only nine. I was smitten. What a wonderful man.

During my first few days on the job, Dr. Marvin sparkled with charm. We joked and laughed and appreciated each other's interests. He taught me how to handle dental instruments carefully and firmly, like a surgical nurse. He explained the science of good dental hygiene. He showed me pictures of the beautiful smiles he had created. Every now and then, Dr. Marvin blurted soft expletives against ne'er-do-wells in the news or gum-chewing children whose bands had loosened, but his laugh and charm overrode my dismay at his outbursts. Within a couple of weeks, however, it became clear that under Dr. Marvin's agreeable facade lurked a bluster-boy itching to expose the misdemeanors of the masses.

It started the day a tornado ripped through Iowa, devastating an entire town, killing dozens, and ruining acres of heartland corn and soybeans. Dr. Marvin said, “The Lord is at work,” he said. "God witnessed so much nefariousness running amok he had to rid the country of it before it infected all of America.”

That's when I learned Dr. Marvin prided himself on having a beeline to God. He proclaimed that he understood God’s thinking, he knew what God intended, and he could explain everything that God did. Dr. Marvin became irate when interlopers tramped through his private garden, as though he alone, with a little help from God, had planted the world, and since God was so darn busy with his own list of errands, Dr. Marvin took it upon himself to be Earth’s acting park ranger, monitoring societal wrongdoers. He railed against people who broke The Rules. Some of The Rules were household standards. Wash your hands after using the toilet. Eat with your mouth closed. Do your homework. Leave a tip - although Dr. Marvin’s miserly tips were simply acknowledgements of having been in the same room as the wait staff, certainly not appreciation for good service.

The majority of Dr. Marvin's Rules were based upon his personal standards of decorum, and until the rules were broken, no one knew what they were or when to follow them: Stack the waiting room magazines horizontally, at a slant, in alphabetical order. Keep the shades exactly halfway up, or down. Answer the phone on the second ring, not the first, not the third - let the client know you’re busy, but not so busy that calls won’t be answered.

Nancy and I made up stories about why clients kept coming back. We’d joke that Dr. Marvin had something on them – perhaps he saw the paltry amounts they put into the collection plate, God’s house the one place people should leave a healthy tip for the wait staff. We both knew the real reason Dr. Marvin had so many clients - his fees were the lowest in town, and he took children beginning as young as nine years old.

As far as the parking spot was concerned, Dr. Marvin didn’t use it - ever. He walked to work. Every day. Across the street from his house - while his wife waved from the window. And the whole town did know it.

According to Dr. Marvin, God’s main purpose was to penalize transgressors. All sinners punished. Immorality rebuked. Debauchery eradicated. After slapping palm fronds on the private parts of the two original degenerates and pitching them from their lavish garden, God wielded his hammer across the globe, purifying the earth of depravity.

“Why, take Noah,” Dr. Marvin had pronounced one day. “He and his family were the only worthy ones around.” He saw me start to speak and held up a wait-a-minute finger so he could be the one to say it. “Aside, of course, from the finest two of every beast and bird on earth,” he added. “See, God chose Noah to float the righteous to high ground while the wicked drowned in a global deluge, cleansing the planet of vermin.”

His eyes darted around, as though following a mosquito. “And Pompeii. Crushed. Wiped out.” He squinted at me. “Must have been a horrid place.” His breathing increased with excitement. “Bubonic Plague, Cape Verde drought, those vile Salem witches– now there’s a good one, . . uh . . ..” He stopped, his memory stymied – it couldn’t exhume any more tragedies. I considered offering a few - the Irish potato famine, the San Francisco earthquake, the Chicago fire, started by a cow, by the way, not God – but I didn’t. It seemed more judicious to let Dr. Marvin squirm in his own brain freeze than engage him in further conversation about death and destruction that, frankly, made my stomach ache.

Whenever misfortune showered onto the masses, Dr. Marvin said, "God is house cleaning." Earthquake in Bulgaria. Collision of Boeing 747’s in the Canary Islands. Supper Club fire in Kentucky. Hurricane in Florida. Tornado in Birmingham. Car pile-up on the New York Thruway during a mid-winter whiteout, which he refused to attribute to the lake effect. On and on and on – God weeding his garden of noxious plants, clearing the soil for new growth - fresh flora and fauna – so the world would be pure once again.

“God will sink California into the Pacific Ocean,” Dr. Marvin blurted once between patients. “Just you wait,” Wham. Bam. The entire state - another Sodom and Gomorra. “Look at all the homos out there,” Dr. Marvin sniffed. “Scourge on the earth. Sinful. It says so right in the Bible – I can show you. And not only them . . .,” he continued, “hippies . . . druggies . . . dirty flower children with their disgusting, painted VW buses - roving bedrooms. Unemployed degenerates, roaming up and down the California coast, having free sex . . . living off handouts. Revolting.” He opened the Bible and looked up a reading for ‘homosexual.’ I left the room to wash away the grit of prejudice and self-importance.

