Wendy Russ

The Sacred and the Silent

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 20:28:00 +0000

In winter, the red nandina keeps its leaves. It carries on as if the entire world around it has not closed up shop for the season, has not surrendered to the cold, invasive winds of winter, has not folded in upon itself and died until Spring's rebirth.

Inside the house a woman is dying. Nothing can be done.

I sit with her at a table in her breakfast nook. The kitchen smells like roast beef, but I know she did not make it. She is a stick woman with a bird-like hand that slowly moves a pen across the page before her. The signature. The one that gives her husband the right to conduct her business.

"She doesn't have her glasses," he says. "But I've marked the place with an X."

She has no trouble signing, but he asks if he should get her glasses for her. She slowly lifts her head up toward him, her icy stare filled with hate.

I am chilled and with my finger trace around a yellow flower on the printed table cloth. She slides the papers across to me and I afix my seal to them. And then we are finished.

"Her birthday was yesterday," he adds.

"Oh, Happy Birthday!" And then I realize it's a stupid thing to say to a woman who is dying. But I am no expert in this.

I am expert in other things, like placing a little stamp on a piece of paper so it's official and proper. I am expert in helping make things tidy for people who are dying or, more accurately, for the people who have to go on living.

In the car, I turn around in the driveway, a fancy paved one lined with the sacred bamboo. The chill winter wind flutters the red leaves, sways the long, graceful stems of the nandina. As I turn onto the street I realize the dying woman never spoke.

How to Make Hot Chocolate

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 16:23:00 +0000

On a very special occasion I will make myself a big steaming mug of hot chocolate. It's a very involved recipe that takes about an hour and requires 5-6 spoons.

It's a recipe that would never be used by single women with a higher capacity for concentration and a lower incidence of random chaos than, say, a mother of two boys.

If you'd like to use the method, I will describe it, but if you're a mom you probably already know it.

First you start with your 2nd favorite big mug. You don't use your 1st favorite mug because it's already been broken by your clumsy husband or one of your children who used it as a shovel in the backyard while you were in the shower.

Next, fill the mug with milk, preferably out of the jug that nobody has been drinking straight from. Any milk will do. Dose with a liberal amount of chocolate mix, until the milk turns chocolatey. Use twice as much chocolate if you have PMS. Or even Post-MS. Or because you just damn well feel like it. (If it's after noon you can add a splash of Bailey's Irish Cream or Kahlua. It will be our little secret.)

Stir well and put the cup in the microwave for one minute after ensuring that there is no food in there that someone forgot they microwaved and left in there overnight to spoil.

While the milk is heating, finish the load of dishes that is still in the sink, then remember you have to get the garbage ready for pick-up and when you get back in start a load of laundry.

Remember, suddenly, that your hot chocolate is still in the microwave and is now cold. Get a new spoon to stir it with because while you were out of the kitchen someone took the one you had set aside to use for your drink.

Put the mug back in the microwave and put it on for 30 seconds. While you wait, referee a fight your children are having and then notice that one of them has sprayed blue mouthwash all over the bathroom. Clean up the mouthwash.

Sit down for a while and see if you have any new shows recorded on the DVR. You'll remember again about the hot chocolate because that would go really well with the episode of Desperate Housewives you never got to watch.

By now the chocolate is cold, so you'll need to stir it again and reheat it, except you'll need a new spoon because someone has taken the last one you set aside for this purpose.

Put the mug back into the microwave and heat for 30 seconds. While you're doing that answer the phone and make a note that your mother needs you to make her two cups of rice. Feel proud of yourself that while you're talking you run back to the microwave just as the timer goes off. You didn't forget! Except the drink is still not hot enough. And the spoon is gone again. Get a fresh spoon, stir, heat for another 30 seconds.

While you wait, start the rice, this time not making the mistake that it's TWO cups of water to ONE cup of rice, not the other way around. Run to the bathroom for a quick pee before the microwave timer goes off and decide when you get back 5 seconds later before timer goes off (pulling your pants up as you race down the hallway) that you really are getting better at this.

The spoon is gone again, but it's okay because there is one clean one left in the drawer.

After testing the hot chocolate it's just about right, but in all the testing the milk level is down to only 3/4 full. Top it off, add more chocolate, reheat for another 30 seconds. While you stand in front of the door this time, realize that you forgot to set the timer for the rice. Do several algebraic calculations with the kids' fridge magnets, then set the timer for reasonable amount of minutes that you think will not result in a kitchen fire.

When the microwave timer goes off, remove the cup. Do not do the final stir because the spoon will be gone again and you're out of clean ones.

Sit down and relax near the closest fire extinguisher and enjoy your hot chocolate.

Tales from the South

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 19:29:00 +0000

I've been blogging for a long time. And I haven't made mention of it, but I've been writing for a long time and not doing a darn thing with the writing that I've done.

A couple of years ago I made a writer friend who also turns out to also be a fabulous human being. To say he was encouraging would be an understatement. He's the kind of guy who, if he believes in you, will shove you out of a nest because he knows you can fly when you aren't certain of it yourself. For your own good, of course. (At least, I THINK that's what he was doing, and not trying to kill me.)

And so, over the last couple of years I've been flapping my boney little wings trying to get some lift. And finally, this month, I've caught an updraft and it's an exciting one.

I had a story accepted to a radio show called Tales from the South. The show airs on NPR and anywhere else that it's syndicated. Tomorrow night I'll be doing the live reading for the show and while I'm there I'll be thinking of all of you who have been hanging out here with me, those of you have taken the time to comment and to be there for me when I was funny and, lately, not so funny.

If you want to hear the recorded version of the show you can listen to it when it airs Thursday at 7PM CST via KUAR. It will also be archived at PRX. UPDATE: The producer said the show won't air for two weeks. I'll post a reminder here then.

And another writer friend, the lovely, talented and big-haired J.A. Zobair was kind enough to celebrate with me by doing an interview! I hope you will go say hello to both of us at her post: Scenes from the Making of an Interview. Please go by and reassure her that I will never make her go fishing again. And also that I'm a nice person despite what she may think of me after this interview. No, really. REALLY. Go on. Go. GO!

Why I Changed My Mind about the Death Penalty

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 19:29:00 +0000

From the time I could understand the concept of right and wrong, good and bad, crime and punishment I have heard the "eye for an eye" argument. It's how I was raised. That sentiment of judgement was in the fabric of me and I gave the death penalty, frankly, less consideration than choosing what restaurant to eat at. It was a matter for others to worry about. It didn't concern me. Kill a man who murders another man? Sure, why not? An eye for an eye. That seems fair enough.

In the first week of May, 2008, while I was alone in my office at work I got a call about my brother's only daughter. "Tanya has been murdered. Terry stabbed her. She's dead, Wendy. Tanya is dead." As I was hanging up, some office mates arrived and were asking me some questions about work. I remember answering them by repeating what I had just heard on the phone, then walked to a nearby office and started shuffling through papers to find what they were looking for.

From what seemed like a mile away I heard one person say, "I think she's in shock. Look at her. She's shaking." And that's when my consciousness returned to my body and I realized I was quivering like I'd been pulled out of some distant, frozen sea.

The next months, even years were revealing. I was sad, raging, apathetic. Exhausted, I'd forget for a moment anything was amiss, then would suddenly remember with a cold wave of shock and start the cycle over again. The burr under my saddle was that I wanted to settle in my mind on what I thought a fair punishment would be for him. An eye for an eye. That must be the right thing. He killed, he should die.

The angry person in me thought that was not nearly fair enough. He should suffer. A lot. He should stay in prison for his whole life. And not just any prison -- the kind of prison you see in the movies where rampaging gangs of men beat and abuse and kill each other and there is peril at every turn. Would that be fair, that he suffer for a lifetime?

I went through every scenario imaginable -- from the true-life realistic alternatives, to the outlandish never-gonna-happen fantasy. Nothing satisfied me. I was a boiling stew of unresolve. I despaired that there was no kind of justice for me.

Justice.

These days I think our culture defines justice as "a fitting punishment for the crime." That isn't what justice is, though. The icon for Justice is the lady with the scales who blindly balances truth and fairness.

Justice, in my mind, is the determination of what a person must pay back to the world to offset the damage he or she has done to it.

Killing the man who murdered my niece is not going to bring her back. It's not going to make me feel better because, frankly, I've run through every permutation of his suffering than I can possibly imagine and none of them feel like enough punishment. They seem brutal and pointless. There is nothing to be gained from any of it.

The only possible solution is that he has to balance out the bad he has done with an equivalent amount of good. If he can be redeemed, he must be. And then his life should be forfeit to the service of others until he has paid back the amount of joy and usefulness that left the world when my niece was stabbed 27 times in her bedroom by her own husband.

And in the event that he cannot be redeemed, he must toil in some fashion for the good of others. He must knit sweaters for homeless children until his fingers bleed or he goes blind. Or he must build homes for the homeless or he must grow gardens to feed the hungry. He must sell things he's made with his hands to put a poor kid through college.

Justice is not killing him, it's making him replace what he stole from me and from you. Yes, you.

Because it's not about my niece. It's about violating all of us as humans. Criminals hate and disrespect and so we lock them up like bad children because what else can we do with them?

What we can do with them is turn the system upside down and stop throwing up our hands in despair like confused and frustrated parents. We can admit that our system is broken. We can insist that balance be restored, that justice become about fairness, not about punishment.

I don't want Terrence Hill to die. I want Terrence Hill to make the world a better place. That's what would satisfy me. That's what might give me a sliver of a chance to feel at peace and to find forgiveness within me.

Old Charley

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 02:33:00 +0000

The door swung inward and the bulk of a man filled the opening from edge to edge. He stood in the doorway and quickly surveyed the room as if to weigh his options before making a strategic placement of himself within my office.

