Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
One Easter, my brother and I, still being young enough to believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and all such magical creatures, had decided to camp out under the big picture window in the living room to wait for Mr. Cottontail. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and hidden behind the orange recliner with matching rocker next to the window. My brother had built a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick, and put it in the middle of the floor. Rusty, who is the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment,' every now and then sticking it up over one of the window sills in the room. We were whispering to each other so the bunny would not hear us; of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away. We soon heard some rustling around outside the window. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny. Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. As I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of colored eggs and candy for the night, happy that Mr. Cottontail had made it to my home.
Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen in the window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus an extra year or two. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it, and a necklace too! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.
About Me
- leisa
- dover foxcroft, maine
- married mother of five in total three mine and two my husband's children two part time jobs full time student and just loving life. active in my church and member of my local American legion
Monday, September 26, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Making the Magic Last
Childhood. We all have one and it is always with us. It is at the back of our subconscious every single day. The events in our childhood affect us in everything we do. We all have many memories of all the things we have done, the good, the bad and sometimes the things in between that are neither good nor bad but just are. For instance, I can remember dressing up every Sunday morning to go to church with my mother and father. I remember having to put on these little white gloves that looked just like my mother's bigger gloves, a little beret which matched my coat. I must have done that for a long time when I was growing up because every Sunday I still feel the need to put on a pair of white gloves when I go to church I do not know why, especially at Easter.
Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
I remember one Easter we had just moved to Maine and to our new home in Orrington. My brother and I, still being young enough to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and all such magical creatures, had decided to wait up for the nighttime visitor. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and had camped out under the big picture window in the living room. My brother had built what he thought was a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick and put it in the middle of the floor.. We had camouflaged ourselves by hiding behind the big orange lazy boy chair recliner and the matching lazy boy rocker that were in the living room. Rusty, had stationed himself behind the recliner on one side of the room, and I, behind the rocker on the other side. Rusty, who is without question the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment.' Every now and then sticking it up over the window sill of the picture window or the one other window in the room that faced the driveway. Mom and Dad had gone to bed what seemed like hours before, leaving us to our own devices. I am not sure how wise that was, but they had done it. We were whispering to each other trying to be quiet so the bunny would not hear us. Of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away at some point. My brother may have been smarter but sometimes he was not very bright(make two dummy). By and by we heard some rustling around outside the window in the snow. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny,( teach him to only make one). Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. Well I do not know about my brother, but I was certainly under the covers. funny thing was, as I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of edible grass and chocolate peanut butter eggs for the night, comfy and secure in the knowledge that Mom and Dad were on patrol.
Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to an extra year or two of believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it ...AND A NECKLACE TOO! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.
Easter was a big deal at my house while we were growing up. It was almost as much fun as Christmas. We always left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. Not knowing what the bunny liked to drink,we tried something different every year. Funny thing was he seemed to drink everything we put with the carrots. Each year we would get a basket with candy toys and cards in it. Every year a new dress, tights, shoes and a little coat or sweater. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. My brother, who did not get a dress, got a new suit with a tie, and shoes. Our coats were always big enough for us to use the following year for winter. I really looked forward to that new outfit every year. I am not going to lie, I liked the candy too. The baskets we kids (there were only the two of us) had on Easter morning were always guaranteed to make us squeal with delight upon waking and seeing them at the end of our beds.
I remember one Easter we had just moved to Maine and to our new home in Orrington. My brother and I, still being young enough to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and all such magical creatures, had decided to wait up for the nighttime visitor. We had each grabbed our blankets off our beds and had camped out under the big picture window in the living room. My brother had built what he thought was a most excellent bunny trap, complete with box, string, and stick and put it in the middle of the floor.. We had camouflaged ourselves by hiding behind the big orange lazy boy chair recliner and the matching lazy boy rocker that were in the living room. Rusty, had stationed himself behind the recliner on one side of the room, and I, behind the rocker on the other side. Rusty, who is without question the smarter one of the two of us, had figured out how to make a periscope of sorts from a cardboard tube and a couple of mirrors, and we were all settled in for the night with all of our 'surveillance equipment.' Every now and then sticking it up over the window sill of the picture window or the one other window in the room that faced the driveway. Mom and Dad had gone to bed what seemed like hours before, leaving us to our own devices. I am not sure how wise that was, but they had done it. We were whispering to each other trying to be quiet so the bunny would not hear us. Of course, the arguement about who got to work the periscope may have given us away at some point. My brother may have been smarter but sometimes he was not very bright(make two dummy). By and by we heard some rustling around outside the window in the snow. I do not know why but we got it in to our heads that it was a robber and not the Easter Bunny,( teach him to only make one). Never saw any two kids move so quickly to their bedrooms, jump in their beds, and pull the covers up over their heads. Well I do not know about my brother, but I was certainly under the covers. funny thing was, as I was almost asleep, I thought I heard whispering and some quiet laughter from my parents' bedroom and I wondered if maybe the Easter Bunny had made it. It was enough to send me off to the land of edible grass and chocolate peanut butter eggs for the night, comfy and secure in the knowledge that Mom and Dad were on patrol.
Looking back I believe, maybe, Mom and Dad got tired of waiting for us to go to bed; so they were hurrying the process along without seeming to have anything at all to do with it. I am quite sure Dad sneaked out the back door, going around the house, crept up the driveway and scratched at the screen window a few times, then did it again, just for good measure. He then sneaked back into the house, waited a few minutes or so, probably about the time it took him to smoke a cigarette. That is all the time it would have taken for Russ and I to fall asleep at that point in the evening. I am not sure when I figured out what Dad had done, but all that sneaking around was most assuredly the reason I hung on to an extra year or two of believing in the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus. I remember waking up the next morning and there being a basket at the foot of my bed with a little candy in it ...AND A NECKLACE TOO! A new dress with tights and shoes, a new coat with matching hat, and a snowy white pair of gloves with a little matching handbag. Hearing my brother hooting in his bedroom, I figured he got something equally as nice.
I have carried on the tradition of squeaking out an extra year or two of belief in holiday magic by allowing my kids to camp out under the Christmas Tree waiting for Santa, or sleeping in the living room next to the plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny. They in turn have carried on the traditions to my grandchildren. I caught my daughter buying bunny feet on sale last year after the season, and she said, "they are getting older Mom, I gotta do something or they will figure it out this year, I think." I paid for the feet. She is carrying on that same tradition started by accident so many decades ago, with the bright idea of waiting up to meet the Easter Bunny, making the children believe for just another year or maybe two, that there is magic and mystery in their world still, along with a new suit and tie or a new dress and tights, shoes, and a new coat that is just a little big with a little matching hat.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
The Paper Route
Traveling. I have always loved to travel. I think there is a bit of Gypsy blood in me somewhere back 10 generations ago or something. My ex-husband has often referred to me as a bloodsucking vampire to the kids so maybe I really am from Romania. My happiest times are on the road to somewhere I have never been. I love the adventure of it all, it is a good thing too, as nothing I ever do is simple. I even took a part-time job traveling all around the county (Piscataquis) and two others to boot; delivering newspapers to area businesses. I look forward to that day all week long. It is my one time of the day when no one can reach me. No one can demand things of me. I get to drive a brand new truck, that someone else has put the gas in, and all I have to do is drop off bundles of papers while I am yakking at people about the weather, politics, how little I know about sports. It seems simple enough, but as I said before,I never do anything simple.
It begins on Tuesday night, when I have to get to bed early. Like at 8 or 9 in the evening, no later really, or I am tired the next morning when there are some long stretches between some of those stops. I am used to staying up until about 10 P.M. so a few hours earlier is rough to try and get to sleep when your body says, "Wait, I am not done yet!" Eventually my brain stomps on my eyelids and drifting off to the land of no bills I go. To be awakened at 3:30 A.M. by my alarm clock which sometimes forgets to go off. I do not really have a whole lot of luck with alarm clocks anyway. I have lived here in town for about 6 years now and this is my third one, the fourth one is going to be here soon, I can tell. Luckily I have a plan B in case my alarm does not go off. That would be Chad.
Chad is the other driver of the truck. He goes up north to the plant up in Presque Isle and picks up the bundles, getting back into Dover around 4:15 in the morning. He is a nice fella and I enjoy our mornings together, such that they are. He is also a volunteer firefighter for our town, is a dishwasher at The Nor'easter Restaurant here in town, and is gay. Chad also has Cerebral Palsy, and I admire his dogged determination to live life no matter what is happening with him physically. I have never heard him complain about his disease, now that I think about it. He is the best front half a person can have on a nightly relay. He calls me every Wednesday morning at 4 to make sure I am awake. Most of the time I am. My body having become accustomed to waking up at 3:30 every Wed. morning now, does so automatically. I usually have the coffee set the night before so I only have to push a button to get it going in the morning as it does not require too many brain cells to do that. I grab a big travel mug, fill it, and run out the door. Since I live about a five minute walk away from the office, I stroll on over there to meet him and take over the truck, the papers, sign for my check, and take him home. I have learned to ask him if he has gotten everything out of the truck because once in awhile he leaves something in the truck and if I do not ask, I will have to turn around and go back, to bring what ever it is he left in the truck back to him.
Once I have the truck and have dropped him with all his stuff off, I head out of town. About a mile down the road, I remember to turn on the radio. I happen to listen to inspirational music and being the mother of teenagers, who prefer what ever that crap is they listen to, this is the time when no one argues with me about what is playing. Chad usually has it set for me when I get in. It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. He likes late seventies disco music, go figure. I usually turn the volume to blow-out-what-is-left-of-my-eardrums level. People can hear me coming shortly before they see my white truck pull into their parking lots. Doesn't bother me and I think God might get a kick out of it as well.
