Under the Microscope

"Where'd you get that necklace."  I whispered to myself as I got ready for work one morning.  I looked at myself in he mirror with my new bold three tiered necklace on, anticipating the comments I'd get about it throughout the day.  Slowly, as I put on my makeup, curled my hair, I began to realize that I am so often critiqued on my appearance that I've come to anticipate the comments other people are going to make about me every single day.  I rarely leave home without someone in the course of my day making a comment about how I look.  This has been the case for most of my adult life.

Years ago when I was younger, women voiced their opinions of my clothing choices the most.  They'd say, "That blouse is too low-cut" or "Why do you wear such short skirts?"  My skirts were never super short, and I usually wore them with tights underneath, so I never understood their concerns with how I dressed.  I started making snarky comments back to them when they'd comment that my boobs were showing too much or that my skirts were too short.  I played it off like a joke, but it did bother me sometimes.  Still, I never let the opinions of others change how I chose to dress, wear my makeup (or not) or fix my hair.  Oh yeah, I got harassed for coloring my hair, for not coloring my hair.  Got the "Why'd you chop all your hair off?" question when I'd cut it short, and the "Your hair looks so much better short" when I'd grow it long.  There were comments about my being too skinny or too "thick" or about my legs being to muscular when I used to run.

Now that I'm older, the comments come mostly from men.  I hear, "What happened to your hair?" when I wear it a different way.  "What'd you do to your leg?" When I have a bruise that I don't even know I have.  "You look tired."  I hear that one a lot.  Comments on my clothing choices, "Why are you so dressed up today?"  Comments when I'm not dressed up, comments about my shoes, "Those are some weird shoes you've got on today!"  Comments about my makeup, "Your lips look like a monkey's butt with that stuff on em."  The comments always begin with "You look like" or "Where'd you get that..." or "What'd you do to...?"  Of course there are still people who graciously compliment my wardrobe from time to time, or ask me where I bought something because they're genuinely interested in it.  But for the most part, the comments I get are very negative in a backhanded kind of way.

What I've realized is that as a society, people think it is perfectly normal for a woman to be scrutinized on her appearance; heck, we should expect it!  That's why, as we're getting ready for work or a night out or to go to a wedding or even a funeral, we stress over what to wear, how to our makeup, how to fix our hair.  We obsess over our diets and our weight.  We live our lives anticipating that next little bit of criticism in the form of a backwards compliment or snarky comment.  I, for one, am sick of it.

I'm sick of someone interrupting my day to ask me how I got a bruise on the back of my calf.  Sick to death of hearing how "tired" I look.  I've completely had it with the comments about my hair, my weight, my shoes.  I am done  hearing things like, "You're holding up pretty well for you age."  I'm not talking about someone who says, "I like your nail polish." Or "That is a cute outfit on you."  I'm talking about the comments, mostly from males, who think they're doing me a favor by pointing out what I'm doing wrong with my appearance.  Males who are overweight, have bad breath, are balding and have no social skills whatsoever, telling ME what I'm doing wrong.

I'm tired of the mental battle I go through every morning when I'm getting ready--that feeling of dread at hearing what someone has to say about how I look today.  I'm tired of anticipating their comments and deciding what comeback to use, and then not having the courage to say it when the time comes.

I doubt if I'm alone in this.  I bet there are plenty of other women out there who deal with this crap daily.  I don't know what I can do to change it.  Maybe I should just tell people I don't need to hear their opinions of how I look.  Maybe I should criticize them back--point out their flaws so they know what's "wrong" with them too.  Maybe I should ask them what makes them think they should feel so entitled to tell me how I should look.

I swear, the next time someone says, "You look tired." I'm going to say, "You look old."  or "You look fat."  or "You look like a moron."  Maybe that'll shut them up?