“Charley Matheson,” he announced.

He unstoppered himself from the doorway and a gush of people entered along with him in his wake, the rest of the Matheson family who wanted to weigh in on “Pops buying a house.”

I stood in the middle of the room directing his entourage to various areas of engagement – one to the bulletin board, two to the bathrooms, one to get a drink of water. I waved papers in front of Mr. Matheson’s face, papers I thought might entice him to change his life, seduce him into moving north out of the mosquito-infested plains where “levees threatened to break and The Blacks are taking over.”

As the commotion whirled around me I sighed and rubbed my face, my eyes. I’ve lived my life in the South where racism is an ever-present part of the culture like owning a truck and a hound and how you grow enough yellow squash in the summer to supply all your neighbors and the food bank, too.

“It ain’t that I’m against The Blacks,” he continued, as if to reassure me he wasn’t actually a racist. “I got a good friend who’s black, so it ain’t that. But you know…”

He paused and looked at my face, waiting for me to agree that I understand the difference between Not Liking the Blacks and being A Racist. I do not understand it. And yet… having lived here for so long, I understand the difference as they see it.

“We have a nice selection of things to look at Mr. Matheson. I’m certain you’ll like our area.”

I opened the door for him, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and ushered them all out the door.

“The last time the levees threatened to break I packed up everything I owned – my tractors, my tools, all my machinery and equipment for the farm. I loaded it all up on a big trailer and took it to my friend's to wait out the flooding. And when I came back it had all been stolen. All of it. Gone.”

I nodded sympathetically. “That’s terrible,” I said and patted him on the arm.

“I just can’t live with it anymore. When I go shopping, I look around and I’m like a marshmallah in a bag full of chocolate chips and I don’t like it.”

“We should go,” I press firmly and point south in the direction we’d start driving.

* * *

Sometimes people are redeemable. Sometimes they are not.

And principles always matter in one’s heart, but sometimes don’t amount for much in real world applications.

As I headed south, an image swam up to the surface of my mind – me sitting at a cheap and grimy fake wood Formica kitchen table in a ramshackle house with the infuriating and grouchy Mr. Bonds.

“Now then,” he said with a heavy pause, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as if he is making an effort not to smile about a joke he anticipates telling. “What I do NOT want is for you to show this house to any Black People.”

My eyebrows crunched together and I’m pretty certain my face might have started to fold in on itself in distaste. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course I’m not kidding, young lady. I wouldn’t do that to my neighbors, sell this house to Blacks.”

“Well, Mr. Bonds. I will tell you that the Federal Fair Housing Act prohibits the discrimination against persons based on race or color, religion, sex, national origin, familial status or disability.”

“I don’t need the Gub’ment to tell me who I can and can’t sell my house to.”

“The Government isn’t telling you who you can and can’t sell your house to, they’re telling ME who I can and can’t sell your house to. And besides, Mr. Bonds, you know you’re attitude is just plain wrong.”

He blinked and sat back looking at me as if I was delivering the surprising news that his virgin wife would be giving birth to the baby Jesus. “No it ain’t.”

I pushed my papers into a tidy pile, carefully lining up the edges. “It IS wrong, Mr. Bonds. I’m afraid you’ll need to find someone else to help you with your house.”

* * *

The Matheson House must have a fireplace. It must have 40 acres or more. It also must have a basement in case there are storms. They must be able to live off the land, must be self-sufficient in case Obama is elected again and the world goes to hell.

The first house was “too rustic” according to Mrs. Matheson who breezed through it in less than two minutes.

“The deer heads don’t convey,” I call after her, half-joking. Nobody but me thought it was funny.

Mr. Matheson wanted to look in the garage but his wife insisted they leave as there was no point wasting time in a house she couldn’t live in. She fled the house leaving Mr. Matheson and I standing in the living room looking at one another.

“She won’t like the next one if she doesn’t like this one, Mr. Matheson.”

“Call me Charley.”

“Okay, Charley, but she won’t.”

And indeed, the road was too long and all dirt. Yet, it was perfect for Charley. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered to me as we huddled together next to the huge stone fireplace in the round lodge-style living room.

He leaned his ear down toward my mouth as I whispered back, “Don’t worry, we’ll find it for you. We’ll make it work.”

The third house was too far out of town, but I knew as I turned into the fourth house that it was bound to be perfect. It bordered a highway and had a long, sweeping curved driveway that was paved. It sat sedate and solidly-bricked on a hill overlooking a cattle pasture with a pond. It had two fireplaces, his and hers.

“This would be my room, Charley,” I teased, pointing to the sun room that had its own fireplace. “And no men allowed.”

“Who’d load yer wood up and start the fire?”

We stood next to each other looking through the sunroom glass. I crossed my arms and said, “I reckon I’d let a fella bring me some firewood now and again.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Old Charley grin before he wandered off to find his missus.

We drove to the back of the property to find the fourth corner of the land. I got out of my car and Charley got out of his. We stood at the corner and leaned on the fence post and looked out at the field where the cows were grazing.

“Like it?”

“Yes I do, missy.”

“Think Mama will like it?”

He stood straight and wiggled the fence to test its sturdiness. “Hard to say. But we won't take it if she don’t like it. Me, I’d be happy most anywhere, but she’s more particular.”

“Ain’t that just like a woman to be fussy about her house?”

“Ain’t it,” he agreed.

“Well, you must be doing something right since you’ve been married all these years.”

He clapped his big hand on my shoulder where it sat for a minute like a hot sack of grain. “Truth be known, she’s my second. I was married to the boy’s mama for 38 years and you know what she done?”

“No?”

“I was working two jobs and she wasn’t doing nothing. And I wanted to get rid of my old trailer and get a new one so I could get some bigger jobs and she threw a big ole fit and told me absolutely not was I gonna spend the money I earned on a new goose-neck trailer. Well how’s a man sposta make a living if he don’t got the right equipment?”

A white cow brayed its opinion in the distance.

“I still got that goose-neck trailer, but I ain’t got the wife no more.”

I laughed and we walked back to his truck where I waited for him to get in and I said my goodbyes to Mrs. Matheson and the rest of the family, then watched them drive away, back to their house with the dangerous levees and their one black friend and Those Other Blacks.

And I gazed out again at the pastures and wondered how the weather was in Portland this time of year.

Imaginary Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 22:25:00 +0000

As a kid I never had an imaginary friend.

Instead, I had imaginary enemies. Not in a paranoid, schizophrenic kind of way. I grew up in the country where the most exciting thing that might happen during the day would be running across a poisonous snake or baby chicks hatching in the incubator.

Baby chicks are cool, don't get me wrong, but there's something really super-awesome about running through the woods with communist spies chasing you or laying low on the ground commando-crawling up to a window to gain intel on Mr. Burnett and whatever perverse goings-on are happening in his basement. Classmates were surely locked in there for his heinous doings. Or perhaps he was a mad scientist with potions that would turn him into the monster I heard outside my window at night.

I'm thinking part of this behavior might be because my mother never bought me Barbies. She wanted me to read. She read to me a lot and then when I was four she bought me a little record player that would read to me and I could follow along with the book. That is how I learned to read on my own.

BEEP! Turn the page!

Cinderella. Snow White. Aesop's Fables. Grimm's Fairy Tales. My literary diet. So much richer and more exciting than real life. There was always tension and drama. It was good stuff.

As a kid being raised in the boonies, we learned to entertain ourselves with sticks and dirt, paper bark from river birch trees. Rocks. Old, dried bread crusts we'd feed the fish which were certainly flesh-eating piranhas guarding pirate treasure. (Sometimes with gnats, but that's a story for another day.) My father was a beekeeper and I would sit for long spells and watch the bees land and take off from their little bee runways on missions to procure more pollen for the hives.

I think a childhood of solitude gives one a rich inner life. And now as an adult, I'm writing -- writing for myself (creative expression, sometimes catharsis) and writing for others (to entertain, to inform). I feel the gathering crowd of invisible people -- imaginary enemies, and also now imaginary friends, I guess. Companions. They mimic the steady drone of the bee hives I watched for hours during long, hot summer days. The buzz is a hypnotic comfort and I can pick and choose who I listen to, who I see, like dialing up my favorite radio station.

Because of this it's hard for me to understand why people get bored and impatient waiting in line at the grocery store or sitting at the doctor's office. Those are good times for me, quiet moments when I don't have to be doing anything or answering to anyone. I can dial in to my imagination and see it play out like a movie in my mind.

Sometimes I stand at the kitchen door and look out at the backyard, just looking. My husband will notice after a while and come look over my shoulder.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing. Just looking..." I say, because I don't even see the back yard. I'm somewhere else, somewhere that would be hard to explain if I even had the desire to do so. Somewhere that's... not here.

* * *

My youngest son has a tiny wound on the inner side of his thumb. It's very small, like the head of pin, but I noticed it was red as if beginning to be infected.

"We should go take care of that boo-boo," I told him.

"Sure," he responded, for once good-natured and agreeable.

As we walked down the hall to the bathroom I said, "We'll put some magic medicine on it and it will be all better in no time."

He began to cry, then started screaming, "NOOOOOO!"

"Come on, it won't hurt. You've had this before. It's just the antibiotic, not the peroxide."

The screaming turned to snivels. "Will it disappear?"

"Yes, definitely. It will be gone in no time at all. Completely better."

Another bout of screaming erupted. "HE'LL DISAPPEAR!"

"He who? What are you talking about?"

"Scabby! He's my friend and you'll put the magic medicine on him and he will disappear and then I won't have a friend to sleep with me anymore!"

He waved his wounded thumb at me before collapsing on the floor in the hallway, weeping inconsolably.