My spiritual ideology sat in direct opposition to Dr. Marvin's. I looked for truth in nature and in the overall goodness of the human spirit, believing in the inherent worth and dignity of all living creatures. And I believed that God, if there was one, was benevolent.

My opinion of Dr. Marvin vacillated between respect for his expertise and disdain for this irrational thinking. I wrestled with the disconnect between his gracious disposition and this colossal loathing of humanity. For the most part, I tried to ignore Dr. Marvin’s pronouncements about the direction of the world’s future with this angry, rancorous God at the helm. I figured as long as I came to work on time, listened to Dr. Marvin’s tirades against societal breakdowns and pretended to agree with everything he said about the Bible, God, and how the universe had “too many God damned people in it . . . literally, excuse my French,” I would stay in his good graces and keep my job until a school superintendent heard my resume rustle with such remarkable instructional merit I would be hired mid-year.

Everything seemed off balance in Dr. Marvin's world. So much hatred, so little kindness. Where was the love? The compassion? What had happened in Dr. Marvin's life that had made him so bitter? I wanted to steer him toward a loving world - to help him see the colors of a sunset instead of the darkness that followed, but I was his employee, not his mentor - so I asked him gentle questions about God instead. “Isn’t God supposed to be loving and compassionate? Guiding people into happiness? Giving rewards?”

“God is very good," Dr. Marvin said. "He lets worthy people live uncomplicated lives – like. . . um . . . ours. That’s our reward. But most people are wicked. They need intervention. So God created tornados and earthquakes.”

“But why does God destroy the innocent along with the wicked?" I asked, searching for the core of Dr. Marvin's thinking. "What about the good people who die? Children or grandmothers or ministers or social workers or dogs or babies?"

“Well . . .,” Dr. Marvin paused and cupped his chin. He liked what he was about to say. “See, God needs to make a point. If there’s a bad apple, everything gets affected – so it all has to go.” His face brightened with a fresh thought. “You know, it’s like leftovers - they start out pretty much ok, but they’re already damaged goods. After a couple of days, they get moldy and die.”

I knew I'd never get through the thick morass of hate stuck in his soul, so I stopped trying. I pitied this man who couldn't see the beauty surrounding him.

Dr. Marvin often mentioned a tent revival meeting held on the last Friday of every month. He wanted to attend and get his back healed. He talked about it for months but never went. I wondered if he was too scared to go. Maybe he’d find out God didn’t give two hoots about him. But one Monday morning in early spring, Dr. Marvin was in high form.

He called Nancy and me into the waiting room to give us the Good News.

“The tent was packed – hundreds, no, thousands – clapping, singing, swaying . . . some were even speaking in tongues.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Even I don’t go to that extreme, but - anyway - when the preacher asked who needed to be healed, I froze. I couldn’t move. Finally, I felt a nudge - from God - and I marched right up to the altar. The preacher put his palm on my forehead, closed his eyes, and shouted, ‘In the name of Jesus Christ, BE HEALED!’ and he shoved the spirit of the Lord into my soul.”

Dr. Marvin paused. He took a breath. His eyes filled with tears. The silence was heavy.

“So what happened?” I asked, fascinated by this foreign culture.

“I was healed,” he whispered. “My back was healed. God healed me.” He swiped his hand across the tears streaming down his cheek. “It was a miracle.”

“Congratulations! You did it!” Nancy exclaimed.

“I’m happy for you,” I said. My opinion of Dr. Marvin might have been less than enthusiastic, but I didn’t wish him harm. And if he had managed to erase the back pain that so frequently interfered with his daily well-being, I was glad for him.

“Well, yes, sort of . . .,” he answered. “God did it. But then a funny thing happened.” He sighed. Another pause. Another silence. Too long, too potent.

“What happened?” Nancy and I asked, practically in unison.

Dr. Marvin plunked down on the waiting room couch and crossed his legs, his excitement building again. “When the preacher placed his hand on my forehead, I felt the spirit of the Lord permeating my soul. I was healed – magnificently, miraculously healed. The love of God took over my body and made me weak with joy.” He sighed. “It was beautiful – the most sacred encounter with God I’ve ever experienced.”

He stood up and yanked one of the shades to the center of the window. “But all that joy drained me – made me limp. I fainted - passed out cold.” He aligned the other shade. “And I collapsed. Flat on the floor. Right at the preacher’s feet.” He turned around. “And I hurt my back.” He walked past me into the patient room. “But I was healed.”