It's sad that we've created a society that keeps women under a microscope.  We are examined in minute detail by perfect strangers who then feel compelled to offer their unsolicited opinions of us, based solely on what they see on the outside.  They know nothing about who we are, we are just objects that are expected to look and behave a certain way.  We are supposed to always be aesthetically  pleasing to the opposite sex, but not so much so that we offend our same-sex peers.

There is no way to win, y'all.

So my best advice to me and to you is  this:  Be who you are.  Wear what you want to wear.  Groom yourself in whatever way makes you feel good and ignore the critics.  Most of all, don't become a critic yourself because the more you notice the flaws of others, the  more aware you'll become of your own flaws.  We are not our flaws.  We are not the clothes we wear or the color of our hair.  We are so much more than ornamental pieces that decorate the world for others.  Always remember that.  Always just be you.

In the Crapper

My day started out in the crapper.  Literally.

Friday is trash day, so after Charlie got ready for school we started loading garbage into my car.  I'm always amazed at how much waste two people can create in a few days' time.  When I got to work, I tucked it into the dumpster, knowing the garbage truck would arrive in minutes to empty it.  I needed the trunk of my car empty to carry picnic stuff to the other side of the park later.

Feeling productive already, I made my way inside and started preparing for the day's festivities.  I made tea, made coffee, boxed up some stuff to take down to the picnic tables.  I carried a table down all by myself, which because I am short, was not easy, and then decided to wait for more help to do the rest.

Memorial Day Picnic. It's a grand event in its simplicity; it's something we do every year that reminds us of the freedom we enjoy to spend time together eating good cooking and telling silly jokes.  We pour our tall plastic cups full of sweet tea and find a shady spot, eager to inhale the fresh air of May, not really so put off by the sun as we will be in another month or so.  If you see pictures of the day, it will look so peaceful and quiet.  Smiling faces behind plates of picnic fare, people sitting among friends in the shade of the big tree behind the Hall; a tree that has cast its shade over many a head over the last 300 years or so.

Looks can be deceiving.

Not long after the first few members of my group arrived, I heard someone say, "Rebecca, you need to come look at this."  She was gesturing towards the bathroom.  Following behind her, my blood was already beginning to boil.  This bathroom, the bane of my existence at my job for the last two years, was of course, going to challenge me on a day when my stress level couldn't get higher.

The crapper sat, full of crap.  Brown paper towels floated atop the water, the tank still running from some attempt yesterday to flush the mess down.  I took off to get gloves, or tongs or something with which to fish out the paper towels so the toilet would flush.  I announced to the entire room, "Do not use the handicapped stall in the ladies room.  It is out of order."  Looked in the bottom cabinet for gloves.  None there.  Went back into the bathroom to put up a sign and startled a lady who was walking out.  "No!" I thought.  "No, she did not just use that toilet!"

Yes.  Yes she did.  Even though I had the trash can right in front of it, had the plunger sitting next to it, and a small mountain of brown stuff sat staring up at her, she sat, she did her thing, she flushed.  There is another toilet 3 feet away.  This was my day.

I tried to call for backup.  Got no response.  The number in my phone for the Rec. Director yielded me no results.  Turns out the number got mixed up with another person's number and I had been sending texts about clogged toilets and running water to a lady I've only met one time in my life, all morning long.

 We got a sign on the door and no one else used the broken pot for the rest of the day.  Too late for me though.  Past the point of reason, I wanted to curse at everyone I saw.  So when the rude lady from Ingles called to tell me my platter of chicken had "Been ready for a long time!!!"  I was not necessarily sunny or sweet.  I did welcome the chance to leave the building for a while though, so I grabbed my keys and took off.

Driving around the curve from Whitney St. to Slater Road, I wondered what would happen if I just never went back.  I let the scene unfold in my head as I drove to Ingles, but I knew I could never abandon my pack like that.  I got the doggoned chicken and headed back to my doom.