I heaved his limp and wailing form off the floor and carried him folded in half down the hallway like a disloyal suitcase with a mutinous zipper. I set him up on the bathroom counter and asked him to show me his friend, Scabby.

At first he refused, considering the possibility it might be a trick and I would do Scabby in. He hunched over and wept with such profound loss that all I could think was what a horrible mother I am to have raised a kid whose best friend is a scab on his thumb.

But finally he relented and showed me. After close examination, I admitted that Scabby was a pretty fair friend as friends go, although he looked a bit grouchy.

"See that red ring around him?"

He nodded.

"That means he's mad about something. How about we just put a little bit of medicine around the outside, not ON him. That will make him less grouchy at least and then he won't be mean to you."

"It won't take him away?"

"Nope, he'll stick around for another couple of days, but you won't want him to stay for longer than that. Sometimes Scabby is a mean friend who can hurt you. You need to only hang out with nice friends."

He let me treat his sore and we covered Scabby with a band-aid "blanket" so he could have a nap and eventually all was right with the world.

Since then it's been all ninja assassins and rogue dinosaurs and top-secret strategic military maneuvers. So, maybe getting rid of Scabby made room for those super-awesome imaginary enemies that were the mainstay of my childhood.

Maybe having a rich inner life is hereditary.

Maybe he'll finally solve the mystery of what's going on in Mr. Burnett's basement.

Nasturtium

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 22:46:00 +0000

She couldn’t see what was actually there – the landscaping. All she could see were dollar signs, thousands of them hanging suspended in mid-air, floating over each new plant, each well-placed sprinkler head, every curve of terraced orderliness on the hillside.

She blinked and adjusted her eyes to the sunlight, trying to focus on what he was so proud of. He eased up silently behind her and said, “Do you think it’s beautiful?” It was important to him that she think it beautiful.

She nodded. “Oh yes, of course. It’s lovely.” And that was the truth. She could see it was beautiful when she could see beyond the money he’d spent.

The new money. The money he’d never had before. His money, not hers, not really.

The plants were well-arranged, well-planned like an army strategically poised to launch an attack on the bare hillside and occupy it, obliterate it in firebursts of color, with massive proliferation of exotic greenery.

He had spent days consulting with the landscape architect describing to him in detail what type of beauty he liked in landscaping – how it should lay just so, how it should take this much water, how it should bloom in stages, how some sections should bear fruit, how some were just for show. It was well-reasoned and the landscape architect would nod in agreement and with enthusiasm at the prospect of this intelligent client’s new challenge.

Oh yes, and for her there should be one small spot where she could put anything she wanted, whatever plant she picked. This small section would be hers to nurture, to design, her place to be fertile.

She knew immediately what her plant would be – a nasturtium, an orange one. She loved their airiness, the lightness of them. Orange trumpet flowers on a bed of leaves that reminded her of lily pads. The slightest breeze made them dance. She became happy just to look at them as they spread themselves, proliferated, and made life out of nearly nothing.

She planted the nasturtium while he was out, planted it near the edge of the patio that lead to the swimming pool. In its natural state the vines fell gently over the hard line of the concrete, creating a lace edging, softening it. She sat for a long time and looked at it once she was done patting the dirt firmly in around it.

That’s where he found her -- sitting in a chair on the patio watching her new plant. He stood beside her and remarked on its boldness – how it verged across the line onto the paving around the pool.

She nodded in agreement, misunderstanding his remark as complimentary to the nasturtium.

“This won’t do,” he added more firmly, trying to get her to understand what must be done.

“It’ll be fine. We can trim that edge.”

“But it will creep in other directions. It will creep everywhere. It will take over and spread into the other plants. It will ruin the plan. You must trim it. Trim it into a ball, you know, like this.” To illustrate, he made the shape of a basketball with his hands.

“You can’t trim a nasturtium into a ball. It’s not a shrub. It’s a vine; it’s beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

“It will take over. It will become a mess.” His voice became tight and his face drawn and firm. She recognized by now that his insistence would turn into anger when she would not submit to what he thought was simple logic and reason.

One plant, one corner. He promised.

“I can trim it. I’ll make sure it doesn’t go too wild. You can’t trim it into a ball. It will be ruined. That’s not its nature.” It was obvious he could not see it --that the force of his desire did not change the reality of what the nasturtium was. She felt the harsh whisper of defeat on the back of her neck, teasing her.

In the coming days she’d sit with garden shears, her back to the French doors of their master bedroom. She’d whisper to the nasturtium suggestions to grow here and there, but not here and certainly not there. She’d trim selectively, organically, and never let it grow out across the patio. She’d correct its eagerness with shears when it ran to greet its bedmates. All the while she could feel him watching her, spreading his disapproval like a dark fog rolling down an unsettled, looming mountain.

But it was this thing between them. When they ate dinner, the nasturtium was there. At each lap in the pool it was there. At night when the lights went out in the bedroom the nasturtium was there between them in all its wildness and uncontrolled verve. She could sense it maddened him like an invisible splinter he could only pick at, but never find.

And finally after some days of inattention he pounced on this wedge that divided them. He severed limbs and overpowered the delicate nature of the thing until it was formed into the shape he wanted – a tidy ball, a thing obedient to his desires and when she confronted him she could see, finally, he was relieved again and content that the world was back in line.

She drew curtains on him, between them. For now, anyway. Until she could count how many pieces of her were left that hadn’t been bitten off and chewed. In the garden she pulled the nasturtium up by the roots and tossed it into the waste bin, erasing the violence of his actions, his amputation of nature’s spirit.

She snapped down the lid of the garbage can and made her way, limbless, back into the house.

The Tomato

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 05:19:00 +0000

The first place I ever lived as a "grown up" (not a dorm, not a house with college roomies) was in a house near a park overlooking a beach. I rented a room from a nerdy single man who worked at a University and who rented rooms in his house to visiting professors and lecturers.

At the time it never occurred to me that this might be a strange or dangerous arrangement, although looking back I wonder what possessed me to do such a thing. But I was off on an adventure, on a shoe-string no less, and would not be stopped for anything.

The man who owned the house was rarely there and I pretty much had the run of it. I slept in my room, used the kitchen when I wasn't eating fast-food on the go and set up a little office in what looked like a den that nobody was using. It was a satisfactory arrangement.

Periodically a note from my landlord would appear on my bedroom door -- a notice of the impending arrival of a visiting person, someone to rent The Third Room.

One day I arrived home with a bag of food from a local burger joint and entered the kitchen to find a strange man sitting at the table. He rose when I entered the room.

"Hello," he said, with a thick Russian accent. He nodded his head and took in the full length of me with a quick glance. "I am Doctor So-n-So." He told me he was visiting for a day or two for a lecture.

I sat down as he began asking me questions about what I was doing here and questions about the area. As we talked, I opened the cheeseburger to see what condition it was in after being hastily prepared by uncaring teenage wage slaves.

Inside the burger was a big, fat tomato slice. I don't eat tomatoes. I don't eat them because they taste like grass. And I've not understood for many years why people eat tomatoes if they taste like grass. Finally I came to the conclusion that to most people they taste like something else. Like a tomato, I guess. Whatever that tastes like.

As politely as possible I tried to pull the tomato off to the side and laid it on the foil wrapper my burger came in. I closed the sandwich up and started to eat and noticed The Doctor had stopped talking and was staring at my tomato all laid out on the foil, unsightly and in mayo-covered disarray.

"Why do you do that with your tomato?"

Mouth open, burger ascending toward gaping maw, I stopped and said, "What? The tomato?" I looked at the tomato.

"Yes, why do you put your tomato to the side like that?"

"Oh," I said, now embarrassed. "I don't like tomatoes."

"May I?"

"May you what?"

"May I eat your tomato?"

"Um, sure. Really? Yes, of course."

He smiled at me in a very friendly manner and, still standing, held the tomato slice in both hands as if holding a sandwich and bit into it.

"Why you don't like tomatoes?"

Now I was becoming uncomfortable, as if he had done something really personal like announced he was going to take off his shirt and dance the macarena for me, or asked me my height and weight or told me intimate details about his current lover.

Here is the Truth: I'm ashamed to be a picky eater. There I said it. But it's not just because I'm fussy. Sometimes things just taste wrong. Tomatoes taste like grass. Cilantro tastes like soap. Celery makes me barf. Mushrooms taste like old food that should have been thrown out weeks ago. But to be fair, I like a lot of stuff people don't like -- eggplant, brussels sprouts, asparagus, broccoli, and many others.

I resisted the urge to defend myself and simply said, shrugging, "I don't know. They just taste bad."

"In my country there is not a lot of food. Sometimes you wait for a long time in line to get food and then when you get to the front of the line there is no food there. If you see food you eat it whether or not you like it because you don't know when you will get more. I cannot allow food to go to waste. Everywhere I go I am always asking people if I can eat what they left over. Old habit. I am sure people think I am very strange."

And he laughed, completely not caring if I or anyone else thought him strange. He just stood there at the table, happy to be not wasting my discarded tomato.

He should write a book called How to Make a Middle-Class American Girl Feel Like a Heel in One Easy Step.

To this day I cannot take a tomato off a sandwich without thinking of him.

Milestone

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 01:04:00 +0000

Nineteen.

It's been a number that has been on my mind for a long time. Months. I check the calendar, I count back to February. How long has it been since the last time we had to take our son to the hospital? Nine months. Nine months of clear breathing. Nine months of hearing him speak in something more than a whisper. Nine months of pretending he is completely normal with no recurrent disease that could some day block his airway, or worse, spread to his lungs and cause a fatality.