Many mornings on my walk down the street, and my drive out of town I have seen things that maybe need to be looked into a little bit. The other morning Dr. Chasse's back door was left open and I was worried that someone had broken into it. Neither Chad, nor I, could remember the police non-emergency number so we swung over there since it was on the way to Chad's house and knocked on the door. No one answered, so we called the sheriff office instead. Hope everything was all right. I found the window to the WDME office next door shattered one time, that was another call to the police, but they were on top of things that night and had all ready dealt with it.
McDonald's is the last place of business that I pass on my way out of town as I am headed into Sangerville. I have one stop before I get there though and that is where I pull out all the bundles that were stacked in the back nice and neat, until I take a corner on two wheels and send them flying all over the back of the truck. We have a flashlight in the truck because most of the time, we cannot see the labels on the cover papers in the dark. So I grab my flashlight at the first stop that I make and find the next half a dozen stops worth of bundles, bringing them up front, I bag them up. I get to the last one I want and, after reading it, I learn I have just thrown out the wrong bundle to the store that I am at. No problem, I switch the bundles and thank my lucky stars that I have not driven off yet. there have been times that I did not catch it and had to turn around and go back ten fifteen and fifty miles even.
Whilst I am singing along with the radio, and trying to miss the nightly obstacle course of potholes the size of small ponds and dead putrefying animals that litter the road as if a war had gone on (Why do they always seem to be skunks and porcupines?), I think about all the stuff going on in my life in the past week. Like how my teenage son at home is giving me more gray hairs than the other four combined. Worrying about my daughter and how tired she is, the knuckleheaded grandchildren and that zoo that they have over there Nine puppies on the first litter my daughter's dog threw out. Then Mama dog decides she doesn't want to feed them. So to bottle feeding we go. I thought having two babies with bottles was bad! Wow! OH MY GOD!...There goes the turn off for Sangerville, darn it now I have to go around the long way. Man I need more coffee I think to myself. I will get some in Guilford in a bit. I have to really hurry now because my coffee cup is getting a bit empty.
After hitting the next few drop offs, I pull into the A.E. Robinson's in Guilford. It is a pretty big gas station with a garage attached to it. It is actually Irving's now but everyone still calls it Robinson's. Norma works there on my delivery day and is pretty nice, she gives me coffee and the occasional donut. Her warm smile and bellowing, "HEY ! Good Morning! How are you?" never fails to put a smile on my face. I refill my coffee cup here. I like my own cup as it is bigger than the ones that the store has. The newsprint being real fresh has all ready blackened up my fingers, so I give my hands a good wash and head on over to Aunt DeeDee's Restaurant across the street, waving bye to Norma and the smattering of customers, mostly loggers and construction workers, that are there.
Aunt DeeDee's is actually the mother of one of my son's friends that he chummed with while growing up. She is pretty nice. She has the most beautiful window boxes I have ever seen. They must have 10 different kinds of plants and flowers crammed in them. They are full of deep purple petunias, dark green ivy, tiny white alyssum, geraniums(red and white) marigolds, daisies, pansies, all of them in a blanket of color spilling over and flowing all over the ground. Looks rather like the flower fairies threw a party, had too much fun, and threw up all over the front of the building. She is a baker as well, and does a darn good job at it too. Yup I have tasted her donuts, they are really good. Don't know why she does not sell her donuts in Robinson's, hers are better. I bought a cake platter at a yard sale a few weeks ago for a couple dollars. It was beautiful polished stainless steel and heavy crystal cover. Very stately and elegant. I was baking up a storm since I bought the darn thing because it was too pretty to leave empty, and being that I want to lose 15 or twenty...ok seventy pounds, that platter was sabotaging all my best efforts. So I gave it to her in honor of her opening her shop. As well as a bundt pan that I never use. She gives me a slice of cake or a donut when I go in there now. Freaking cake platter still gets the last word in.
I now strap in because I have a long stretch to get to Abbott from Guilford, and by now the radio is not playing songs, it is playing the morning devotional sermons. That is ok with me because I am not so perfect that I cannot use a little preaching. Ever notice how people on the radio are in complete control at oh dark thirty in the morning? I mean the only people up are delivery drivers and cops. Who is going to pull over and try make a call to a pre-taped radio show? Abbott has just a few stops the last one being The Abbott Bakery. They are the makers of the famous 'Skidder Tire Donut'. It is a yeast donut that is about the size of a skidder tire, duh, and for those that do not know how large a skidder tire is, I have seen them made into playhouses for kids. The tires stand about four to five feet in diameter if not larger and the width of the tire is about three feet or more across. I came out of there one morning and since it was the beginning of March and the stairs were iced up; I fell and hit the back of my head on their stairs. I did not sue them however as I really hate paperwork. They give me donuts now in the mornings, often saving me a bag of day old skidder donuts they sell for a drastically reduced price.The elderly lady that works there happens to be the grandmother of the previously mentioned friend of my son's. She and I and DeeDee sat together at our sons' graduation. I was kind of disappointed that they did not bring donuts but that was kind of wishful thinking anyway. Good thing too, as I am on a diet.
After heading out of Abbott I head on north to Monson, that is where Gail works. It is also the starting point or the ending point depending on your perspective, of the Appalachian Trail or a major stopping point I am never really sure. I cannot tell you how many backpack clad hikers I have seen walking up and down the streets of Monson. There is a pay phone on my last stop there. I found a wallet with large sums of cash in it laying on the sidewalk once, and not wanting it to be stolen, I turned it over to the sheriff's office. I called the store up at the same time that the owner of the wallet, who was from away, was there looking for it. He had no car as he had hiked into Monson and wanted me to bring it to him. I almost said it was just a little hike compared to the one he just made, but I refrained. I did not want to make the citizens of Maine look bad. One of the sheriff's took pity and brought it up to him, cash and cards intact.
I head out for Shirley. It will take me awhile and I sit back for the drive, singing my songs and looking out for moose. Moose have got to be the stupidest animals in God's creation. Moose look like something the Creator threw together with all the left over spare parts that He had because He did not want a mess up in Heaven. They are, however, unbelievably large; with the largest of them often weighing well over a ton. I inadvertently raced one, one morning after I had left Monson, headed for Shirley. He had to lower his head to look into my truck driver side window. I still remember seeing the dumb look in his eyes as he was trying to figure out what kind of animal was running next to him making all the racket. Ever see a moose running one way with his head pointed another way? I decided to be merciful and let him win the race. That is as close as I ever want to get to one ever again. The males sometimes cannot tell the difference between a female moose and a human. That is not an exaggeration, it has something to do with the doe pee that hunters put on and overly musky perfume as well. I hear about a different 'attack' every couple of years.
I head to Greenville after I leave Shirley. There are a few stops there and then I turn around and head back to Guilford and from there head into Parkman. Along the way I have a few stops that I stop at to take pictures at various times of the year. I have gotten some really stunning photos of the sunrises, Moosehead Lake and what ever that bog is at the lower end of the lake. The water laps at the road every spring. I wonder what will the people on the far side will do if it ever floods over. I have a certain waterfall that I stop at in the fall because the back drop of stunning colors next to the rushing water is just perfect. this year I swear I am going to get rid of the hose floating around in the bottom of the falls. It ruins my shot every freaking time. Mom likes that picture of the falls. I send her a new one every year. there are some spots along this stretch of the drive that offer some stunning photo opportunities around sunrise, weather beaten old farmhouses standing alone in the fields, fog blanketing the fields, various wild animals eating in the fields, crossing the roads, thinking about crossing the roads. I laugh everytime I pass one rather new cluttered up house. I once saw a red fox mother barely more than a kit herself carrying a dead rabbit down the road, I assume back to her litter of kits. She trotted just as proudly as she could tripping over the damn rabbit the whole way. The guys at Jamieson's Pizza Shop, located in the town, laughed when I told them what I had seen. Said that they knew of her. They had been watching her since she was orphaned real young; not to hunt her, but they were rooting for her to survive. They admired her gumption and her courage. It was even mentioned about leaving fresh kill by the den to help her out when she birthed her litter. I sincerely hope she stays away from chickens, ducks, and geese. Her reprieve would then be over. those grizzled old hunters tickle me to listen to their wild stories. I plop a paper in front of Harris's Drug store and it is my last stop before heading back out of town. Harris's looks like an old five and dime and in fact I think it was. I have never been in there but I have heard there is still the old counter where you can order an ice cream soda. I keep meaning to find out.
The drive to Parkman is about forty minutes or so in which time I am thinking about my grocery list, how much homework I have to do, and if there is a way I could study and drive without killing someone. I crashed the truck once at the top of the hill just out of Greenville proper. I hit some black ice and the last thing I saw was a log truck, down the road a piece, barreling towards me. I got my truck turned around and headed back to town in the nick of time, pulled in the first parking lot I came to, and called Jeanette, the office manager, at home because I could not remember what I was supposed to do. Jeanette, who upon answering the phone, told me to, "call the police, dummy." In my defense I had hit my head and all I could think about was how I was going to get fired. Chad had come in that morning from up north and said how this was the last run with this truck. We were getting a new one and this was being traded in. Apparently as I totaled the truck, the boss got more on the pay out than he would have for trade in value. He was happy enough I guess. I still have my job so maybe. I blame Chad, he jinxed me.
Parkman is usually where my bladder lets me know that I have had quite a bit of coffee by now. I also have to wash my blackened fingers again. It makes me wonder because I have to wash my hands to go to the bathroom, then I have to wash my hands again. There is a brand new country store there that sits upon the place where and old one burned down. It is the kind of country store where all the old men in town gather in the mornings to sit and share stories of glory days gone by. A few of these old men have lived in this same town all their lives, and grown up together. They know each others stories better than the tellers of them do. I often wish I had a tape recorder so I can record these stories. The men are funny, charming, and quite the rascals sometimes. They are the remnants of an era, I can can only dream about and barely remember the last vestiges of myself.