The "Happy Strummers" were there.  They were setting up their ukuleles and chairs, getting ready to entertain.  The building was hotter than hades.  I turned on the AC, waited for someone to complain about the cool air, decided to tune out the complaints and keep the AC going anyway.  The Strummers strummed away, Tiny Bubbles, God Bless America, All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir".  Happy strummers playing happy music, it somehow didn't fit with my ill mood.

I listened for a while, then got to work taking things outside for later.  First, one trunk load of food, tablecloths, decorations, then later another load of the same made it down to the picnic area.  Once the music ended a free-for-all ensued with Uke players packing up instruments, seniors getting in one another's way, big guys breaking down tables to carry outside and still others carrying chairs that were too heavy for them to carry.  It all went down so fast I couldn't establish any semblance of order. Somehow though, we ended up having a picnic outside with chairs and tables enough for everyone. Food was plentiful, shade generous.  Our guests felt welcomed and at home which made me feel proud of my group of seniors.

As the picnic wound down, people started offering their help getting everything back in place.  Two pickup truck loads and a car-trunk load later, everything was back inside our building and every single person, sweating and huffing, was thoroughly worn out.

The building finally quiet after most everyone left, I sat with two ladies and talked nonsense for a while.  We ranted about the clogged toilet, laughed at my texting guffaw, marvelled at the idea that any human being would leave such a mess in a toilet.

Sometimes I let things get too heavy.  I know I do this.  I let a crapped out crapper nearly ruin my day, but thanks to a lot of really great people who've lived and plunged far many more years than me, I began to see how I sometimes make mountains out of molehills.  I went home tired but satisfied that my efforts were not in vain.  A lot of folks had a fun day, so it was worth the work and confusion, even the temporary irritation.  Thank goodness I didn't take my anger out on that poor rude lady at Ingle's, who knows what kind of morning she'd had?

Now I'm sitting on my couch in my cool living room, feet propped up on the ottoman, a cute little tune racing through my brain that I never heard before today.

All God's Creatures Got a Place in the Choir.  I guess even the ones who leave their crap for everyone else to clean up.  On this Memorial Day Weekend, I want to thank the men and women who gave their lives so I could live in a country where a day that starts out in the toilet ends up being a pretty darn good day.

And thank you, my friends, for putting up with me when I'm letting the little things in life disproportionately weigh me down.  I always lighten up, eventually.

Hazy Shades of LIfe

Music was a big part of my life when I was growing up.  I don't mean concerts or listening to cassette tapes or radio.  I mean making music or listening and watching my father and his brothers play guitars.  My family sang together in church a quartet of sorts, with my Mom, Dad and two sisters, my dad accompanying with the guitar.  As  little kid in our very informal church I took a seat in the choir on Sundays and felt myself lifted up in the waves of melody and harmony, the deep altos blending so beautifully with the sopranos and tenors, my dad in the back row with a few other men belting out those bass notes like nobody's business, but the blending of it all elevated my spirits.  I remember feeling as if all the sound were coming from inside my own head, my own voice finding a part and learning to sing it as I followed along with another alto or tenor, finding my niche was natural to me.

When I was 10 or 11 we met a lady who played an autoharp.  It is likely the easiest instrument on Earth to play, but I wanted one very badly so I could sit and play music with my dad and his brothers.  I wanted to be included.  So my dad found one for me for my 11th birthday, gave me picks and a song book that told me what notes to play.  The chords were all marked on the keyboard, and soon by playing music with my dad, learning he positioning of his left hand on the guitar neck, I learned all the chords that make up a key.  Pretty soon I was playing along with them, without having to watch their hands--somehow my ears or my brain just knew which note came next.

From there I graduated to a little toy organ.  I spent hours picking out notes on it, learning to read music all by myself.  I watched he pianist at church and felt so envious.  Anytime there was an unguarded piano I'd make my way to it and try to pick out some tunes.  By the time I was about 15 I was driving my parents crazy with my craving for a piano. A few days before Christmas I came home to find a huge upright piano sitting in my bedroom with a big red bow on top.  I was so excited and surprised I didn't know how to say thank you, so I sat down and played the only little ditty I knew and then went smiling to my father and gave him the biggest hug ever.