Every cough, every raspy noise. Every time he cleared his throat I was on high alert. I watch for paleness, for fatigue, for shortness of breath. I listen to him breathe at night, his snores. Is it a regular snore? Or is that a blocked airway snore? Does he pant when he runs because he has asthma or is it something worse? And then the surgeries. Eighteen of them in the last seven years. The sadness, the terror, the anger, the questions, the hysteria and that one time on surgery #10 when I had a complete emotional breakdown in the middle of the hospital lobby as people hurried past me pretending not to notice that I was sobbing and wailing, alone, because my toddler son had been torn out of my arms by a nurse while he was screaming, "MOMMY DON'T LEAVE ME!!"

Nineteen.

It was the first word that came to mind this morning when I woke up. Today was surgery nineteen and we had made it nine months, the longest we'd ever gone between surgeries.

* * *

I feel like an old pro now. I remain calm because it's routine. I listen politely to the nurses and resident doctors (who look like teenagers) as they explain things to me even though I've heard the explanations many times. I know they are doing their jobs and I let them. I have no place to go anyway. We're waiting on the real stars of the show anyway, the anesthesiologist, the surgeon.

I knit. And I can talk about the knitting now with enthusiasm when the nurses get so excited about my latest sock or hat. Before I wanted to yell at them, "Don't talk to me about this knitting, I'm trying to keep from going mad. Why would you talk about knitting when my son is about to go into surgery?" And today, the day of Nineteen I find myself explaining to the nurse how to make a cable knit, how easy it is, how I can do it without even looking while she explains to me the risks of anesthesia (hypertension, tachycardia, damage to teeth and lips, swelling of the larynx, sore throat, hoarseness due to injury or irritation to the larynx, heart attack, stroke, death).

I can knit while making eye contact as she reads the possible side effects. I could recite them myself because for eighteen surgeries I have had to listen to a nurse say that although death from anesthesia is rare it can happen.

Today, the Nineteenth Time, I marvel at my calmness, how none of it bothers me this time. And because of how we've handled it eighteen times, my son doesn't seem particularly bothered either despite the fact that just the night before he described to his brother how they will put a big tube down his throat and use a laser to burn recurrent growths off his vocal chords.

He's eight. I sat on the couch and watched them and thought to myself how nobody his age should need to explain all this stuff so clearly, so knowledgeably. And then I reminded myself how we've had it easy. Because we've known many with his disease who have had surgeries monthly or weekly. We've made friends with families whose children have since passed because they were defeated by their disease. Yes, we have it easy and I never let myself forget it. Except for my lapse on #10 I never, ever feel sorry for myself or for him because we have it GOOD.

* * *

Nineteen.

It's the number of the surgery where we heard the doctor come in and tell us that he thinks we might be done for a while. That when he got in there he discovered there was nothing much to do. He did not use the word "remission", but indicated without saying so strongly that remission is probably what we have.

And I caught my breath and stared wide-eyed at his beaming face, but I couldn't return the beaming just yet because it felt too soon to hope. If I hope and it turns out to be wrong then I might have to start back at the beginning, back to the time when I broke down and cried in front of strangers, when I felt nothing but fear and despair. I don't want to go back there.

But in the waiting room, after the doctor had gone, I called my mom and told her the news and my voice quivered, nearly broke. I felt my eyes well up and felt the beginning of hope that Nineteen might be the last. Maybe not forever, but certainly for a long, long time.

You Think You Know Somebody...

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 21:15:00 +0000

I've been married for almost eleven years.

The other day I was on the phone with my husband discussing some grocery items. Grocery shopping is one of those territories that we strategize over like generals about to invade another country. Neither of us likes to do it, so we stack up and discharge chores hoping it will tilt the seesaw in our favor when it comes time to comparing the tally sheet entitled "Who Has Done the Most Stuff Lately."

"Cheese," I said, the obvious and latest loser in the tally. "I'll pick you up some cheese. Sharp."

Silence.

"You prefer the sharp cheese, right?"

"No."

"You don't like sharp cheese?"

"No, I like mild."

I am 100% certain he likes sharp cheddar cheese and told him so, hoping the force of my assertion would make him remember that he likes sharp cheese. "I'm certain you told me you like sharp cheese."

"No, I wouldn't do that because I like mild."

"Are you SURE you don't like sharp cheese?"

"I'm sure."

"Have you EVER liked sharp cheese?"

"No."

"Then why would I think that?"

"I have no idea."

For years I've been buying sharp cheese for him. It's not my preference, but I don't mind eating it. But I buy it for him because I have been certain for eleven years that it was his favorite. And I have no idea where I got that idea. Which makes me wonder what other portions of my reality I've just made up out of thin air.

* * *

I was on the phone with a woman whose husband died a couple of years ago. There was a problem with a piece of property she was trying to sell and I was the one who was supposed to break the news to her.

"Mrs. Bannerman, your name is not on the deed to your house, only your husband's."

She said, "But he told me he'd put my name on the deed..."

"I'm so sorry, it's not on there, but it's okay -- we just have to do some extra stuff that will take longer, but it will be okay." I did my best to be as reassuring as possible.

"Well, it shouldn't surprise me. I know that's not the only time he lied to me."

Obviously, my feeble reassurances were not going to go far to meet the needs of a wife who wanted explanations from her dead husband.

* * *

Four years ago, my niece's husband moved to our town looking for work. He was a very personable, funny, handsome guy, very good with kids. We liked him. He lived with my mother for a while and the plan was for him to get a job and then send for my niece and the children.

I have a picture of him that I took on my youngest son's first birthday. He had my son propped on one of his shoulders and he was smiling and looking up at my son. He has a brilliant, white smile. My son was laughing as he was being tickled in the side by the man who was holding him. It was a very good first birthday for my son, for all of us.

A year later, that man strangled my niece and stabbed her 26 times with two kitchen knives.

You always think you know someone. Turns out, sometimes you're wrong.

Deconstructing Women's Undergarments

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 12:09:00 +0000

A guy friend of mine was explaining to me how you could tell a lot about the difference between men and women by understanding the issue of underwear.

“There’s an issue with underwear?”

“Of course there is,” he said. “What kind of underwear do you have on right now?”

“I’m not talking to you about my underwear.”

“That girl then,” he said, pointing to a gorgeous blonde at the end of the bar where we sat.

I swilled back another gulp of frozen margarita, wiped my mouth on my sleeve and said, “I can tell you right now, that girl and I do not wear the same kind of underwear.”

“Okay, then take my underwear, for example,” he began.

“No, really,” I interrupted. “Let’s not.”

Ignoring me, he continued, “I wear mine until it stops doing its job. It might be holey, it might be threadbare, but if it’s doing what it’s supposed to do, if it’s serviceable, I don’t see the point of getting more underwear that will do the same thing my current underwear is doing. But women…”

He pauses to point out the beautiful blonde at the end of the bar who happened to look up as he points at her. He nods at her and she nods back. “Women are different. Their underwear is always new and if it’s not new it LOOKS new.”

“She’s checking you out. She has no idea we’re talking about her underwear.”

“Yeah, that’s hot. So, anyway, I don’t know what it is with women and their obsession with underwear.”

I waved at the bartender to bring me another margarita. I told my friend, “You should send that girl a drink. I think she likes you.”

He glanced at the blonde now swaying to the music. “Nah, too obvious.”

“You want me to go pass her a note for you? One with checkboxes on it? I would do that for you, being your wingman and all. Wing-girl. Wing -- okay, yeah, whatever, you know.” I rubbed my face which I decided might be going numb and wondered if I’d made a mistake ordering that additional margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me about your underwear? At least tell me if it’s new or looks new.”

I nodded as the bartender set me up for another round. “It could pass as new,” I admitted.

“Ha! See?”

“But listen, here is what you don’t get. Women KNOW… women understand the importance of good underwear. Because… you never know when someone is gonna see it.”

He slammed his beer down on the counter. “Seriously, you think at any given moment there’s a chance you’re going to take your clothes off in front of someone?”

“No, not like that. But, you know, you have wardrobe malfunctions. Or you might get sick and have to go to the doctor. Car accidents, falling down the stairs. Dress blowing up ala Marilyn Monroe. A friend might want you to go shopping and try on clothes. Once I had a friend who stayed over spontaneously and she had to borrow underwear the next day. You have to always be prepared for a girlfriend to rifle through your panty drawer.”

“And panty raids…”

“You’re getting the idea.”

We sat in silence as the crowd surged around us and the music blared.

Finally I said, “A thong.”

He coughed and looked over at me, alarmed. “You’re wearing a thong?”

“Oh, God, no. That girl. I bet she’s wearing a thong.”

He leaned forward to look at the gorgeous girl again. She glanced over and smiled.

“I bet you’re right.”

“Go ask her.”

“No way. It sounds like one of those pick-up lines creepy guys use.”

“But you’re not a creepy guy. You’re a nice guy.”

“Yeah, which is why I don’t go up to women in bars and ask them what kind of panties they are wearing.”

“You asked me.”

“That’s different. I don’t care what kind of panties you have on.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to decide if I should be offended or not.

“You know what I mean.”

“Go ask her,” I insisted.

My friend sighed, finished his beer and trudged doggedly down to the end of the bar. Her eyes tracked him as he approached and she looked happy that he came to talk to her.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. She leaned in toward him smiling, then suddenly her happy face turned into a scowl. She moved back and slapped him across the face. He didn’t seem surprised and trudged back to where I sat.

I ordered him another beer.

“That seemed like an over-reaction just for asking what kind of panties she was wearing,” I said, trying to tread lightly.

“Yeah, good job, Wingman.”

“Tell the truth, you didn’t ask about her underwear, did you?”

“Nope,” he grinned, staring at the bottle sitting in front of him.

I picked up my glass and offered a toast. “To us,” I said.

“To us. And to brand new thongs,” he added.

Touching the Moon

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 21:55:00 +0000

A gibbous moon hung in the perfectly clear blue sky of a perfect late summer day, a storybook kind of day with a light breeze and a touch of autumn in the air.