I wave good bye and with a friendly, "Have a good day!" to the room at large, I leave Parkman and wind my way in through Cambridge and out towards Harmony. Cambridge is beautiful for a small town. The center of town is an s-curve that has steep little knolls at both ends of it. Recently a log truck missed the corner and plowed into the side of the only store in town that sits in the middle of that set of curves. There is a spot just outside of Cambridge as one is headed to Harmony, where there is a picture post card shot of a very large hill on a lake's edge. There are always geese and ducks on the lake in the fall, on their way south. I have gotten some great shots of that too. I love to get shots of the geese swimming across the lake and leaving little trails in the water behind them. I always dream about starting my own post card business, then I think about the trouble the post office is in and I put that dream away. Snail mail is a thing of the past, sadly.
Harmony is a small town down the road ten or twelve miles or so. One of the town managers got it in their head that putting in a turn-around on that stretch of nothing was a good idea. Everyone else is having trouble figuring out why, but the town went ahead and ok'd it. I think it is a waste of money everytime I see it.
further on down is the Lakes Family heating oil business. Sad affair that one, he got upset with her for leaving him and for one reason or another shot his ex and their two kids then himself. My eyes fill up everytime I pass the place because of the stupid waste of life.Harmony has a free fair and they like to think that they can compete with the County Fair in Dover. They are constantly taking down the County Fair's posters, and putting up their own. It aggravates me since I am the one who put the County Fair's signs up to begin with. Someday I am going to return the favor in a big way.
From then on it is up a hill down a hill with a blind corner thrown in there between them for good measure. It is not too bad in the summer but the winter is some real white knuckle driving. My truck is modified with an extra leaf spring to compensate for the full load of the papers. By the time I receive the truck to do my route the weight is substantially less, so the back end of my truck gets a little bouncy. In the winter when I hit frost heaves, potholes, and what not, it is difficult to control the truck sometimes as the back end has a tendency to fish tail and it threatens to spin out. I have taken some of those hills at about fifteen miles an hour due to snow and ice but thanks to studded snow tires, I can get up the hills ok, albeit slowly. It is about twenty five minutes on that stretch in the summer, and in the winter I have taken upwards of an hour. When we have fall mornings it is stunning to look down across the mountains and see the vivid colors splashed all over the mountain side against the back drops of green pine trees and deep blue azure skies. I came down across that stretch my first winter of driving and was blocked by a milk truck stuck in the snow across the road. I had a bag or three of sand in the back, and a shovel. I wanted to help the guy out more but I was just in his way. By and by the farmer came along with his very large tractor and pulled him out. In the mean time I handed out papers to the cars that were backing up and we all had a good discussion about the state of affairs, how the guy got that way, and where we were all going to. I have kept extras in the truck since then, just for that reason. I come into Dexter at about 7:30 A.M. or so. the business are starting to open up, school buses on the road, and people. I have to really hurry now as my coffee is empty again, and I make my stops so I can get to Noah's Landing. There is a bakery there that all though not as good as the ones on the front half of my journey, is pretty good for the back half. Sometimes they give me a donut and a small coffee on stormy days. I am always grateful. Rite aid is the last stop and if it is before 8 A.M. then I know that I am on time for the rest of my drive to Newport.
I stop at P and L Groceries which is the last big bundle of the day, the rest are small and doubled over. My drive is well past half over and now thoughts of home are percolating through my mind. Home and my son, and school and wishing I had only taken five classes and not six as I am not giving any of them the attention they deserve. But I step on it and hit the three stops in Newport, the third one being Irving's, which is right next to Dunkin' Donuts. I usually pull through there and get a coffee, they know the truck now and sometimes throw in a couple of munchkins with it. I slide them a paper for their lunch room in return. The last stop out of town is dropping off the advertizing free copies at Varney's. I always I wonder if it is Brent Varney that owns it.
I see a lot of police on the next stretch so I buckle up and head for Dexter, just as fast as the law will allow. About half way to Dexter, I call my daughter on the company cell phone and yak my way through a couple of towns. On the Dexter side of Dover, I stop at the Log Cabin and they usually have something for me to test out. I am a guinea pig to them. I do not care; they have the best bread this side of Dover. I leave and head over to Garland, drop off the final two bundles and head home. Garland store is always trying to tempt me with their double chocolate cheesecake muffins. Oh wow! Some days I forget I am on a diet and buy one. They are so freaking good. Home awaits, and with it the final paperwork, the cleaning out the truck, and dropping off the cell phone. I elect to walk home, mostly because I am trying to lose weight and the fresh air and exercise will do me some good. It is just about lunchtime and I need to eat something healthy for a change.
It begins on Tuesday night, when I have to get to bed early. Like at 8 or 9 in the evening, no later really, or I am tired the next morning when there are some long stretches between some of those stops. I am used to staying up until about 10 P.M. so a few hours earlier is rough to try and get to sleep when your body says, "Wait, I am not done yet!" Eventually my brain stomps on my eyelids and drifting off to the land of no bills I go. To be awakened at 3:30 A.M. by my alarm clock which sometimes forgets to go off. I do not really have a whole lot of luck with alarm clocks anyway. I have lived here in town for about 6 years now and this is my third one, the fourth one is going to be here soon, I can tell. Luckily I have a plan B in case my alarm does not go off. That would be Chad.
Chad is the other driver of the truck. He goes up north to the plant up in Presque Isle and picks up the bundles, getting back into Dover around 4:15 in the morning. He is a nice fella and I enjoy our mornings together, such that they are. He is also a volunteer firefighter for our town, is a dishwasher at The Nor'easter Restaurant here in town, and is gay. Chad also has Cerebral Palsy, and I admire his dogged determination to live life no matter what is happening with him physically. I have never heard him complain about his disease, now that I think about it. He is the best front half a person can have on a nightly relay. He calls me every Wednesday morning at 4 to make sure I am awake. Most of the time I am. My body having become accustomed to waking up at 3:30 every Wed. morning now, does so automatically. I usually have the coffee set the night before so I only have to push a button to get it going in the morning as it does not require too many brain cells to do that. I grab a big travel mug, fill it, and run out the door. Since I live about a five minute walk away from the office, I stroll on over there to meet him and take over the truck, the papers, sign for my check, and take him home. I have learned to ask him if he has gotten everything out of the truck because once in awhile he leaves something in the truck and if I do not ask, I will have to turn around and go back, to bring what ever it is he left in the truck back to him.
Once I have the truck and have dropped him with all his stuff off, I head out of town. About a mile down the road, I remember to turn on the radio. I happen to listen to inspirational music and being the mother of teenagers, who prefer what ever that crap is they listen to, this is the time when no one argues with me about what is playing. Chad usually has it set for me when I get in. It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. He likes late seventies disco music, go figure. I usually turn the volume to blow-out-what-is-left-of-my-eardrums level. People can hear me coming shortly before they see my white truck pull into their parking lots. Doesn't bother me and I think God might get a kick out of it as well.
Many mornings on my walk down the street, and my drive out of town I have seen things that maybe need to be looked into a little bit. The other morning Dr. Chasse's back door was left open and I was worried that someone had broken into it. Neither Chad, nor I, could remember the police non-emergency number so we swung over there since it was on the way to Chad's house and knocked on the door. No one answered, so we called the sheriff office instead. Hope everything was all right. I found the window to the WDME office next door shattered one time, that was another call to the police, but they were on top of things that night and had all ready dealt with it.
McDonald's is the last place of business that I pass on my way out of town as I am headed into Sangerville. I have one stop before I get there though and that is where I pull out all the bundles that were stacked in the back nice and neat, until I take a corner on two wheels and send them flying all over the back of the truck. We have a flashlight in the truck because most of the time, we cannot see the labels on the cover papers in the dark. So I grab my flashlight at the first stop that I make and find the next half a dozen stops worth of bundles, bringing them up front, I bag them up. I get to the last one I want and, after reading it, I learn I have just thrown out the wrong bundle to the store that I am at. No problem, I switch the bundles and thank my lucky stars that I have not driven off yet. there have been times that I did not catch it and had to turn around and go back ten fifteen and fifty miles even.
Whilst I am singing along with the radio, and trying to miss the nightly obstacle course of potholes the size of small ponds and dead putrefying animals that litter the road as if a war had gone on (Why do they always seem to be skunks and porcupines?), I think about all the stuff going on in my life in the past week. Like how my teenage son at home is giving me more gray hairs than the other four combined. Worrying about my daughter and how tired she is, the knuckleheaded grandchildren and that zoo that they have over there Nine puppies on the first litter my daughter's dog threw out. Then Mama dog decides she doesn't want to feed them. So to bottle feeding we go. I thought having two babies with bottles was bad! Wow! OH MY GOD!...There goes the turn off for Sangerville, darn it now I have to go around the long way. Man I need more coffee I think to myself. I will get some in Guilford in a bit. I have to really hurry now because my coffee cup is getting a bit empty.
After hitting the next few drop offs, I pull into the A.E. Robinson's in Guilford. It is a pretty big gas station with a garage attached to it. It is actually Irving's now but everyone still calls it Robinson's. Norma works there on my delivery day and is pretty nice, she gives me coffee and the occasional donut. Her warm smile and bellowing, "HEY ! Good Morning! How are you?" never fails to put a smile on my face. I refill my coffee cup here. I like my own cup as it is bigger than the ones that the store has. The newsprint being real fresh has all ready blackened up my fingers, so I give my hands a good wash and head on over to Aunt DeeDee's Restaurant across the street, waving bye to Norma and the smattering of customers, mostly loggers and construction workers, that are there.