I took formal lessons, but I practiced mostly what I wanted.  I sat at that piano for hours a day, making up tunes, learning new ones, observing myself in the mirror to make sure my posture was perfect.  I listened to the way other people played and tried to emulate their styles.  Eventually I got good enough to play in public, although my nerves got the best of me most of the time.

When I got married I spent countless hours playing whatever song popped into my head.  When I was sad, I played.  When I was lonely, I played.  When I was angry or hurt or stressed, the piano absorbed my bad juju and restored me to a place of positivity and hope.

I have my favorite music.  The songs that have spoken to my soul and gotten me through the darkest days and the happiest days of my life.  Music, they say, is therapy for the soul and I believe that's true.  However, there was about a 2 year period of my life when music was not helpful to me.  It was painful.  I found myself thinking too far back in time, my nostalgia brought about by those familiar sounds was too tough to sit in.  Many of the songs about love and heart break and disappointment hit too close to home and I found myself avoiding music to avoid wallowing in my pain.  So the last couple of years, my life has been oddly silent, but comfortingly so.

Over the last few days, I've reconnected with my music.  I listened to Neil Young sing Old Man the other morning, listened to "Comes a Time" and now, on the other side of my hurt, I find hope in those tunes.  Tonight I'm indulging in Simon and Garfunkel, both the sappy sad and the happy.  I'm letting the music take me to someplace new, rather than allowing it to trap me on a train headed backwards, into a past that cannot change to suit me now.

I know that now is what I have, and this train is only moving forward, with background music that sets the mood for the soundtrack of my life.



Here I go.

Breaking Ground

Every Spring, around mid-April my father would start a line of smoldering fire along the edge of  the garden.  With big fans of brush he kept control of the burn, beating  back  flames when they flared up, keeping the fire in line to wipe the slate clean of last year's debris and begin to break the will of tender new weeds,so determined to take over the soil.  The ground was left blackened. Like a battlefield it stared back at us, daring us to even imagine that life could thrive there again.
.
The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making  more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again.  Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.

Time to break ground  seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.

The ground was no more eager to cooperate.  The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could.  Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The  newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it.  His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse.  Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet.  The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.

Planting time was a family affair.  Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt.  We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us.  We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet.  Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.

First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and  filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands.  One after another, row after row, the process was the same.  Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.

In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants.  They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain.  He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance.  Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.

Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad.  It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead.  The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but  only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself.  He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring.  With deliberation  he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.

A Real Man

My father was a real man.  He had a collection of shotguns and rifles that hung high on the wall of our living room, flanked on either side by the heads of  stuffed 8 point bucks that he killed.  We lived off venison and vegetables he grew in the two huge gardens that framed our yard every summer.  He always owned a boat and a pickup truck and his idea of a fun summer vacation was two weeks on the lake, fishing, swimming and hanging out around a campfire at night.  He wore flannel shirts, coveralls and camo.  For most of my childhood he had a flat-top hair cut or a crewcut.  He worked hard, brought home the paychecks that kept a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs.  He was all the things that some people believe define what a man is supposed to be, but he was also much more.

My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside.  He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week.  He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude.  Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.

My father cried often.  He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears.  Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table.  He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved.  He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too.  I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.

On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip.  It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing.  He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter.  He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream.  He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small.  I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.

My dad loved our mother.  He made that very clear.  He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own.  He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss.  He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent.  He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man.  It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.

My father was not a violent man.  His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict.  In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker.  He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being.  He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was.  He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for.  He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.

My dad never went shirtless.  Never.  Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven.  The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair.  He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one.  Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.

My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman".  He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal.  He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either.  He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty.  He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy.  We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions.  I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?

Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him.  He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be.  He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before.  In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again.  What an amazing life he lived!