"Can you see the moon?" she asked her small son as he lay on the lush green grass staring at blue nothingness. She wished for fluffy white clouds so they could lie together and name their shapes.

"I see it. Is it too high for me to touch?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because I tried to touch it once," she said.

She answered that way because she didn't know what else to say. But it sounded, anyway, like something she would have done as a young dreamer. She remembers wanting to skip along the tops of clouds, so why not touch the moon?

"And you couldn't do it?" he asked.

"No."

"And you cried?"

"Yes.

He stared longer at the luminous orb rising farther out of his reach and said, "I wish you never tried to touch the moon."

Favorite Things About Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 12:24:00 +0000

It would be a tough battle between contenders Fall and Spring if I were forced to choose my favorite. But I'm pretty sure Fall would win out simply because it's the beginning of a long span of cool weather. As delightful as Spring is there is always the hovering menace of hot weather, the persistant presence of sunshine and, of course, tick season.

Today was the first day I really and truly felt Fall was on its way. It's cooler outside the house than in and when I opened the door to let Lucy out she paused and wasn't sure what to do. Even though her food was outside waiting for her she sensed something was off in the air and she stood in the doorway a long time pondering such an uncertain egress. This will be her first fall season and I'm not sure she was thrilled about it.

My favorite things about Fall:

State and county fair season!
Cool weather (obviously)
Fall means it's almost Halloween, my favorite holiday
Fall means it's almost Thanksgiving, my second favorite holiday
The trees get dressed up in their fancy colorful fineries (followed by the subsequent "getting naked" after the party's over). Those shameless hussies.
Walking in the woods is the best in fall and winter. No ticks, no snakes and you can see the undulation of the earth through the naked trees.
Smoke in the air from fireplaces and woodstoves.
Knitting is way more fun in cool weather and I can break out the homemade socks and scarves!
Mulled cider

It's funny, because Spring is supposed to be the rebirth, but somehow for me Fall is when things seem more joyous, more alive, more expansive.

What are your favorite things about Fall?

Lost Prince

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 02:05:00 +0000

My friend Betsy has a new book out and is having a contest! I hope you'll drop by and comment on her blog for a chance to win a copy of Lost Prince: Salt Road Saga Book I.

http://www.betsydornbusch.com/2011/09/lost-prince-excerpt.html

The Scrimmage of Life

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 21:46:00 +0000

Tomorrow night my oldest son, eight, will have his first football scrimmage. He's in the 3rd grade and will be going up against the 4th grade team.

I pondered the unfairness of this and became indignant about it as I frequently do when the odds are stacked against my children. (Normally I might make a natural metaphor here about mama bears, but thank you Sarah Palin for ruining that one for me.)

I remark about it to my husband, something like, "Why don't they split the team and scrimmage each other? Why are they scrimmaging 4th graders? It's not fair."

His response was, "Why not? Someone is always smaller."

I struggle, as all parents struggle, with wanting to make a child's path smooth -- no bumps, no twists and turns, like the perfect freeway across America where there is always an off-ramp when you're hungry or have to go to the bathroom, and where the street lights always come on at dusk. Safe and boring. That's how I want it to be for my children.

I know, it's ridiculous.

It's especially ridiculous because I value the bruises I've gotten on the road, though maybe not the moment I was getting them. I've learned many great lessons from putting my foot in my mouth, from bad dates and bad relationships, from stupid, shot-sighted decisions. I've seen wonderful sights when I've taken wrong turns.

Once I tore a bunch of soft tissue in my ankle while kickboxing (yes, really) and found myself surrounded by six firemen and emergency responders who looked like they'd fallen out of the center of a fundraising calendar where all the men are half dressed. I wouldn't trade away that horrible experience even though I sometimes still have trouble with that ankle.

I understand challenge, loss, fear. I understand about digging deep. I'm not afraid of a fight. And sometimes I'm keen on doing it when I feel like justice needs to be served. I'll tackle Goliath to save David if he needs saving.

So, why do I not want these beautiful lessons for my own sons? I guess because they hurt and I know that not everyone overcomes their hurt. Sometimes we are hurt beyond measure, beyond repair. We cannot fix the broken things inside us. Falling down and skinning yourself is one thing, but getting your soul crushed is something else.

As I wait in line to pick up my second child, my first reminds me of tomorrow's scrimmage. He tells me who he thinks he will be lining up against tomorrow -- a neighbor friend from across the street. He seems unconcerned about it, thinking more about another boy on his team.

"I feel bad for this kid named Jeremy who is next to me on the line. He's going up against a kid named Roacher who weighs about 117 pounds and Jeremy weighs like 57 pounds. He's gonna be flattened in about two seconds. Yeah, he's going down."

I worry my sons won't know how to dig deep. I worry they will be too fearful to find their courage. I worry they will get a wound that won't heal. I worry they won't win a fight they think is worth fighting and it will make them not want to try again. I worry they will give up.

And so I remind him that when the game whistle blows he is to be fierce, as fierce as he can muster because I can't tell him how his mother takes a simple first scrimmage game and turns it into some sort of mental breakdown as I sit there in a row of other parents who are probably having their own version of mental breakdowns. (Or not, maybe I'm the only freak.)

And I can't tell him that all this reminds me how he's growing up so fast and it's only going to get worse from here on out. Because all he knows is he's gonna go wrestle around with other boys looking all cool in their football gear and later tell me all about how awesome he was on the field

So I think about that instead -- how tough he looks in his gear with his broad shoulders. He's tall, a good head taller than most kids his age. I think about his verve, the way he tells me a story, embellishing as if I were not there to see it with my own eyes. I think about how I will sit in the stands and make a fool of myself cheering for him and the rest of his team. Because I can control all that.

I can't keep them from falling, but I can pick them up when they do and kiss the wounds, the tears, reason with them and be their champion. I vow to myself to be excellent at that if nothing else and hope that excellent will be good enough when they really need it.

Too Much Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 23:36:00 +0000

On the drive to work the boys sat in the back of the car. Tristan shyly asked, "Mom, do you want to take belly dancing lessons?"

I looked in the rear view mirror, but couldn't see him. "Noooo... why?"

He didn't answer.

"Do you think I should?"

"Yes."

Julius had to chime in with, "Mom, I don't mean to offend you, but I really think you would NOT look good in a belly dancer outfit. I mean, I'm sorry, but really."

Tristan was kind enough to defend me. "I think she would look good in a belly dancer outfit."

Oh, what a fabulous boy who is still young enough to think his mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.

I told my older, less-wise son, "Listen, sometimes there is such a thing as too much truth. Use your truth wisely, Luke."

The things I have to put up with around here.

Caterpiller Season: Another Stirring Saga in Maternal Ineptitude

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sat, 09 Jul 2011 02:27:00 +0000

In our backyard we have a large catalpa tree. It's been there as long as I can remember and I've owned this home for nearly 25 years. The tree was here when I bought the house. It stands tall outside in our backyard and sometimes I stand at the back door and just stare at it because I love the way its sweeping branches make a shade canopy over that part of the yard.

In the summertime the catalpa worms emerge wearing their little stripey black suits, very dapper gents who start out tiny and grow monstrously huge with voracious appetites. They eat the heart-shaped leaves of the tree and become fat. Excellent fish bait if you can stand skewering them. I cannot, especially when my children consider them playmates.

Every day the boys go out with a bowl and catch as many worms as they can and watch them crawl around. They create habitats for them, little obstacle courses of sticks and leaves and plastic toys. Sometimes Tristan would put the fattest ones on a tiny little toy skateboard and say, "Mom, do you know why Catty needs a skateboard? Because she is SO FAT!"

For a week or two each summer they do this and Tristan especially gets very attached to them. He's named them "Catty" and cries every night when he has to take Catty back to the tree where she lives. He wails, "But Catty LOVES ME! Catty will be LONELY! Something will get CATTY!!!" It's a horrible and pathetic lament, heartbreaking. I keep thinking one day he will get over it, but it always starts again the next day.

Tonight he came in from his quest to the catalpa tree to collect Catty. He was bawling his head off. I was cooking dinner. "What is is, sweetie?"

He hugged my leg and sobbed into my blue jeans. "Catty is GONE! There are no more Catties!" Apparently the end of the catalpa season has come or all the worms have wandered their way up to the top where the food was better. No matter, the end result was the same. Tristan could not put Catty in the plastic bowl that he has carried with him every day since school let out.

"Hey, you know what, this is okay. You know why?"

He looked up hopefully after wiping his eyes on my pants. "Why?"

"Well, Catty's probably gone to college or something. That's what happens -- you grow up and go to college. You'll do that one of these days when you are a big, big boy! So, try not to worry about it. All the Catties will be back next summer."

I continued to stir the food on the stove and he wandered outside. About five minutes later Julius came in and stood next to me and asked in a quiet voice, "Hey, Mom? Why is Tristan outside screaming and crying, 'Catty's gone to college!'"

From across the room Rob says, "Way to go, Mom."

"Er, well, he was crying so I told him Catty went to college." I shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

Julius rolled his eyes. "Great. Well, he's screaming his head off. Everyone in the neighborhood will hear him." And then he turned and went back outside.

Tristan came in later and was still lamenting that Catty had gone to college and she would be lonely and scared all by herself. I was quick to reassure him, "Oh no, she's not lonely and scared. She's off with her friends having a Catty party!"

He stared at me in horror and then shrieked, "CATTY IS HAVING A CATTY PARTY WITHOUT MEEEEEEEE!" And then he ran off to have a nervous breakdown somewhere in private.

From across the room Rob says, "Way to go, Mom."

I sighed. Really, there was no way to win on this. What do you do about a child who cries all the time over something the locals use as The Best Fishbait Ever?