Aunt DeeDee's is actually the mother of one of my son's friends that he chummed with while growing up. She is pretty nice. She has the most beautiful window boxes I have ever seen. They must have 10 different kinds of plants and flowers crammed in them. They are full of deep purple petunias, dark green ivy, tiny white alyssum, geraniums(red and white) marigolds, daisies, pansies, all of them in a blanket of color spilling over and flowing all over the ground. Looks rather like the flower fairies threw a party, had too much fun, and threw up all over the front of the building. She is a baker as well, and does a darn good job at it too. Yup I have tasted her donuts, they are really good. Don't know why she does not sell her donuts in Robinson's, hers are better. I bought a cake platter at a yard sale a few weeks ago for a couple dollars. It was beautiful polished stainless steel and heavy crystal cover. Very stately and elegant. I was baking up a storm since I bought the darn thing because it was too pretty to leave empty, and being that I want to lose 15 or twenty...ok seventy pounds, that platter was sabotaging all my best efforts. So I gave it to her in honor of her opening her shop. As well as a bundt pan that I never use. She gives me a slice of cake or a donut when I go in there now. Freaking cake platter still gets the last word in.
I now strap in because I have a long stretch to get to Abbott from Guilford, and by now the radio is not playing songs, it is playing the morning devotional sermons. That is ok with me because I am not so perfect that I cannot use a little preaching. Ever notice how people on the radio are in complete control at oh dark thirty in the morning? I mean the only people up are delivery drivers and cops. Who is going to pull over and try make a call to a pre-taped radio show? Abbott has just a few stops the last one being The Abbott Bakery. They are the makers of the famous 'Skidder Tire Donut'. It is a yeast donut that is about the size of a skidder tire, duh, and for those that do not know how large a skidder tire is, I have seen them made into playhouses for kids. The tires stand about four to five feet in diameter if not larger and the width of the tire is about three feet or more across. I came out of there one morning and since it was the beginning of March and the stairs were iced up; I fell and hit the back of my head on their stairs. I did not sue them however as I really hate paperwork. They give me donuts now in the mornings, often saving me a bag of day old skidder donuts they sell for a drastically reduced price.The elderly lady that works there happens to be the grandmother of the previously mentioned friend of my son's. She and I and DeeDee sat together at our sons' graduation. I was kind of disappointed that they did not bring donuts but that was kind of wishful thinking anyway. Good thing too, as I am on a diet.
After heading out of Abbott I head on north to Monson, that is where Gail works. It is also the starting point or the ending point depending on your perspective, of the Appalachian Trail or a major stopping point I am never really sure. I cannot tell you how many backpack clad hikers I have seen walking up and down the streets of Monson. There is a pay phone on my last stop there. I found a wallet with large sums of cash in it laying on the sidewalk once, and not wanting it to be stolen, I turned it over to the sheriff's office. I called the store up at the same time that the owner of the wallet, who was from away, was there looking for it. He had no car as he had hiked into Monson and wanted me to bring it to him. I almost said it was just a little hike compared to the one he just made, but I refrained. I did not want to make the citizens of Maine look bad. One of the sheriff's took pity and brought it up to him, cash and cards intact.
I head out for Shirley. It will take me awhile and I sit back for the drive, singing my songs and looking out for moose. Moose have got to be the stupidest animals in God's creation. Moose look like something the Creator threw together with all the left over spare parts that He had because He did not want a mess up in Heaven. They are, however, unbelievably large; with the largest of them often weighing well over a ton. I inadvertently raced one, one morning after I had left Monson, headed for Shirley. He had to lower his head to look into my truck driver side window. I still remember seeing the dumb look in his eyes as he was trying to figure out what kind of animal was running next to him making all the racket. Ever see a moose running one way with his head pointed another way? I decided to be merciful and let him win the race. That is as close as I ever want to get to one ever again. The males sometimes cannot tell the difference between a female moose and a human. That is not an exaggeration, it has something to do with the doe pee that hunters put on and overly musky perfume as well. I hear about a different 'attack' every couple of years.
I head to Greenville after I leave Shirley. There are a few stops there and then I turn around and head back to Guilford and from there head into Parkman. Along the way I have a few stops that I stop at to take pictures at various times of the year. I have gotten some really stunning photos of the sunrises, Moosehead Lake and what ever that bog is at the lower end of the lake. The water laps at the road every spring. I wonder what will the people on the far side will do if it ever floods over. I have a certain waterfall that I stop at in the fall because the back drop of stunning colors next to the rushing water is just perfect. this year I swear I am going to get rid of the hose floating around in the bottom of the falls. It ruins my shot every freaking time. Mom likes that picture of the falls. I send her a new one every year. there are some spots along this stretch of the drive that offer some stunning photo opportunities around sunrise, weather beaten old farmhouses standing alone in the fields, fog blanketing the fields, various wild animals eating in the fields, crossing the roads, thinking about crossing the roads. I laugh everytime I pass one rather new cluttered up house. I once saw a red fox mother barely more than a kit herself carrying a dead rabbit down the road, I assume back to her litter of kits. She trotted just as proudly as she could tripping over the damn rabbit the whole way. The guys at Jamieson's Pizza Shop, located in the town, laughed when I told them what I had seen. Said that they knew of her. They had been watching her since she was orphaned real young; not to hunt her, but they were rooting for her to survive. They admired her gumption and her courage. It was even mentioned about leaving fresh kill by the den to help her out when she birthed her litter. I sincerely hope she stays away from chickens, ducks, and geese. Her reprieve would then be over. those grizzled old hunters tickle me to listen to their wild stories. I plop a paper in front of Harris's Drug store and it is my last stop before heading back out of town. Harris's looks like an old five and dime and in fact I think it was. I have never been in there but I have heard there is still the old counter where you can order an ice cream soda. I keep meaning to find out.
The drive to Parkman is about forty minutes or so in which time I am thinking about my grocery list, how much homework I have to do, and if there is a way I could study and drive without killing someone. I crashed the truck once at the top of the hill just out of Greenville proper. I hit some black ice and the last thing I saw was a log truck, down the road a piece, barreling towards me. I got my truck turned around and headed back to town in the nick of time, pulled in the first parking lot I came to, and called Jeanette, the office manager, at home because I could not remember what I was supposed to do. Jeanette, who upon answering the phone, told me to, "call the police, dummy." In my defense I had hit my head and all I could think about was how I was going to get fired. Chad had come in that morning from up north and said how this was the last run with this truck. We were getting a new one and this was being traded in. Apparently as I totaled the truck, the boss got more on the pay out than he would have for trade in value. He was happy enough I guess. I still have my job so maybe. I blame Chad, he jinxed me.
Parkman is usually where my bladder lets me know that I have had quite a bit of coffee by now. I also have to wash my blackened fingers again. It makes me wonder because I have to wash my hands to go to the bathroom, then I have to wash my hands again. There is a brand new country store there that sits upon the place where and old one burned down. It is the kind of country store where all the old men in town gather in the mornings to sit and share stories of glory days gone by. A few of these old men have lived in this same town all their lives, and grown up together. They know each others stories better than the tellers of them do. I often wish I had a tape recorder so I can record these stories. The men are funny, charming, and quite the rascals sometimes. They are the remnants of an era, I can can only dream about and barely remember the last vestiges of myself.
I wave good bye and with a friendly, "Have a good day!" to the room at large, I leave Parkman and wind my way in through Cambridge and out towards Harmony. Cambridge is beautiful for a small town. The center of town is an s-curve that has steep little knolls at both ends of it. Recently a log truck missed the corner and plowed into the side of the only store in town that sits in the middle of that set of curves. There is a spot just outside of Cambridge as one is headed to Harmony, where there is a picture post card shot of a very large hill on a lake's edge. There are always geese and ducks on the lake in the fall, on their way south. I have gotten some great shots of that too. I love to get shots of the geese swimming across the lake and leaving little trails in the water behind them. I always dream about starting my own post card business, then I think about the trouble the post office is in and I put that dream away. Snail mail is a thing of the past, sadly.
Harmony is a small town down the road ten or twelve miles or so. One of the town managers got it in their head that putting in a turn-around on that stretch of nothing was a good idea. Everyone else is having trouble figuring out why, but the town went ahead and ok'd it. I think it is a waste of money everytime I see it.
further on down is the Lakes Family heating oil business. Sad affair that one, he got upset with her for leaving him and for one reason or another shot his ex and their two kids then himself. My eyes fill up everytime I pass the place because of the stupid waste of life.Harmony has a free fair and they like to think that they can compete with the County Fair in Dover. They are constantly taking down the County Fair's posters, and putting up their own. It aggravates me since I am the one who put the County Fair's signs up to begin with. Someday I am going to return the favor in a big way.
From then on it is up a hill down a hill with a blind corner thrown in there between them for good measure. It is not too bad in the summer but the winter is some real white knuckle driving. My truck is modified with an extra leaf spring to compensate for the full load of the papers. By the time I receive the truck to do my route the weight is substantially less, so the back end of my truck gets a little bouncy. In the winter when I hit frost heaves, potholes, and what not, it is difficult to control the truck sometimes as the back end has a tendency to fish tail and it threatens to spin out. I have taken some of those hills at about fifteen miles an hour due to snow and ice but thanks to studded snow tires, I can get up the hills ok, albeit slowly. It is about twenty five minutes on that stretch in the summer, and in the winter I have taken upwards of an hour. When we have fall mornings it is stunning to look down across the mountains and see the vivid colors splashed all over the mountain side against the back drops of green pine trees and deep blue azure skies. I came down across that stretch my first winter of driving and was blocked by a milk truck stuck in the snow across the road. I had a bag or three of sand in the back, and a shovel. I wanted to help the guy out more but I was just in his way. By and by the farmer came along with his very large tractor and pulled him out. In the mean time I handed out papers to the cars that were backing up and we all had a good discussion about the state of affairs, how the guy got that way, and where we were all going to. I have kept extras in the truck since then, just for that reason. I come into Dexter at about 7:30 A.M. or so. the business are starting to open up, school buses on the road, and people. I have to really hurry now as my coffee is empty again, and I make my stops so I can get to Noah's Landing. There is a bakery there that all though not as good as the ones on the front half of my journey, is pretty good for the back half. Sometimes they give me a donut and a small coffee on stormy days. I am always grateful. Rite aid is the last stop and if it is before 8 A.M. then I know that I am on time for the rest of my drive to Newport.