He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father.  Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.

You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real.  And Real was the only thing my father knew.

A Boy in A China Shop

When I was about 29 I met a man who told me this story.

He was a little kid dressed for a Newton Massachusetts winter, his puffy blue coat so stuffed with down that he could barely lower his arms.  His mother took him into a china shop with the admonition, "Don't touch anything!"

When they got inside all the delicate trinkets were arranged on shelves that were situated precariously leaving narrow aisles through which he and his mother tried to navigate with great caution.  The boy stood statuesquely, waiting as patiently as he could while his mother browsed.  He was trying so hard to be careful that when his mother moved along, he stayed still, quietly nervous behind her.  Behind him a few steps, she said his name, "Andrew, come on."  And with that, he spun around to follow her, his arms like propellers sending rows of delicate ceramic ware crashing to the floor in pieces.

He told me about how she, nearly in tears, got down on the floor and picked up all the shattered pieces and with only the kind of pride a Southern woman could muster, insisted on paying for them.

When he spoke of this story, his voice always became softer, more distant.  You could hear the admiration for his mother as he spoke of her, sitting determinedly at a table gluing the pieces of cups and saucers and plates back together.  He remembered actually trying to use those broken dishes for a while.

In a way, I think this snapshot of his childhood became a defining theme for his life.  He was a wanderer, a seeker who never seemed to know what he was trying to find.  He entered people's lives with the best of intentions at times, but usually left them in pieces.

I met him when he was most decidedly, a man.  A man with life experience, with hopes and dreams, with losses and with great victories behind him.  A decade older than me, I looked up to him, admired him even, though in retrospect I realize I never really knew him.  I accepted what he showed me, loved him for what he was able to give and hurt for all the damage his emptiness did, both to him and to me.

People come to us throughout our lives, often to teach us things about ourselves we might not otherwise ever discover.  For a while I let anger and bitterness toward him color every memory of the 5 years we were together; but time has a way of erasing anger and even pain.  Eventually I was able to appreciate even the worst things about him; instead of seeing him as a malicious person who intended me harm, I began to think of him as a four-year old boy in a puffy blue coat trying to be careful, yet always somehow breaking things.  Truth is, I needed to be broken and then broken some more and broken yet again before I could begin start to putting myself together the way I was meant to be.

Here I am, all these years later, glued back together, more satisfied with who I am that I've ever been and I cannot discount the role he played the paths I've worn thus far.  His road was a different one, one that led him far away from who I was or am or could have ever been.  So different from one another, I some times marvel at how the Universe ever threw us together in the first place.

Even broken things give us something to hold onto though, and among the many things he left me, the courage to write this blog is one of them.  He gave confidence to my voice, and took joy in knowing my mind.  Oh, my heart he tore into pieces, but my mind, he nurtured.

I rarely think about it, but next to my bed sits a little table well worn with time.  It has moved from Massachusetts to Charleston.  From Charleston to Atlanta.  From Atlanta back to SC with me where it has stayed beside me for many years.  He gave me that table, had no use for it anymore he said.   I've kept nothing else of his.  No photos, no letters, no little mementos at all.  But that table, it sits beside me every night, my books piled on it, my lamp perched just so that I can read myself to sleep.  Years' worth of books have rested there, glasses of water, stacks of journals, abandoned art projects; it has been a landing place for all the things I've used to glue myself back together.

A few nights ago he showed up in my dream.  My dreams, a place he has not occupied in so long, I thought were closed to him.  But there he was, looking 38 again, that bushy beard on his face, a serious scowl across his brow.  "I'm outta here." He said.  So I stood too look at him, and it only seemed right to ask for a kiss goodbye.  "Kiss me first." I said, and so he dd.  Then he was gone.

I woke up knowing he had finally found the end of that long road he always itched to travel.

He traveled it well.  Left trails of broken people all along the way, likely carrying pieces of each of them with him everywhere he went.  I hope he left this world finally glued together the way he was supposed to be.