That night at bedtime, I tucked Tristan in with his favorite blanket and SnuggleBunny, a big stuffed rabbit that was as long as he was and wider. He spooned with SnuggleBunny while I covered him and tucked him in.

"I'm so sad, Mommy, Catty is having a party without me at college." He sobbed limply into SnuggleBunny's neck.

I didn't know what to say, so I decided to tell The Truth, because the truth always sets you free. You can't go wrong with the truth.

"Honey, I think maybe Catty turned into a moth."

He raised his head and looked up at me with big, wet eyes and then... screamed. "AAAAH, CATTY IS A MOTH! NOOOO MOMMY NOOOOOO! I DON'T WANT CATTY TO BE A MOTH!"

Jeez. I think I might have actually banged my head against the bed frame in frustration. Can you need anti-depressants at four? I have no idea.

"Listen, no, seriously -- Moths are super cool. You LOVE moths! You can catch Catty as a moth!" Nevermind that he has killed every moth he's ever caught because he loves them to death and they meet a bitter, flopping, broken end tossed out the front door because I can't stand to watch it anymore.

"Catty will fly away as soon as I open my hand!"

I stared at him sadly thinking how true that is for so many things. Maybe Tristan's real problem is that he's a lot like his mother.

"Okay, time to dry it up. Look, here is Snoopy. He's sad and needs you to cheer him up. Do that and it will make you feel better. Catty will be back. You'll see him again, I promise. Catty always comes back, every summer. And you know what? Never in Catty's life will there ever be another boy who let her ride around on a skateboard. So, that's why I know Catty thinks YOU are the most special boy she has ever met."

He sniffed and said, "Really?"

I nodded, "Really. Super double triple really."

He burrowed into SnuggleBunny and closed his eyes. I pulled the covers up under his chin and turned out the light.

And the Winners Are...

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 22:54:00 +0000

Jerry and Wendy Wagner! You are winners!

I need you both to email me (wendy@wendy.com) and let me know if you want the Kindle or Nook version of Travis Erwin's eBook. Congrats!

Happy 4th of July everyone!!

Interview with Travis Erwin... and a GIVEAWAY!

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 12:48:00 +0000

Recently I had the opportunity to "hang out" in the ether with author Travis Erwin, a native Texan, humor writer, and fervent "meatatarian". He has published an eBook called Whispers (available for both nook and kindle) which is a collection of two short stories and one memoir vignette. A couple of weekends ago I downloaded the book to my iPhone and spent some enjoyable time reading the stories.

Travis graciously agreed to let me interview him on the blog so could you meet him! Everyone needs a writer buddy who likes meat and has a good sense of humor. AND, the bonus is if you check him out TWO of you have a chance to win his free eBook Whispers. It's like a two-for-one-bonus.

So, here's the interview. [tap tap.] Is this thing on?

* * *

Wendy: What inspired you to become a writer?

Travis: The first answer here is my mother. She urged, actually more insisted, I constantly be engaged in a book from the time I could read. I suppose like most kids I tried to resist but book and literature won me over and I've been addicted ever since. Of course, being a natural born BS'er from Texas that love of reading soon turned to fanciful ideas that I could write a story worth reading.

Wendy: Can you tell us anything about current projects you're working on?

Travis: I have two projects actually. A humorous food book title Lettuce Is The Devil which is about 40% humor essay, 40% memoir, and 20% cookbook. The subtitle for that one is The Culinary Dogma of a Devout Meat Man. The whole thing is rather absurd but for the first time in my writing career I have a literary agent to help guide my carrrer and find it a home so I have high hopes in the project. I also have a fiction project, a story about a rancher's wife who is convinced sex is ruining her life. I have yet to hit upon a title I like but this story has lots of humor elements as well a nympho-maniacal senior citizen, a Texas blowhard that makes his living peddling Bull semen and lots of awkward situations for the characters.

Wendy: What is your writing schedule like?

Travis: I write like a vampire, in the dark of the night when normal folks are sleeping. I try to get in several hours a night and when things are going great I get up in the wee hours and also write before work, but eventually my body craters and demands sleep so there are 3 or 4 day stretches when I don't actively sit at the computer and write. However, my stories and their characters are never totally gone from my mind. I spend hours a day pondering, thinking, and yes even whispering snatched of dialogue. If I wasn't a writer I'd just be that crazy dude that talks to himself.

Wendy: When you tackle a book what is your process like? Do you outline? Write back stories? What do you do before you start typing on page 1?

Travis: I never start out with an outline but when the mud thickens and the slogging gets rough I often write one out and study it for an easier path. I do write back stories. Lots of them as a matter of fact. I consider myself a character writer as people interest me much more than plots. This has made it harder to define my writing and genre and therefore made it harder to sell. I take every character in a book and write 3 to maybe 15 pages of vignettes from their previous life. I try to choose events that have emotion. First kiss, a fearful moment. A fight physical or even verbal. Once I have written these and discover how a character will emotionally react in both good times and bad I feel like I can start the story.

Wendy: You mention in some commentary that people have made "assertions [that it's] ridiculous for a man to write women's fiction..." What appeals to you about writing women's fiction?

Travis: Actually I never meant to write women's fiction, but I do find it easier to write from a female POV and I believe love is what makes the world go around so those two overriding things show up in my writing. And like I said I love characters and women's fiction readers seem to have more patience for a slower developing plot that other genres.

Wendy: What is your inspiration -- what topics or type of topics do you want to write about?

Travis: I'm pretty certain my muse is French prostitute turned guardian angel because late at night I sometimes catch the scent of perfume in my writing office despite the fact I am the only one there. So I think the overriding theme to all my work is hope. That no matter how bad things get there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Wow, I slipped into cliche mode for that one. I used to write very dark stories but perhaps because my own life is going so well I now find it easier to write humorous lighthearted fare.

Wendy: What are some of your favorite books and/or authors?

Travis: I'm all over the place here. Richard Russo (Nobody's Fool, The Risk Pool, Empire Falls) and Kent Haruf (Plainsong and Eventide) make me jealous for their ability to build entire towns and communities of fictional character I care about. Christopher Moore makes me laugh out loud at his absurdity. I'm in awe of Erica Orloff's versatility to write both middle children's literature (The Magickeeper Series) and a great and funny romance like Freudian Slip. Besides that, she is as nice a person as the world has to offer. I also love Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway and I'm not sure a better novel has ever been written than To Kill A Mockingbird.

Wendy: Writers put things out there on the page for everyone to see. When a writer specializes in fiction, a reader doesn't know how big the kernel of truth is in that story. However, in your eBook Whispers you wrote a personal tale about the birth of your son and got very open with the events and how you reacted to them. Do you ever feel too naked when you put stuff on the page? Is there a price to pay with family or friends when you use your real life as a base for your writing and how to you resolve this?

Travis: Blogging opened doors for me. Once upon a time I kept everything personal close to my chest, but writing near daily posts for several years and interacting with so many great people little by little I lowered the walls and now I can write fairly freely about myself. I also wrote a coming of age memoir about myself titled The Feedstore Chronicles. It's a fairly raunchy look at my misguided youth and while unpublished thus far writing it was almost therapeutic. I don't have many secrets at this point but if I've learned anything over the years it is we are all basically the same so while I may be "telling" on myself, I feel confident others can relate and have felt the same at some point.

Wendy: Why do you hate lettuce so much?

Travis: Actually I dislike all vegetables. Lettuce just happens to be the leader of the evil green empire. It is the gateway vegetation which leads to the unfortunate condition known as "living a healthy lifestyle." A slice of iceberg on your burger today and you'll find yourself munching on a salad a week later. Then comes the day you realize you are standing at a salad bar with a forkful of baby carrots in one hand and a ladle of ranch in the other.

Wendy: Favorite food?

Travis: Smoked elk tenderloin. It melts in your mouth and everything tastes a little better if you went out in the field and harvested it yourself.

Wendy: And finally, in a smalltown smackdown who would win... Sheriff Andy Taylor or Marshal Matt Dillon?

Travis: I am a gambler and as such I always consider all the angles. On the surface Matt Dillon is the easy choice as he's definitely more physical and the outlaws around Dodge City were meaner than Ernest T Bass and the Mayberry bunch. But, there's always a but in life isn't there, Andy Taylor brings an x factor to the table -- Barney Fife. Sure he's only got one bullet but Barney is reckless and a bit of a hot head so even if Matt won the fight I think Barney would avenge his sheriff and use that last bullet to take down the Marshall.

Many thanks for letting me stop in. I enjoyed the questions and would love to award two of your readers with a digital copy of my latest e-book Whispers, now available for both nook and kindle.

Given the fact that the book sells for a scant 99 cents winning is not exactly on par with hitting the lottery but hey, a free book is a free book. Comment on this post grants you one entry. Liking my Lettuce is the Devil Facebook page gives you another. Becoming a Lettuce is the Devil follower on twitter yet another. And finally you can earn another for becoming a follower of my regular writing blog One Word, One Rung, One Day.

That's four entries and for any of you dedicated to do all four I'll toss one in for free to give you 5 entries into the contest.

* * *

Thank, Travis! For anyone who is entering the giveaway, please do one comment PER entry (including the fifth one) so I can just do the random number generator thingy. We will pick a winner on July 4th so get your entries in before NOON CENTRAL TIME ZONE so the winner can have something besides freedom to party about during the fireworks show! And if you don't win, go buy the book. It's only 99 cents, so don't be cheap, go get it.

I'm a Sucker

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 20:43:00 +0000

A block or two from my house is our town cemetery. It's a sprawling strip of grass between the hardware store and the fire station and the old historic June's Cafe that's long-closed. It's encircled by a chain link fence that wobbles in some places with a gate that is wired shut so you can't open it and you have to walk around to the side where the hearses drive in.