I stop at P and L Groceries which is the last big bundle of the day, the rest are small and doubled over. My drive is well past half over and now thoughts of home are percolating through my mind. Home and my son, and school and wishing I had only taken five classes and not six as I am not giving any of them the attention they deserve. But I step on it and hit the three stops in Newport, the third one being Irving's, which is right next to Dunkin' Donuts. I usually pull through there and get a coffee, they know the truck now and sometimes throw in a couple of munchkins with it. I slide them a paper for their lunch room in return. The last stop out of town is dropping off the advertizing free copies at Varney's. I always I wonder if it is Brent Varney that owns it.
I see a lot of police on the next stretch so I buckle up and head for Dexter, just as fast as the law will allow. About half way to Dexter, I call my daughter on the company cell phone and yak my way through a couple of towns. On the Dexter side of Dover, I stop at the Log Cabin and they usually have something for me to test out. I am a guinea pig to them. I do not care; they have the best bread this side of Dover. I leave and head over to Garland, drop off the final two bundles and head home. Garland store is always trying to tempt me with their double chocolate cheesecake muffins. Oh wow! Some days I forget I am on a diet and buy one. They are so freaking good. Home awaits, and with it the final paperwork, the cleaning out the truck, and dropping off the cell phone. I elect to walk home, mostly because I am trying to lose weight and the fresh air and exercise will do me some good. It is just about lunchtime and I need to eat something healthy for a change.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
traveling
The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me.
Or is it? What would be the point of living on a street if it wasn’t heaven? Right now my street is cold, white, and full of snow. It is beautiful but it is not heaven. I live on a one way street that is always seems to be going the wrong way. There is one neighbor next door. Although not a bad neighbor, I have no delusions of us having neighborly barbeques. He is a flatlander and has been here barely a year. There is a group home across the street from him. The residents there are good people but I have no illusions about what kind of neighbors they are and I won’t be borrowing a cup of sugar from them either. Next to the group home, there is a small street that has a name but nothing on it. Not one house or business. I can’t figure out why they named the street. If you cross the street there is the back side of a string of churches, one of which is mine. The other church is the one where all the mothers-to-be get their WIC vouchers. The police station used to be there as well located between the two churches. The town has grown despite Augusta’s best efforts to stop it and we had to move the police station down the street to a larger building. A counseling center is there now. It’s pretty busy usually. I am not sure that is a good thing. Across from the dirt parking lot which services all three buildings, there are a few old, white, multi-family homes. The families come and go as their financial situations dictate. They get crabby when the overflow from the two churches park in their driveways. Ask me how I know that.
As I continue on down the street I come up on a B & B that is called the Freedom House. I never see anyone there though. They must really be free. The owners got motivated and decided to paint the house yellow. Some of the neighbors are probably still in shock. As I walk along I wave and I chit chat with them all, even though I do not know their names, I try to be neighborly. Across from the Freedom House is a little secondhand gift shop that sells odds and ends. I believe the lady of the house may be an alternative religion as there are an awful lot of references to the Goddess on her minivan. I don’t ask though because it really isn’t my business.
I come next to a very large misshapen parking lot which services the strip mall which fronts the Main Street and has the river on the other side of it. The parking lot winds around and comes out between the Center Theater and the chiropractor’s office. The Center Theater has been there for a long time and was even closed down for a period of time until some enterprising people came along and raised the money to renovate it. Every weekend there is some kind of concert, movie, or play going on there. Friday night the cars line up along the side of the road with patrons who don’t want to walk the distance from the parking lot.
Next to the theater is Mr. Paperback Bookstore. The sidewalk in front of it is all cracked and uneven. They never have the books I want.
Then comes the radio station office which always makes me wonder because every couple of years it changes its format. Right now it is a liberal talk show format. My county is the only Republican county in the state and I can’t imagine they are making too much money from sponsors. Maybe the owners like a challenge.
As I walk on, I pass by the Observer, where I work and I see all my coworkers busy at work. I wave and mouth the words, “Hi Guys.” I continue on down the street and pass over the bridge out of habit looking over the edge. I see where the people from some long ago forgotten construction job tossed their debris over the side into the water. I guess it was cheaper than taking it to the dump. I am now in the center of town and can go northwest on to “Greenville," which is even smaller than Dover. I can go north to Canada although why I would want to do that escapes me. I can go south to Bangor and a place where there is lights, stores, and people; enough people to lose yourself in the crowd, or make your own crowd, if you choose. Not like here, where if I sneeze then my neighbor friend comes down the road, bringing me tissues. For now I am here, but tomorrow…I can go anywhere I please.
Or is it? What would be the point of living on a street if it wasn’t heaven? Right now my street is cold, white, and full of snow. It is beautiful but it is not heaven. I live on a one way street that is always seems to be going the wrong way. There is one neighbor next door. Although not a bad neighbor, I have no delusions of us having neighborly barbeques. He is a flatlander and has been here barely a year. There is a group home across the street from him. The residents there are good people but I have no illusions about what kind of neighbors they are and I won’t be borrowing a cup of sugar from them either. Next to the group home, there is a small street that has a name but nothing on it. Not one house or business. I can’t figure out why they named the street. If you cross the street there is the back side of a string of churches, one of which is mine. The other church is the one where all the mothers-to-be get their WIC vouchers. The police station used to be there as well located between the two churches. The town has grown despite Augusta’s best efforts to stop it and we had to move the police station down the street to a larger building. A counseling center is there now. It’s pretty busy usually. I am not sure that is a good thing. Across from the dirt parking lot which services all three buildings, there are a few old, white, multi-family homes. The families come and go as their financial situations dictate. They get crabby when the overflow from the two churches park in their driveways. Ask me how I know that.
As I continue on down the street I come up on a B & B that is called the Freedom House. I never see anyone there though. They must really be free. The owners got motivated and decided to paint the house yellow. Some of the neighbors are probably still in shock. As I walk along I wave and I chit chat with them all, even though I do not know their names, I try to be neighborly. Across from the Freedom House is a little secondhand gift shop that sells odds and ends. I believe the lady of the house may be an alternative religion as there are an awful lot of references to the Goddess on her minivan. I don’t ask though because it really isn’t my business.
I come next to a very large misshapen parking lot which services the strip mall which fronts the Main Street and has the river on the other side of it. The parking lot winds around and comes out between the Center Theater and the chiropractor’s office. The Center Theater has been there for a long time and was even closed down for a period of time until some enterprising people came along and raised the money to renovate it. Every weekend there is some kind of concert, movie, or play going on there. Friday night the cars line up along the side of the road with patrons who don’t want to walk the distance from the parking lot.
Next to the theater is Mr. Paperback Bookstore. The sidewalk in front of it is all cracked and uneven. They never have the books I want.
Then comes the radio station office which always makes me wonder because every couple of years it changes its format. Right now it is a liberal talk show format. My county is the only Republican county in the state and I can’t imagine they are making too much money from sponsors. Maybe the owners like a challenge.
As I walk on, I pass by the Observer, where I work and I see all my coworkers busy at work. I wave and mouth the words, “Hi Guys.” I continue on down the street and pass over the bridge out of habit looking over the edge. I see where the people from some long ago forgotten construction job tossed their debris over the side into the water. I guess it was cheaper than taking it to the dump. I am now in the center of town and can go northwest on to “Greenville," which is even smaller than Dover. I can go north to Canada although why I would want to do that escapes me. I can go south to Bangor and a place where there is lights, stores, and people; enough people to lose yourself in the crowd, or make your own crowd, if you choose. Not like here, where if I sneeze then my neighbor friend comes down the road, bringing me tissues. For now I am here, but tomorrow…I can go anywhere I please.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The View From My Window...version something final
The river today is muddy and brown. The froth, peppering its roiling surface, is evidence of the chaos below. It is rushing on its way to where ever the Creator intended for it to flow today. A late summer storm having dumped several inches of rain on us in these the last couple of days, has made the river swollen and angry, seething. Sitting here at my kitchen table, gazing out of my window into the fading light of the day, I wonder at the myriad sorts of critters, swimming in its depths, fighting the currents that are carrying them willy-nilly where ever the river wants to take them. I am mesmerized by the sight of the river and all its movement, and find that spans of time have passed while I have not thought a thought, nor dreamed a dream. I come back to the now and see the trees on the riverbanks, which I can see from my window, are calm and still, waiting for the next breeze to whisper through their outstretched arms.
Watching the leaves, I am again mesmerized by the dance that they are putting on for me. Here a dip, there a turn, bowing to their many partners; then dancing away, gently swirling, and whirling, to a music that only they can hear, carried to them by the winds blowing through their midst. The speckles of fading sunlight that are showing here and there gloriously costuming them in today's fading light. Their dance ever changing and ever evolving, perfectly choreographed by nature in an intense and rhythmical pattern only known to God.
The sun has gone down now, and with its dropping, the rain has started, as if by some unseen lever that is holding its balance with the weight of the sun, it opens up a flood gate from the heavens, allowing them to empty their rivers into my own. Valiantly battling the darkness all around it, is a watery light spilling from my kitchen window, which I have left open so I can see and hear the sounds of the rain on this night; for it is a peaceful and soothing balm to the stresses of my day. I have found it is my own private method for relaxing and getting myself back together, I don't even mind sharing it with someone as it all begins outside, with the view from my window.
Watching the leaves, I am again mesmerized by the dance that they are putting on for me. Here a dip, there a turn, bowing to their many partners; then dancing away, gently swirling, and whirling, to a music that only they can hear, carried to them by the winds blowing through their midst. The speckles of fading sunlight that are showing here and there gloriously costuming them in today's fading light. Their dance ever changing and ever evolving, perfectly choreographed by nature in an intense and rhythmical pattern only known to God.