Perhaps we all need a good breaking; but I hope we all deserve the chance to put ourselves together again before we have to go.

How amazing would it be if in the afterlife there are no more china shops or puffy coats?  Just wide open spaces and nothing breakable, ever again.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Grief is Never Easy: Why loss matters, no matter how old you are

My mother died two months shy of my parents' 63rd wedding anniversary.  She was lying in a hospital bed in the living room of the house my parents shared for more than 40 years, where they raised 5 daughters and played with 11 grandchildren.  On the night before her death my dad sat beside her holding her hand.  He had earnest conversations with her, even though she was growing more and more unresponsive.  He apologized or all the times he wasn't patient with her, for all the times when he felt he wasn't a good enough husband.  He told her sincerely and with tears streaming down his face, that he loved her.

 "You know I love you, don't you?" he asked.

 With what strength she had left she let him know that indeed, she always knew he loved her, no matter what.

My parents were less than perfect.  Like any two people who share more than half their lives together they had their good times and bad.  They had days when they got on one another's nerves, when they disagreed about things, when  petty disagreements brought out the worst in each of them; but the life lived between them that spanned decades affected change in them both.  It humbled them, made them appreciate one another more and more with every year that passed, until at last my mother lay dying in front of the picture window where our Christmas tree used to stand when we were kids, my dad sitting by her listening as her breathing slowed and finally stopped for good.

My sister left the room and let him have a few moments alone with our mother's body.  She described the sound of his weeping as he kissed Mama's forehead and lamented her passing--too soon for him.  Too soon.

We watched our father transform before our eyes in the days and weeks to follow.  His grief was so palpable, so heart wrenching that we, even in the our own loss couldn't fathom his pain.  His memory started to slip away rapidly.  There were times when I would visit and he would tell me that his wife passed away, going into great detail about the last few days of her life and the moment of her passing. He didn't recall that I was he daughter anymore, he only remembered Bonnie, the love of his life forever lost to him.  The house they shared seemed too empty, her very essence gone even from the pictures she hung on the walls.  Her big easy chair sat empty straight across from his. Often he would stare at it as if in doing so, he might make her reappear there.

My sisters felt we needed to discourage him from talking about our mom.  They thought he needed distraction, but nothing they tried got his mind off of the deep aching pain of loss that overwhelmed him.

Loss is the common denominator of mankind.  Sooner or later we will all face it and hopefully when we do we will have the love and support of friends and family to help us cope.  As a society we do a much better job of shoring up the defenses for children who lose parents or friends or siblings.  We do a fair job at being at the side of a friend who loses a spouse or a child at a young age.  However, when it comes to our elders, we often neglect to give them the time and care we offer others who have experienced loss.  For some reason we convince ourselves that loss is such a fact of life for our elders that it must not take a toll on them as much as it does on younger people.

I work with a group of seniors in which there is one member who is about to turn 100 in a few weeks.  A year ago a few days shy of her 99th birthday, her son who was in his 70's died from pancreatic cancer.  Sue is a tenacious lady.  She was a nurse who worked until she was 77 years old.  She attends our senior center daily, plays scrabble and never misses an outing about town.  But after her son's death she changed for a while.  She missed several weeks of attending Senior Action.  When she did come back I noticed she sat with her shoulders hunched.  She suddenly sighed a lot and became quiet and withdrawn.  One day she said to me, "It's just not right for a child to die before their parent."

 We have all heard this before, haven't we?  It's usually after a young child has passed away and her parents are left with that huge hole in their hearts; but we often fail to consider that a person who has outlived most of her friends and family might grieve just as deeply over the death of a son.  Sue grappled with the notion that she has had such a long life, yet her son's life was cut short at a much younger age than her own.  I had to remind myself that her pain was just as real, just as poignant as the pain of a young parent who has lost a young child.