The oldest graves are on the south end of the cemetery and over the years they have expanded toward the north end as the citizens of our town die and take their places there.

For my whole life the dominant feature of the cemetery was a tulip tree -- a mammoth tree nearly a century old. Every spring it would bloom into a resplendent display of yellow tulip-shaped flowers. It had been pruned at the bottom so that all the branches arched over the graves like a hovering guardian in a sweeping yellow coat. The tree was like an old friend that you didn't talk to every day but knew was always there for you.

Over the last few years we've had many weather disasters that necessitated our county being declared a disaster area nine times. One of the interludes between "major" disasters was a minor one -- a shearing wind that tore through town, pulled down a few electrical poles and as they tumbled down like dominoes they took our majestic tulip tree with them.

It was the talk of the county. Not only was the town without electricity for half a day, but the more tragic event was that our cemetery tree, our Old Faithful was split in two lying splayed out in an undignified manner right there in the middle of town.

The men came with chainsaws to dispose of the body and spent the day cutting the enormous tree into pieces. It turns out while she was huge and solid-looking, she was rotting from the inside. She was weak and it was just time and circumstance that came together to bring her down on that particular day.

The Wednesday following the tree falling the newspaper displayed, in full page color, the corpse of our tulip tree. It told the story of the tree and how it got there.

Long, long ago a woman died. She was so well-loved by her husband that next to her grave he planted a tulip tree for her so that every spring it would bloom and shower her with flowers. And in the summer it would provide shade to cool her. And in the fall it would blaze with color and make people take notice of her audaciousness. And in the winter, when she was bare, all would see the towering strength and the network of branches that had been looking over the cemetery for the last century. In some way, the tulip tree would make the dear lady immortal because when you drove through that part of town, that's what you could see -- the personification of a husband's eternal love for a wife who had gone before him.

I wonder when he planted the tree if he had any idea how truly huge it would get. It grew so large it split her headstone into pieces as if she were coming to life and breaking through from the other world to ours -- reincarnated as the tree itself. At least that's what I like to think. The notion is romantic and other-worldly and fantastic and I'm a sucker for that sort of thing.

I was there today and the cemetery looks so bare and lifeless without that tree. The rest is just expanse of grass and leaning stones, some of which are not even marked with names. On the stump sits the lady's stone, split into three and out of the stump grows a large pokeweed that is poisonous to mammals, although people in the south do eat it after cooking it to remove the toxins. Supposedly it can cure arthritis and other things if you can get reliable advice on how to cook it without killing yourself.

When I was a little girl I used to pick poke berries from a bush next to a bridge. I liked to smash the berries in my fingers and write on the concrete guard rails. I'd walk the rest of the way home, fingers bright purple-pink, remembering the feel of the rough concrete as my fingers slid across it making the shapes of the words.

I sat by the lady's grave today remembering all this and missing the tree that I've known my whole life. I took pictures for you, so you can see all that's left. I wish you could have seen her in all her glory.

George Washington

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 14:31:00 +0000

Tristan came up to me with a wrinkled dollar bill. He held it in two hands and stared at the man in the medallion in the middle.

Finally, he asked, "Who is this man on the dollar?"

I said, "That's George Washington."

He asked, "Was he our first president?"

"Yes, he was."

His lip turned down in a sad face and he continued to stare at the picture.

"Why are you sad," I asked.

"Because he died. I really miss him."

The Archaeology of Motherhood

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 04:21:00 +0000

Children happened to me when I least expected it. This is not to say that my children were unintentional, far from it. They were fully intentional, fought for when the time came. Yearned for, cried for, a cause for sleepless nights when it looked like they might not be ours one day.

My oldest -- big-headed baby, fair-skinned, orange-haired. Blue eyes. When I looked into his eyes I thought of my great-grandmother who, I heard, always thought blue eyes and red hair was the most beautiful combination in the world. I remember this because my eyes are green. And not a beautiful green like clover or emeralds, but green like olives. I hate olives.

My youngest -- little angry grunter. My Romeo with his coal black eyes and eyelashes long enough to scrape the underside of the moon. I watch him work his magic with the ladies and see my future... unwilling confidante to broken-hearted girls whose calls he won't take.

When my oldest began to transition from baby to toddler, maybe a bit older, I went into a bit of a funk. I adored this precious baby and he was leaving me, growing into something different, someone different. I loved the new guy, but missed the old guy, even grieved for him at times.

Suddenly I didn't see the point of motherhood. You have this blessing come upon you, care for him, let him consume you, turn your life upside down and suddenly in 18 years which seems more like 18 hours he is packing his toothbrush, his clothes, his favorite book, his condoms for heaven's sake! And you stand on the porch crying because he's leaving you. He'll head off into his life and you hope he will be a fabulous human being and you hope he will leave the world a better place than it was when he came into it, but the more likely scenario is that he will just be another mediocre human being with a big carbon footprint who forgets to call you on Mother's Day. Or worse.

During this time I was on a phone call with my husband's mother and I asked her. How does she reconcile that her son is all grown up? How can she bear that her little boy doesn't exist anymore? Does she miss him terribly? Does she grieve for him?

I could tell by the silence on the other end of the phone that she was bewildered by the question. And subsequently I felt stupid and filled with regret that I'd even asked.

So, I put it out of my mind, or tried to, for months, then years. In unguarded moments the thought would peek around the corner like an evil leprechaun and plague me with more visions of crying on the porch. Eventually, my second son arrived and there were so many new challenges. No time to do much but put one foot in front of the other and keep on moving.

In the eighth year of motherhood, I was sitting on a hot concrete bench cooking up a dose of melanoma under my generous helping of freckles. In front of me was a baseball field covered with boys of all shapes and sizes. At my feet my youngest, age four, plowed a fire truck through the dirt. On the field was my oldest boy, heading up to bat.

With a crack, the ball he hit sailed through the air and a cheer went up from all the moms and dads and coaches. He began to run. First base, second base, then something went wrong. I don't even remember now what it was because what happened next knocked every memory of that moment out of my head except one.

I see the image of him kicking up dirt as he grimly shuffles off the field to the dugout. One of the coaches catches him just as he crosses the baseline but before he can reach the dugout. He grabs him by the shoulders and squares him up until their noses are about two inches apart.

I scooted to the edge of my seat ready, at the slightest provocation, to fly up on that coach like the most insane soccer-mom banshee from Hell. The coach started in. "Do you know what you did wrong?" My son nodded and looked down at the ground.

With a gentle shake of my son's shoulders he commanded eye contact. In the background I heard another crack of ball against bat and a cheer. It drowned out the conversation that held me, but suddenly the image was transformed for me. This man, talking to my son as he would speak to another man, demanding in a respectful way that he do his best, that he be his best, that he be a good team member, that he rise to meet challenges.

My fair-skinned boy with his delicate dusting of freckles, sun-kissed, set his lips determinedly. He nodded at whatever the coach had to say then stood an inch or two taller.

And then I saw it -- I saw the layers of him -- the baby, the toddler, the pre-schooler, the boy who graduated from kindergarten, the one who learned to read, the one who lost his baby teeth, the one who made it halfway to Home after hours and hours of batting practice. They were all there, transparent, three-dimensional, like nesting dolls.

The reason my question was so ridiculous, so alien is because my mother-in-law knew, but couldn't explain, that you don't have to grieve for your loss because there is no loss. This boy is just layers, like a rich archaeological dig, the sum of those layers of love, of discipline, of fun times, of hard times, of learning and experiences.

I watched the coach slap him on the back and send him into the dugout where he was jostled by his friends, all elbows and nudges. I smiled and drew circles in the dirt with my foot next to the roads my youngest was carving out with his truck.

"Yer messin' up my roads, Mom."

"Sorry, sweetie."

During the next round of batting my oldest was up to bat again. I was awash with a new found serenity. He sidled up to the plate and planted his feet squarely, rocking back and forth to get his perfect balance. Elbows up, a couple test swings. He nodded to the pitcher. Ready.

The ball flew, the bat sped forward, the batter's form poetry as metal met leather and with a loud pop the ball torpedoed between flailing players desperate to catch the ball.

My son began to run and I began to cheer. I cheered for him, but I think now I might have been cheering more for me, for us, for a future free of looking back with sadness, but now only fondness, at worst -- nostalgia. I cheered as he veered across second and didn't slow a beat, just like Coach had taught him. On to third, the coaches screamed for him to run. A slight pause rounding third and I slid forward on that hot, rough, blazing bench. Halfway to home, he turned to look back. The ball was coming, coming straight for him, coming straight for home.

I leaped up and ran to the fence, hooking my fingers through the chain link and screamed, "Run run RUN! AND DON'T LOOK BACK!"

As he crossed home plate, I cheered for him, for us and his hands flew up into the air and he whooped.

And I whooped. Because that was the day I stopped looking back.

Fish Head

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 21:17:00 +0000

My oldest son is an old pro when it comes to fish guts. Last year my brother took him fishing and then showed him how to clean and cook the fish. I was sure it would flip him out, but he did remarkably well and was even thrilled that he knows how to do it now.

I think we picked the right age -- maybe 7 or 8. He's old enough to understand where food comes from and we've had discussions about hunting and fishing and how, in our family, it's not a "sport". The rule in our house is if you kill an animal it's a guarantee you'll be eating it.

So, having been through this with one boy, I was a little bit lax on planning for the second. We'd been fishing with our youngest before and somehow in my mind I just assumed he already knew the drill. He doesn't like fish, doesn't like meat much at all. We call him "our vegetarian child", although his one big exception is hot dogs which he likes straight out of the fridge and with no bun.

Saturday Rob took the boys fishing with another Scout dad and his son. They caught a ton of fish, most of which were too small to keep. They brought home one catfish which Rob filleted outside his workshop on a nifty portable fish cleaning station he'd rigged up.