The sun has gone down now, and with its dropping, the rain has started, as if by some unseen lever that is holding its balance with the weight of the sun, it opens up a flood gate from the heavens, allowing them to empty their rivers into my own. Valiantly battling the darkness all around it, is a watery light spilling from my kitchen window, which I have left open so I can see and hear the sounds of the rain on this night; for it is a peaceful and soothing balm to the stresses of my day. I have found it is my own private method for relaxing and getting myself back together, I don't even mind sharing it with someone as it all begins outside, with the view from my window.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The Crapper...version2
We all have these stories about our lives that, while the retelling of them usually causes everyone else to laugh, we do not find them so amusing. While time does heal all wounds somewhat, it does nothing to heal our dignity, after the happening of one of these 'adventures'. Who hasn’t heard about the eating the dog/cat food, the three year old peeing in some public place he was not supposed to, or the first day of school when so and so cut her hair to get ready? The list could go on, with each little story becoming more colorful with each telling. At family gatherings we all try to make somebody else's embarrassing dilemma funnier than the ones we were involved in, until finally only a chosen few of the best of these stories are remembered at all future family gatherings, garnering the honorable title of, ‘The Family Legend.’ We, each and every one of us have our very own family legends that we try to forget about. Rare indeed is the person who sadly, is not a part of some outrageous family foible.
I have many of my own stories that I was a part of, and can still hear my mother laughing at some tale she tells of my brother and I as children. Time is no gentler to my children, and one day my youngest son and I got on the subject of embarrassing family stories and he proceeded to tell me his rendition of ...'The Incident.' “I was only four years old when Grandma Lee stopped in to visit on her way down from Maine to Florida. It was spring and we were living in North Carolina at the time. “
"Do you know I shudder when I hear those dreaded words, for I know what is coming," my son says. "My dignity can only stand the telling of the story no more than once a decade…maybe. I am afraid of bringing my friends around my sister because she is mean and brings it up when I would rather that she forgot the whole thing forever. I cannot help it if I picked that age in my life to be curious about where babies came from. Mom,' he says, sadly shaking his head, "you should have known better than to describe birthing pains as 'that feeling you get when you have to go 'number two' really, awfully, bad,' I understood that explanation only too well."
"My grandmother even brought it up on our visit to Florida when I was thirteen. You haven’t lived until you have had a whole restaurant full of your grandmother’s nearest and dearest senior citizen friends find out that you had a problem with constipation when you were just a little guy," and at this point he stopped and looked at me, "Why do old people seem to be so fascinated with bowel movements?" Not giving me the time to answer he carries on with his story, "I couldn't help it if the straining of being constipated reminded me of that explanation you had given a few days before, and who can blame me for being scared? Sometimes constipation can be a scary thing"
" I actually remember the panic I felt in my little heart as I figured that maybe I was not just going to the bathroom, and feared that something horrible was going to happen to me, by now my son was up and pacing around the room, "I thought I was being quite brave and didn't realize you guys heard me in the other end of the house."
"The neighbor next door also heard you as well," I interjected at this point.
"The bathroom," he continued after looking at me, "had a harsh yellow light and my little legs dangled over the edge of the toilet seat. I remember looking all around me and up at the ceiling, which seemed so high up over my head. I could not hear anyone in my end of the house. It felt as if I was the only person on the whole planet, and this awful thing was happening to me."
"Suddenly, there was my hero, the center of my world, she who made everything right..my Mom. You had heard me after all. You had this look of total concern on your face and I could hear it in your voice also as you asked me, repeatedly, “Why are you crying,?"
"I remember it was like a dam bursting amidst a torrential downpour, the words spilling from me, 'I THINK I'M HAVING A BABY AND I DON’T WANT ONE!!!!' Once the words were out, I knew that you would make everything OK again. You would get rid of this problem and everything would be all right. I started to settle in to a good screaming fit because I was really scared and my belly hurt so bad."
"Then I heard a funny gurgling, choking sound, coming from the hallway. I realized then, that it was you and, unbelievably, my grandmother. Having the both of you there to help me would make everything better faster. No sooner had the thought occurred, then you came back into the room, the picture of a loving and concerned parent, asking me why I thought I was having a baby.
“Because I have to poop, really, really bad and it hurts something awful,” was my reply, "You said having a baby was like that. You said it when I asked you about where babies come from. I can’t poop, but I have to and it hurts so bad just like you said having a baby does. I don’t wanna have a baby.” I remember the words continuing to spill from me in between great shuddering sobs, along with panic, and tears. I finally open my eyes taking a look at you; that is when I realize you were laughing."
"Oh, I could see how you were trying not to," he waggled his finger at me, "that is where the choking noises were coming from. I could hear Grandma Lee outside the door too, she wasn't even trying to hide it like you were," he stated with some agitation.
"I am in there hollering that I do not want to have a baby and telling you that it really was not funny, and all you guys can do is laugh. The cramps from my bowels were doubling me over on the toilet still, and then there was the indignity of it all, because by now my brother and sister were out in the hallway wanting to know what was going on. So were the kids from next door who always came over to play with us and you just had to tell them. I could hear everybody laughing and that was making everything worse."
"'You can’t be having a baby. It’s not possible,' was all you kept saying, and you were outright laughing by this point. 'Calm down, I promise you aren’t having a baby,'”
"Do you know, that I remember thinking, 'How does she know?" At this point I tried to answer his question, but he was on quite a roll by now in his story-telling. "That is when I started to calm down," he went on, "I figured if you were laughing then it was not anything to be afraid of; the fact you kept on laughing though became quite humiliating.
"You sounded awfully sure of yourself. You and Grandma Lee were still laughing...a lot. Grandma Lee looked a lot like she was sitting on the floor to be quite honest, which I found quite strange. STOP LAUGHING AT ME,! I was hollering at the bathroom door. I remember I had to holler, as the laughter on the other side of that door, was beginning to get quite loud.
“'Son, you can’t have a baby because you are a boy, and boys can't have babies. Only girls can have babies and not until they are grown up like Mommy,' was what you finally choked out. Grandma Lee was laughing again; making snorting noises as she tried to stop laughing and breathe."
I remembered , as I listened to my son go on and on, that throughout his whole traumatic episode, I kept going in and out of the bathroom to talk to my him and then going out in the hall to help my own mother as she lay laughing on the floor. All we ever said after the “incident” was that we had never laughed so hard in our whole lives. Not even when I told her how I had accidentally dropped a perfume bottle and broke it in the Sear’s store at the mall. In my haste to get out of the store, I ran right into a mannequin on the store floor and automatically said. “Oh, excuse me, I am so sorry," I tried to pick it up and fix it, finally fleeing the store in sheer mortification at the whole event, smelling rather like a French bordello. My son may win the war in the family battle of who was the most embarrassed, I too, knew how to have someone rolling around on the floor.
I have many of my own stories that I was a part of, and can still hear my mother laughing at some tale she tells of my brother and I as children. Time is no gentler to my children, and one day my youngest son and I got on the subject of embarrassing family stories and he proceeded to tell me his rendition of ...'The Incident.' “I was only four years old when Grandma Lee stopped in to visit on her way down from Maine to Florida. It was spring and we were living in North Carolina at the time. “
"Do you know I shudder when I hear those dreaded words, for I know what is coming," my son says. "My dignity can only stand the telling of the story no more than once a decade…maybe. I am afraid of bringing my friends around my sister because she is mean and brings it up when I would rather that she forgot the whole thing forever. I cannot help it if I picked that age in my life to be curious about where babies came from. Mom,' he says, sadly shaking his head, "you should have known better than to describe birthing pains as 'that feeling you get when you have to go 'number two' really, awfully, bad,' I understood that explanation only too well."
"My grandmother even brought it up on our visit to Florida when I was thirteen. You haven’t lived until you have had a whole restaurant full of your grandmother’s nearest and dearest senior citizen friends find out that you had a problem with constipation when you were just a little guy," and at this point he stopped and looked at me, "Why do old people seem to be so fascinated with bowel movements?" Not giving me the time to answer he carries on with his story, "I couldn't help it if the straining of being constipated reminded me of that explanation you had given a few days before, and who can blame me for being scared? Sometimes constipation can be a scary thing"
" I actually remember the panic I felt in my little heart as I figured that maybe I was not just going to the bathroom, and feared that something horrible was going to happen to me, by now my son was up and pacing around the room, "I thought I was being quite brave and didn't realize you guys heard me in the other end of the house."
"The neighbor next door also heard you as well," I interjected at this point.
"The bathroom," he continued after looking at me, "had a harsh yellow light and my little legs dangled over the edge of the toilet seat. I remember looking all around me and up at the ceiling, which seemed so high up over my head. I could not hear anyone in my end of the house. It felt as if I was the only person on the whole planet, and this awful thing was happening to me."
"Suddenly, there was my hero, the center of my world, she who made everything right..my Mom. You had heard me after all. You had this look of total concern on your face and I could hear it in your voice also as you asked me, repeatedly, “Why are you crying,?"
"I remember it was like a dam bursting amidst a torrential downpour, the words spilling from me, 'I THINK I'M HAVING A BABY AND I DON’T WANT ONE!!!!' Once the words were out, I knew that you would make everything OK again. You would get rid of this problem and everything would be all right. I started to settle in to a good screaming fit because I was really scared and my belly hurt so bad."
"Then I heard a funny gurgling, choking sound, coming from the hallway. I realized then, that it was you and, unbelievably, my grandmother. Having the both of you there to help me would make everything better faster. No sooner had the thought occurred, then you came back into the room, the picture of a loving and concerned parent, asking me why I thought I was having a baby.