Ok, I said to myself. Have you heard enough? Is this the sort of God you want to keep hearing about day after day? A trickster? A manipulator? A brute who thinks humanity is horrid? A wretched creature who drops airplanes like pick-up-sticks and hurls cities into the ocean? Are you willing to come to work day after day and be bombarded by stories of an angry monarch who likes to play havoc with people’s lives and ambush sweet puppies and kill little babies because they inhabit the same general area as petty thieves? Enough already!

For many months I had been immersed in Dr. Marvin’s towering contempt for wrongdoers and daily reminders of mayhem being perpetrated on entire families or towns or nations because of the despicable actions of a few. I needed relief from the drama of a Demon Deity lording over an insidious courtroom of crime and punishment.

Two weeks after the back-healing incident, I quit. The timing was perfect. Ed had completed his internship in Syracuse and accepted a full-time position as minister of the Unitarian Church in Youngstown, Ohio.

I often think about poor Dr. Marvin, with that God of Acrimony, Revenge, and Fake-Healing Duplicity trapped in his head and heart. How nice it would have been if a snappy, gum-chewing God, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, frayed jeans, sneakers, and no socks, had wandered into the waiting room, patted Dr. Marvin on the shoulder, and said, "Stewart, we need to talk. Oh, and by the way, is it ok if I parked my VW bus in your spot?"

EVS 06/09

LOSING CONTROL

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 15 May 2010 20:49:00 +0000

NARROW ESCAPES - Wherever there is danger, there lurks opportunity; whenever there is opportunity, there lurks danger. The two are inseparable. They go together. ~ Earl Nightingale

In June of 2000, Ed and I took off on a road trip from the suburbs of Chicago to Tennessee. Our trip was two-fold: the Unitarian Universalist General Assembly in Nashville, followed by a mini-vacation adventure through the countryside. We shunpiked our way through small towns - those pinpoints off major highways - mere outlines of their old glory: insurance companies, video stores, furniture shops, and a couple of bars across from boarded-up movie theaters and department stores-turned-thrift shops. Ed and I tried to imagine what the towns might have looked like before cross-country highways and discount superstores sent them into oblivion.

After the UU conference in Nashville, we stopped in Carthage, Al Gore’s hometown. Shop windows and sides of buildings with donkeys and "Vote for Al Gore" and "Prosperity for American Families" announced pride in Gore's race for US president. Outside the village, we drove past the entrance to the Gore homestead and waved at the policeman sitting guard at the end of the white-fenced drive that led to the gracious stone house perched on the hill. We continued through the countryside, visiting out-of-the-way places, enjoying rich southern cooking: homemade biscuits, grits, bean soup, and cornbread - then headed to Columbia, the Mule Capital of the World, to see what all the mule fuss was about.

Farm and horse fields opened out on either side of us. A sense of relaxation pervaded the car. No responsibilities. Nowhere to go or to be. The radio set to country music – hard to avoid in the South. We sang along with Shania Twain - "From This Moment On." The expanse of rolling hills merged with the sky at a horizon of purple haze. A misty sun filtered into the trees and built halos around the branches. The wind danced with the leaves, turning up their white undersides. That meant rain.

We traveled beside the property contours of meadows and farmland. Deep trenches lined the two-lane road, the wide gullies dropping several feet directly off the shoulders. "Must be for irrigation or drainage," Ed said. "Wouldn't want to land in one of those," he chuckled.

Laziness made me sleepy. A corroded water truck traveled ahead of us at a steady speed, its red bulk obscuring a view of the highway. I studied the back of the truck. Trouble? Call 911 painted across the rust. I thought about that and wondered who'd call 911 from a car. Girl with a flat tire? People who land in the ditch?

Ed switched the radio to a religious station. He liked to keep up with the competition. I laid my head on the backrest and looked him. He smiled when the preacher shouted, "I yam Dock-ter Fixit. Lemme fix yeur pa-in." Ed mimicked the preacher's twang. "Y'awl, pay 'tenshun now!" I laughed and thwacked his shoulder in good fun.

I saw it coming at us through the front corner of Ed's window. Rolling - at breakneck speed - at us. A white Ford Explorer. Twirling and bouncing. Rolling. Toward Ed. Toward us. I sat up and gripped the handle.

It's true that events and thoughts happen in slow motion when peril invades the brain. I flashed the hazards of Ford SUVs - that if you jerk the steering wheel you lose control, that people get killed when creamed by one of these.

Slow motion turned into single frames. Pictures flashed in clicks. Explorer. Looming. Suspended. About to strike. Water truck. Ditch. Hands on door handle. Clear-headed, yet terror-struck, I knew what would happen. We'd die. In that ditch. After a head-on collision.