I was inside working on the computer and little while later the door opened and Tristan slowly walked in and closed the door behind him. I knew something was up because when he comes in usually the door flies open and he enters the room with gale force and slams it behind him hard enough to shake the windows.

I turned to look at him and he walked slowly across the room, head down. I could see his bottom lip pooching out.

"What's wrong, buddy." I held out my arms, inviting him in for a hug.

"I'm sad."

"Tell me all about why you're sad."

He pulled away and sat down on a short stepstool at the coffee table where he sits to eat his snacks or draw pictures.

"I'm sad because of the fish. They cut his head off."

Oh dear, I thought, how could I not have planned that out better. Duh.

He kept looking down at his feet and swinging them up and down. His legs were filthy, no socks, ragged tennis shoes. He looked like an abandoned, hopeless child.

He continued, "I just feel so bad for that lil guy..."

I reached out again and motioned for him to come to me and wrapped my arms around him. "I feel bad for that little guy, too. I'm sorry you feel bad, but that's what happens when you eat a fish."

"I don't wanna eat a fish. I want that lil guy to still be swimming in the water!"

I half-smiled grimly and sympathetically. "I know, I'm sorry. You don't have to eat fish."

He eyeballed me accusingly. "YOU eat fish." That was the first time I'd ever heard him state a personal and deep criticism of who I am and what I do. His mother, the Fish Eater. I've gone through the standard, "You're mean!" or "I'm never gonna be your friend anymore!" during those moments when he was mad because I made him eat what was on his plate or made him clean his room or wouldn't let him wear pajamas to school. But this was something entirely different.

He wasn't going to understand if I said, "I'm a Southernor. I'm obligated by my culture to have corn-battered catfish at LEAST once a month with liberal amounts of greasy, deep-fried hush puppies on the side. I'm sorry, but I can't help myself."

So, I did all I could -- admitted my faults, that I'm a rampaging fish killer. "I do eat fish, honey."

"But I don't want you to do it. I just feel so sad for that lil guy."

I pulled him onto my lap. He smelled like a gamey little boy of summer, a boy who had been out on a boat getting sweaty and wet and now was covered in a film of dirt. He nuzzled his face into my neck and I said, "Hey, how about I draw you up a nice bath? That will be fun." He nodded against my neck.

Deep, cool bath, lots of bubbles, a big toy boat. He stayed in there for nearly an hour and when he was out there was no further mention of fish or being sad. I guess we'll cross our fingers and wait for the next time one of the boys wants to go fishing and see what happens. We may be headed for vegetarianism one of these days.

Thursday, Bloody Thursday

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 27 May 2011 04:06:00 +0000

Like most parents with school-aged children, our lives are filled with many activities. Probably too many. Baseball, T-ball, martial arts, boy scouts, weekly skating, and various other activities that we consider "enriching".

Tonight was one of those nights -- a boy scout pack meeting with a big martial arts demo and the unveiling of a long-awaited brand new Pinewood Derby track. My husband is a scout leader and would be handing out awards and badges and various scouty doo-dads that are cool and build the boys' self-esteem.

We pulled into the parking lot and I noticed that the neighbor across from the building we were at had her two pit bulls out in the yard. One was on a leash, one was not. I suspected they were the two animals I'd been hearing about in that neighborhood -- the ones the police and animal control have been visiting for the last few days after reports that they were attacking people's cats.

I pointed them out to Rob and said, "I think those are the dogs that got picked up the other day."

We gathered the children up and went inside. Not long afterward, most of the boys went outside to play while they were waiting for the meeting to start.

Within minutes two parents came in and started yelling my name. They looked panicked and kept yelling to me to come right away. One ran into the bathroom and one ran back out the door. I wasn't sure which one I should follow. All I could think of was one of the dogs was attacking a cat, or worse, a child. I'm on the city council and they wanted me to come and stop a dog from eating a cat in front of a pack of boy scouts.

And then one of them turned and said, "It's Julius, he's been hurt. You have to come quick."

I began running, burst out the glass door into the open air, rounded the corner in the direction she was pointing and there I saw my husband with his hand on Julius's head. Wads of tissue soaked in blood, blood everywhere, soaked into his white karate gi, my husband's hands covered in blood, running down his arms, Julius screaming for help even though his dad was there helping him. A mother's nightmare.

A head injury is any trauma that leads to injury of the scalp, skull, or brain. The injuries can range from a minor bump on the skull to serious brain injury. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine

I yell, "What's happened? What happened to him?" I hear someone say something about him being hit with a rock. It's nothing that I can understand because all I can see is the blood. How can there be so much blood from a person that size?

Rob bellows for me to get Tristan, find Tristan and get him in the car because we have to get to the hospital now. I could not see what was wrong with him, wasn't close enough. Most of his face was covered with toilet paper and blood. I didn't know what was wrong. The entire group had this horrified look on their faces. I wanted to rush to him and check him out and Rob was telling me to go -- go find Tristan.
I had to rein in my emotions and trust his judgement and handle that part of the family despite my urge to yank Julius out of his hands and take care of him myself.

A friend emerges from the side and says, "I've got Tristan, just go." Another woman ushered me and Rob and Julius toward the car, helped me get him into the car, and said, "I've got the door."

We raced toward the hospital, flashers on, calling the police to say we were on the way and please don't pull us over for driving like maniacs because we are covered in our son's blood from a head wound. Julius starts screaming, "I CAN'T SEE, I CAN'T SEE!"

I'm thinking, "Is his eye out? Is his head laid open to the bone?" All I know is he was hit in the head with a rock, but I don't know how bad, and now he says he can't see followed up with, "I'm gonna throw up."

At the hospital Rob pulled up and grabbed a wheelchair, put Julius in it and I ran to the door and thought, "They better get me in there right now or I'm gonna rip somebody's head off and bathe in their bloody spray." I had the mother's blood lust of protection and as I rounded the corner with my bloody lump of child wailing in the wheelchair the doors parted like the red sea and we were ushered to Trauma 2.

And then when I saw that the medical team had my son in their care... that's when I burst into tears.

The symptoms of a head injury can occur immediately or develop slowly over several hours or days. Even if the skull is not fractured, the brain can bang against the inside of the skull and be bruised. The head may look fine, but complications could result from bleeding or swelling inside the skull. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine

With a warbling voice I managed to croak out his name and my name and something about a kid throwing a rock and "I don't know anymore than that..." Rob stayed with Julius while I got him checked in and when I came back he was still crying, shaking. His hand grasped out for mine while they held him down to clean him up.

By that time they knew how bad it was. Two wounds, one a puncture above his temple, one a gash on his forhead. They talked for a few minutes and decided that fake skin and steri-strips would do the trick and less scarring than stitches since it was at the front of his forehead. I was so relieved after seeing the wound because what I had imagined was horrific and nearly more than I could bear -- a child disfigured with a missing eye, a gash all down his face requiring 50 gazillion stitches. I suddenly remembered one of the things he wailed on the trip to the hospital, "Why did this have to happen to ME?"

I held his hand and was able to look at him with complete calm and assurance and tell him how okay it was all going to turn out. Somehow this day was worse than almost all the other 18 times we've been at the hospital for surgeries. He was still crying, then screaming again when they started cleaning him up and taping him.

Rob said, "Julius, how many surgeries have you had at Children's Hospital?"

Without hesitation he said, "Eighteen..."

"You're a tough guy. When you see your head in the mirror you're gonna know it's not as bad as you think it is. There was just a lot of blood."

I looked down at his pants. Big drops of blood at the top, massive blood spray at the bottom. I squeezed his hand. His nails and hands were crusted with blood. No wonder we all freaked out. No wonder he was still freaked out.
Some head injuries result in prolonged or nonreversible brain damage. This can occur as a result of bleeding inside the brain or forces that damage the brain directly. -- from the U.S. Nat'l Library of Medicine
And finally after a while the medical folks were done with their jobs, most of us were calm, and I had talked Julius into going back to the pack meeting to show off his war wound. All was mostly right with the world. Except for the small matter of "Oh by the way, your kid could have a concussion and you have to wake him up every four hours for the next two days to make sure he can form complete sentences, his eyes aren't dilated and that they can track."

I told the nurse, "I can't even do that with him when he hasn't had a head injury."

She smiled and said, "You know your child. You'll know."

People say that to me a lot, but I never believe them. Why do women think that because they have this innate maternal instinct that I will also have that same instinct? I'm not like them.

Tonight I tucked him into bed. He was droopy eyed and limp, tired and emotionally drained. I laid my hand on his chest and said, "You had a big day today, huh?" He nodded in response.

"Tomorrow you get to go into school and show everyone your big head wound and show off what a tough guy you are." He smiled.

"I have an idea. I think you should tell them that you got injured when Kenneth was casting his fishing line into the water at the fishing derby and he nearly ripped your face off." He laughed. That's the boy I'm used to seeing.

"Okay, wait, this is better. For the girls you can tell them we were driving past an ATM machine and you saw a guy breaking into it with a hammer and you jumped out of the car with your mad karate skills and did a take down on him until the police got there and that's how you hurt your head. What do you think?"

He stared at me with his "mom, you're stupid" face on and said, "No, I think I'll just stick with the rock story."

I shrugged. "Yeah, the truth is pretty cool, too."

R.I.P. Bob Molly

noreply@blogger.com (Wendy) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 21:55:00 +0000

Thanks to all of you who have asked about how we have fared in all the southern storms. We are mostly fine with exception of not having water for three days and a nearby town being destroyed. I'll update you later when things calm down.

We have had one casualty, "Bob Molly", but he was not a casualty of the storm. His misfortune was joining our family which is bad luck for most any fish.

Stay tuned