“Because I have to poop, really, really bad and it hurts something awful,” was my reply, "You said having a baby was like that. You said it when I asked you about where babies come from. I can’t poop, but I have to and it hurts so bad just like you said having a baby does. I don’t wanna have a baby.” I remember the words continuing to spill from me in between great shuddering sobs, along with panic, and tears. I finally open my eyes taking a look at you; that is when I realize you were laughing."
"Oh, I could see how you were trying not to," he waggled his finger at me, "that is where the choking noises were coming from. I could hear Grandma Lee outside the door too, she wasn't even trying to hide it like you were," he stated with some agitation.
"I am in there hollering that I do not want to have a baby and telling you that it really was not funny, and all you guys can do is laugh. The cramps from my bowels were doubling me over on the toilet still, and then there was the indignity of it all, because by now my brother and sister were out in the hallway wanting to know what was going on. So were the kids from next door who always came over to play with us and you just had to tell them. I could hear everybody laughing and that was making everything worse."
"'You can’t be having a baby. It’s not possible,' was all you kept saying, and you were outright laughing by this point. 'Calm down, I promise you aren’t having a baby,'”
"Do you know, that I remember thinking, 'How does she know?" At this point I tried to answer his question, but he was on quite a roll by now in his story-telling. "That is when I started to calm down," he went on, "I figured if you were laughing then it was not anything to be afraid of; the fact you kept on laughing though became quite humiliating.
"You sounded awfully sure of yourself. You and Grandma Lee were still laughing...a lot. Grandma Lee looked a lot like she was sitting on the floor to be quite honest, which I found quite strange. STOP LAUGHING AT ME,! I was hollering at the bathroom door. I remember I had to holler, as the laughter on the other side of that door, was beginning to get quite loud.
“'Son, you can’t have a baby because you are a boy, and boys can't have babies. Only girls can have babies and not until they are grown up like Mommy,' was what you finally choked out. Grandma Lee was laughing again; making snorting noises as she tried to stop laughing and breathe."
I remembered , as I listened to my son go on and on, that throughout his whole traumatic episode, I kept going in and out of the bathroom to talk to my him and then going out in the hall to help my own mother as she lay laughing on the floor. All we ever said after the “incident” was that we had never laughed so hard in our whole lives. Not even when I told her how I had accidentally dropped a perfume bottle and broke it in the Sear’s store at the mall. In my haste to get out of the store, I ran right into a mannequin on the store floor and automatically said. “Oh, excuse me, I am so sorry," I tried to pick it up and fix it, finally fleeing the store in sheer mortification at the whole event, smelling rather like a French bordello. My son may win the war in the family battle of who was the most embarrassed, I too, knew how to have someone rolling around on the floor.
The Crapper
We all have these stories about our lives that, while the retelling of them usually causes everyone else to laugh, we do not find them so amusing. Whilst time does heal all wounds somewhat, it does nothing to heal our dignity after the happening of one of these 'adventures'.
Who hasn’t heard about the eating the dog/cat food, the three year old peeing in some public place he was not supposed to, or the first day of school when so and so cut her hair to get ready? The list could go on and on, with each little story becoming more colorful with the retelling. At family gatherings we all try to make somebody else's embarrassing dilemma funnier than the ones we were involved in, until finally only a chosen few of the best of these stories are remembered at all future family gatherings, thereby garnering the honorable phrase of, ‘the family legend.’ We, each and every one of us have our very own family legends. Sad and rare indeed is the person who is not a part of some outrageous family foible.
I have many of my own stories that I was a part of, and can still hear my mother laughing as she is about to begin her favorite tale. “You were only four years old when Grandma Lee had stopped in to visit us, on her way down from Maine. It was spring and we were living in North Carolina at the time. “
I shudder when I hear those dreaded words, for I know what is coming. My dignity can only stand the retelling of the story no more than once a decade…maybe. I fear bringing my friends around my sister because she is mean enough to bring it up when I would rather that she forgot the whole thing entirely. Forever. I cannot help it if I picked that age in my life to be curious about where babies came from. Mom should have known better than to describe birthing pains as “that feeling you get when you have to go 'number two' really, awfully, bad.” I understood that explanation too well.
My grandmother even brought it up on a visit to Florida when I was thirteen. You haven’t lived until you have had a whole restaurant full of your grandmother’s nearest and dearest senior citizen friends, find out that you had a problem with constipation when you were just a little guy. I could not help it if the straining of being constipated reminded me of that explanation my mother had given a few days before, and who can blame me for being scared? Sometimes constipation can be a scary thing.
I actually remember the panic I felt in my little heart as I deduced that maybe I was not just going to the bathroom, and feared that something horrible was going to happen to me. I thought I was being quite brave and did not realize that, in the other end of the house, both my mother and my grandmother heard me as I was crying. The neighbor next door also heard me as well. I still say that neighbor had a powerful hearing aid on and it was turned up. Mom doesn’t remember her having one though.
The bathroom, had a harsh yellow light to my eyes, on that long ago day, my little legs dangling over the edge of the toilet seat. I remember looking all around me and up at the ceiling, which seemed so high up over my head. I could not hear anyone in my end of the house, which was empty of all life. It felt as if I was the only person on the whole planet, and this awful thing was happening to me.
Suddenly, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, there was my hero, the center of my world, she who made everything right..my Mom. She had heard me after all. She had this look of total concern on her face and I could hear it in her voice as she asked me what was wrong. “Why are you crying,?" she had to ask me a couple of times because I was so afraid to answer her, afraid she was going to be upset at me.
Like a dam bursting amidst a torrential downpour, the words burst forth from me, “I THINK I'M HAVING A BABY AND I DON’T WANT ONE!!!!” Once the words were out, I knew that my Mom would make everything OK again. She would get rid of this problem and everything would be all right. I started to settle in to a good screaming fit because I was really scared and my belly hurt so bad. I looked to see how my statement had galvanized my mother into action, and where she had gone to,
That is when I heard it. A funny gurgling, choking sound, coming from the hallway. I realized, at some point, that it was my mother...and, unbelievably, my grandmother. Having the both of them there to help me would make everything better faster. No sooner had the thought occurred then my mother came back into the room, the picture of a loving and concerned mother, asking me why I thought I was having a baby.
“Because I have to poop, really, really bad and it hurts something awful,” was my reply, "You said having a baby was like that. You said it when I asked you about where babies come from. I can’t poop, but I have to and it hurts so bad just like you said having a baby does. I don’t wanna have a baby.” The words continued to spill from me interspersed with great shuddering sobs, along with the panic, and the tears. I finally opened my eyes taking a look at my mother. She who loved me more than anything on Earth. It was then that the realization dawned on me that my mother wasn’t as upset as I thought she should be. Unbelievably, she was laughing.
She was trying not to and that was where the choking noises I heard were coming from. I could hear Grandma Lee as well outside the door and she was doing the same. She wasn't even trying to hide it like Mom was.
“IT’S NOT FUNNY,” I hollered. “I DON”T WANNA HAVE A BABY," as the sobs continued to be wrung from my tiny little frame. The cramps from my bowels were doubling me over on the toilet still, and the indignity of my being the center of attention at such a time was almost too much to bear, for by now my brother and sister were out in the hallway wanting to know what was going on. So were the kids from next door who always came over to play with us. I could hear them all laughing.
“But my son," my mother gasped, "you can’t be having a baby. It’s not possible,” she said, by now outright laughing. “Calm down, I promise you aren’t having a baby, it is not possible for you to have babies.”
“Why not?” I sniffed asking suspiciously. “How do you know I’m not having a baby?”
The merest glimmer of hope was starting to form in my mind, it was enough to allow me, for the first time in what seemed like hours, to take in great gasping breaths. Mom sounded awfully sure of herself, and she and Grandma Lee were still laughing...a lot. Grandma Lee looked a lot like she was sitting on the floor to be quite honest, which in my young brain I found quite odd. "STOP LAUGHING AT ME,!" I hollered at the bathroom door. I had to holler, as the laughter on the other side of that door, was beginning to get quite loud.
“Son, you can’t have a baby because you are a boy, and boys can't have babies. Only girls can have babies and not until they are grown up like Mommy,” Mom choked out. Grandma Lee was laughing again and making funny little snorting noises that were the sounds she made as she desperately tried to stop laughing and breathe.
Throughout the whole traumatic episode, on that long ago day, my mother kept coming in and out of the bathroom to talk to me and then she would go out in the hall to hold up Grandma Lee or have Grandma Lee hold her up, I was never really sure which. All the both of them ever said after the “incident” was that they had never laughed so hard in their whole lives. Not even when Mom accidently dropped a perfume bottle and broke it in the Sear’s store at the mall. In her haste to get out of the store she ran right into a mannequin on the store floor and automatically said. “Oh, excuse me, I am so sorry," and tried to pick it up and fix it, finally fleeing the store in sheer mortification at the whole event.
That incident always made me feel more...even, whenever she brings up my incident. Now I have something to counter with, in the family version of “That’s not as bad as the time you…” I may not win the game, but I am not the only one who had people rolling around on the floor.
Who hasn’t heard about the eating the dog/cat food, the three year old peeing in some public place he was not supposed to, or the first day of school when so and so cut her hair to get ready? The list could go on and on, with each little story becoming more colorful with the retelling. At family gatherings we all try to make somebody else's embarrassing dilemma funnier than the ones we were involved in, until finally only a chosen few of the best of these stories are remembered at all future family gatherings, thereby garnering the honorable phrase of, ‘the family legend.’ We, each and every one of us have our very own family legends. Sad and rare indeed is the person who is not a part of some outrageous family foible.