Neither of us spoke.

Then, from nowhere, a road appeared - to our right - where the ditch had been - a skinny dirt road on a hill. Ed cruised up and out of the way. He turned around in a driveway and stopped the car on the shoulder facing the intersection. We sat there, horrified and silent, looking at the gruesome scene of crumpled mass sprawled on the road where our car had been seconds before.

I started to shake. Ed turned off the car. My trembling increased. "We almost died there," I whispered.

The SUV sat upright in the intersection, smashed beyond repair. The once smooth, white metal now a crinkled lump, streaked with road scrapes. Front doors scattered across the road, back doors thrown open. Roof caved in, stripped away from the broken front window. Rear view mirror gone. Smoke rose from the exposed engine and drifted into the weeds.

A young man, tossed like a rag doll, lay stretched across the flattened passenger seat, his bloody feet and right arm hanging over the car runner. His shoes thrown on the highway as though someone had flung them into the air to see where they'd land. He looked dead. Several feet away, a middle-aged woman sat on the pavement. She tried to move but seemed injured. Her shoes gone, her clothes and skin bloody. The driver of the water truck walked toward them.

I called 911.

"Let's go down there," Ed said.

We approached the woman. Ed bent to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Help is coming," he said.

She didn't respond. I wondered if this is what shock looked like. Clammy and pale, blank expression, slight shudder. I thought we should find a blanket. I didn't want to touch her because we could compound her injuries, but mostly because of the blood.

My cell phone was still in my hand. "Would you like to phone someone? Do you have a family member or friend you'd like to call?" She nodded. The man in the SUV remained lifeless. Blood had seeped through his pants and shirt. The woman didn't ask about him. She spoke to someone on my phone and handed it back to me. She stared at her knees and moaned, picking dirt out of an open wound. I grabbed a handful of gravel and wiped off the blood.

When the police and ambulance arrived, the EMTs went right into rescue mode, and the police officer asked for information. The truck driver pointed into the highway. "They were coming down the road awful damn fast. I think they caught the lip of the shoulder and skidded in the gravel. That's when they lost control 'cause all of a sudden it started wobbling. I saw it roll over through the mirror," he explained. "Could've killed those people behind me! They're damn lucky."

We told the officer what little we could - that a Ford Explorer rolled at us and we drove up a hill. It didn't sound like much when we explained it. So matter of fact and ordinary - not a horrific close call - not a brush with death. No mention of lingering fright or that I still had the tremors. We went back to our car and sank into our seats.

Being so close to horror knocked common words out of my head. Unsettled and nervous, physical sensations were hard to control. My stomach muscles constricted, making me nauseous. Blood throbbed through my eyebrows. My whole body quivered, as though my bones had palsy. As we watched the accident commotion unfold, we repeated the almosts: Almost had a head-on collision. Almost drove into a ditch. Almost stopped being people on earth.

I looked at the barn and farmhouse and wondered who lived there and who planted those zinnias and who played on that tire swing. Maybe the farmer was milking the cows. Maybe the mother was watching TV while she waited for the laundry to finish. Or maybe she was at Walmart buying placemats and coffee filters. Were their kids still in school this late in June? I hadn't seen a school bus all day. "We almost died," I said again.

The scene looped in my head - a slide show with one slide - a white Ford Explorer rolling at our car. Ed drove into the village, but I didn't notice the scenery. Instead, I saw a white Ford Explorer ready to hit. We bought Chinese food and ate it in our motel room, and the SUV appeared - ominous and clear. The what-ifs and the almosts disrupted my sleep.

"I don't want to drive for a while," Ed said the next morning. We walked through the village and looked in store windows. We held hands and sat in the park. We stopped at a pharmacy where I disinfected my phone.

After a few hours, our rational selves began to repair the pervasive anxiety that tried to build nests in our brains. Little by little, the awe and marvel of good fortune overruled the residual fear of imminent death.

"Where did that road come from?" Ed asked after we drove out of town. "It just appeared. From nowhere. Like a miracle." He rubbed my hair. "We're ok," he said. "We're ok."

"We're damn lucky," I answered and smiled. "Thank god - or somebody."

Ed turned on the radio and I checked the map.

Although the vision of our near miss remains clear and palpable, the dread of impending danger dissolved - and in its place grew euphoria and appreciation of the ordinary. We almost lost control. We almost lost the awareness to pinch ourselves - to experience the exquisiteness of dull and dreary - to taste the sweetness of banality and boredom - to welcome the comfort of headaches, the splendor of weeds, and the melody of crying babies.

We almost lost all that. But we didn't. We kept all that.

EVS 05/10