I have many of my own stories that I was a part of, and can still hear my mother laughing as she is about to begin her favorite tale. “You were only four years old when Grandma Lee had stopped in to visit us, on her way down from Maine. It was spring and we were living in North Carolina at the time. “
I shudder when I hear those dreaded words, for I know what is coming. My dignity can only stand the retelling of the story no more than once a decade…maybe. I fear bringing my friends around my sister because she is mean enough to bring it up when I would rather that she forgot the whole thing entirely. Forever. I cannot help it if I picked that age in my life to be curious about where babies came from. Mom should have known better than to describe birthing pains as “that feeling you get when you have to go 'number two' really, awfully, bad.” I understood that explanation too well.
My grandmother even brought it up on a visit to Florida when I was thirteen. You haven’t lived until you have had a whole restaurant full of your grandmother’s nearest and dearest senior citizen friends, find out that you had a problem with constipation when you were just a little guy. I could not help it if the straining of being constipated reminded me of that explanation my mother had given a few days before, and who can blame me for being scared? Sometimes constipation can be a scary thing.
I actually remember the panic I felt in my little heart as I deduced that maybe I was not just going to the bathroom, and feared that something horrible was going to happen to me. I thought I was being quite brave and did not realize that, in the other end of the house, both my mother and my grandmother heard me as I was crying. The neighbor next door also heard me as well. I still say that neighbor had a powerful hearing aid on and it was turned up. Mom doesn’t remember her having one though.
The bathroom, had a harsh yellow light to my eyes, on that long ago day, my little legs dangling over the edge of the toilet seat. I remember looking all around me and up at the ceiling, which seemed so high up over my head. I could not hear anyone in my end of the house, which was empty of all life. It felt as if I was the only person on the whole planet, and this awful thing was happening to me.
Suddenly, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, there was my hero, the center of my world, she who made everything right..my Mom. She had heard me after all. She had this look of total concern on her face and I could hear it in her voice as she asked me what was wrong. “Why are you crying,?" she had to ask me a couple of times because I was so afraid to answer her, afraid she was going to be upset at me.
Like a dam bursting amidst a torrential downpour, the words burst forth from me, “I THINK I'M HAVING A BABY AND I DON’T WANT ONE!!!!” Once the words were out, I knew that my Mom would make everything OK again. She would get rid of this problem and everything would be all right. I started to settle in to a good screaming fit because I was really scared and my belly hurt so bad. I looked to see how my statement had galvanized my mother into action, and where she had gone to,
That is when I heard it. A funny gurgling, choking sound, coming from the hallway. I realized, at some point, that it was my mother...and, unbelievably, my grandmother. Having the both of them there to help me would make everything better faster. No sooner had the thought occurred then my mother came back into the room, the picture of a loving and concerned mother, asking me why I thought I was having a baby.
“Because I have to poop, really, really bad and it hurts something awful,” was my reply, "You said having a baby was like that. You said it when I asked you about where babies come from. I can’t poop, but I have to and it hurts so bad just like you said having a baby does. I don’t wanna have a baby.” The words continued to spill from me interspersed with great shuddering sobs, along with the panic, and the tears. I finally opened my eyes taking a look at my mother. She who loved me more than anything on Earth. It was then that the realization dawned on me that my mother wasn’t as upset as I thought she should be. Unbelievably, she was laughing.
She was trying not to and that was where the choking noises I heard were coming from. I could hear Grandma Lee as well outside the door and she was doing the same. She wasn't even trying to hide it like Mom was.
“IT’S NOT FUNNY,” I hollered. “I DON”T WANNA HAVE A BABY," as the sobs continued to be wrung from my tiny little frame. The cramps from my bowels were doubling me over on the toilet still, and the indignity of my being the center of attention at such a time was almost too much to bear, for by now my brother and sister were out in the hallway wanting to know what was going on. So were the kids from next door who always came over to play with us. I could hear them all laughing.
“But my son," my mother gasped, "you can’t be having a baby. It’s not possible,” she said, by now outright laughing. “Calm down, I promise you aren’t having a baby, it is not possible for you to have babies.”
“Why not?” I sniffed asking suspiciously. “How do you know I’m not having a baby?”
The merest glimmer of hope was starting to form in my mind, it was enough to allow me, for the first time in what seemed like hours, to take in great gasping breaths. Mom sounded awfully sure of herself, and she and Grandma Lee were still laughing...a lot. Grandma Lee looked a lot like she was sitting on the floor to be quite honest, which in my young brain I found quite odd. "STOP LAUGHING AT ME,!" I hollered at the bathroom door. I had to holler, as the laughter on the other side of that door, was beginning to get quite loud.
“Son, you can’t have a baby because you are a boy, and boys can't have babies. Only girls can have babies and not until they are grown up like Mommy,” Mom choked out. Grandma Lee was laughing again and making funny little snorting noises that were the sounds she made as she desperately tried to stop laughing and breathe.
Throughout the whole traumatic episode, on that long ago day, my mother kept coming in and out of the bathroom to talk to me and then she would go out in the hall to hold up Grandma Lee or have Grandma Lee hold her up, I was never really sure which. All the both of them ever said after the “incident” was that they had never laughed so hard in their whole lives. Not even when Mom accidently dropped a perfume bottle and broke it in the Sear’s store at the mall. In her haste to get out of the store she ran right into a mannequin on the store floor and automatically said. “Oh, excuse me, I am so sorry," and tried to pick it up and fix it, finally fleeing the store in sheer mortification at the whole event.
That incident always made me feel more...even, whenever she brings up my incident. Now I have something to counter with, in the family version of “That’s not as bad as the time you…” I may not win the game, but I am not the only one who had people rolling around on the floor.
Monday, September 5, 2011
The View From My Window
The river today is muddy and brown. The froth, peppering its roiling surface, is evidence of the chaos below. It is rushing on its way to where ever the Creator intended for it to flow today. A late summer storm having dumped several inches of rain on us in these the last couple of days, has made the river swollen and angry, seething. Sitting here at my kitchen table, gazing out of my window into the fading light of the day, I wonder at the myriad sorts of critters, swimming in its depths, fighting the currents that are carrying them willy-nilly where ever the river wants to take them. I am mesmerized by the sight of the river and all its movement, and find that spans of time have passed while I have not thought a thought, nor dreamed a dream. I come up from the depths of my meditations and see the trees on the riverbanks, which I can see from my window, are calm and still, waiting for the next breeze to whisper through their outstretched arms.
Watching the leaves, I am again mesmerized by the dance that they are putting on for me. Here a dip and there a turn, bowing to their many partners; then dancing away, gently swirling and whirling to a music that only they can hear, carried to them by the winds blowing through their midst. The speckles of fading sunlight that are showing here and there gloriously costuming them in today's fading light. Their dance ever changing and ever evolving, perfectly choreographed by nature in an intense and rhythmical pattern only known to God.
I emerge, again, from my reverie wondering about dinner, at peace with myself and the world around me, for the momoent anyway. It is then that I hear the pounding on the ceiling that signals that the squirrels are out hunting taking advantage of the break in the weather. I like to watch them too, or should I say I like to listen to them? I hear them over my head far more than I see them. There are some days, when the sun is out and bright, that it sounds like the Hogan Road of squirreldom up there. I am also kind of suspicious of a couple of other sounds that I do not think were 'running-around' sounds because they were last spring and I do not hear them anymore. I believe I will hear them next spring though, and it will make me laugh again, no doubt.
The sun has gone down now, and with its dropping, the rain has started, and as if by some unseen lever that is holding its balance with the weight of the sun, it opens up a flood gate from the heavens, allowing them to empty their rivers into my own. Valiantly battling the darkness all around it, is a watery light spilling from my kitchen window, which I have left open so I can see and hear the sounds of the rain on this night; for it is a peaceful and soothing balm to the stresses of my day. I have found it is my own private method for relaxing and getting myself back together, I don't even mind sharing it with someone as it all begins outside, with the view from my window.
Watching the leaves, I am again mesmerized by the dance that they are putting on for me. Here a dip and there a turn, bowing to their many partners; then dancing away, gently swirling and whirling to a music that only they can hear, carried to them by the winds blowing through their midst. The speckles of fading sunlight that are showing here and there gloriously costuming them in today's fading light. Their dance ever changing and ever evolving, perfectly choreographed by nature in an intense and rhythmical pattern only known to God.
I emerge, again, from my reverie wondering about dinner, at peace with myself and the world around me, for the momoent anyway. It is then that I hear the pounding on the ceiling that signals that the squirrels are out hunting taking advantage of the break in the weather. I like to watch them too, or should I say I like to listen to them? I hear them over my head far more than I see them. There are some days, when the sun is out and bright, that it sounds like the Hogan Road of squirreldom up there. I am also kind of suspicious of a couple of other sounds that I do not think were 'running-around' sounds because they were last spring and I do not hear them anymore. I believe I will hear them next spring though, and it will make me laugh again, no doubt.
The sun has gone down now, and with its dropping, the rain has started, and as if by some unseen lever that is holding its balance with the weight of the sun, it opens up a flood gate from the heavens, allowing them to empty their rivers into my own. Valiantly battling the darkness all around it, is a watery light spilling from my kitchen window, which I have left open so I can see and hear the sounds of the rain on this night; for it is a peaceful and soothing balm to the stresses of my day. I have found it is my own private method for relaxing and getting myself back together, I don't even mind sharing it with someone as it all begins outside, with the view from my window.
My bio
I have three children, two stepchildren, and now three grandchildren. I have had a variety of jobs that would always end up going nowhere. So one day after my oldest two kids left home, I decided that today was the perfect time in my life to begin making permanent improvements. I took the step of visiting with Marty Kelly, one of EMCC's Financial Advisors and had my grant, my schedule, and was enrolled in EMCC, by the same day the following week.
It is said when everything comes together perfectly to allow you to work towards a certain plan or an idea, then it is truly a part of your destiny. Each semester there have been obstacles that presented themselves upon my scheduling of classes such as the timing, the distance, eligibility requirements; but somehow it all comes together so easily, it is a reminder of the fact that I am here because I am supposed to be.
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