Another man I know lost his wife 2 years ago after a long bout of illness and dementia.  He was her husband and caregiver and although there were times when she challenged him almost past his limits, her death shook him to the core.  Unable to even feel a sense of comfort at their happy memories together, he covered up every picture of her that hangs in his home.  He cannot bear to this day, to look at a photo of his deceased wife.  He tells me often that he would give anything to have her back again.  On her birthday he takes balloons to her grave and releases them, earnestly hoping they'll somehow reach her.  For a long time it was hard for him to go to church because her grave sits directly behind the building.  He no longer sings in the Christmas Cantata because his last memory of her at Christmas is of her singing in the choir.  He rambles through drawers in the house and finds knick knacks that were hers.  Sometimes he gives them away and other times, he hides them back where they came from.  A little blown glass angel sits on the dashboard of his car--a representation of her presence with him.  His daughter sent me a message a few weeks ago.

 "Do you know of any support groups for dad?  I really think he needs to move on. It has been two years since his wife died, he should be doing better by now."

She and I see things differently I suppose.  It is often far past the first year after a death when grief becomes the most acute.  As the loss becomes more distant, the realization that you can never go back, can never call that person up again or make a new memory with them becomes more and more real.  The sadness sets in deeper, the acceptance of that loss growing ever clearer does not dull the pain of its reality.

Here is where I think those of us who spend our days working with elders can make a difference.  We need to be ready, willing and emotionally available to hear their stories.

Every life is a story.  When two lives come together in marriage or friendship, our stories become deeper, more meaningful and more closely intertwined.  As time passes the story of one becomes the story of two.  The novel of a life, intricately written by moments and days becomes the essence of who we are.  When one half of that narrative is suddenly taken out of the storyline, the story does not simply end.  It is not as easy as ending one book and starting another.  There are no new novels, only new chapters, and the transitions that take place between the pages of loss and acceptance are filled with struggle and grief.

Grief is its own story.  It is a story that needs to be told over and over again until we have told it enough.  As caregivers, children, family members of elders, we have to learn how to be available to their grief.  I listened to the story of my mother's death so many times that it became almost too much to hear, but I knew my father needed to tell that part of his story.  It often started with their wedding day, reminders of how many years they spent together, how many children they had and stories of all the struggles they faced raising 5 girls together.  He talked of victories, of laughter and tears, disappointment and joy, and then he told in great detail about holding my mama's hand as she slipped away.

I watched my dad wither, withdraw from the world and begin to long for some other place--a place where he could join his wife again and feel at home in her presence.  We could learn so much from witnessing a love like that, even after the pain of loss has made that love a heavy burden to bear.  My father's health declined so rapidly after our mother's death.  It was hard for us to face, but as we watched him mentally transition, we knew he was preparing to leave us.  Two years to the day of our mother's death, our dad drew his last breath.  His story told for the last time, he left it with us to carry on.  Now it is ours, both to tell and to live and to incorporate into who we are still becoming.  I want to use it as a way to reach out to others who are struggling to find peace with their losses, to find meaning in their stories, and to reach that place of acceptance knowing they are loved, understood and supported.

In the coming months, my goal is to create a caring, safe place for seniors to come together in their journeys through grief and have a chance to tell their stories to one another and to anyone with the empathy and courage to listen.  I want my friend to go home and uncover the pictures of his wife because he has told his story of loss enough, and can finally look at her again and appreciate that she was, that she made his life better, and that his memories are too precious to hide away and try to forget.  He needs someone to let him know that it is okay to feel that pain, it is okay to be sad and to miss her.  Until he feels it is safe and acceptable and very normal to feel pangs of grief, he will avoid feeling those things and he will carry the heaviness of that pain so deeply inside him that it will eat away at his soul.  We have to give our elders a safe outlet for their grief.  We have to extend our empathy and understanding,  we have to let them know that we do not expect them to soldier on as if nothing has changed.

A stoic generation, many of them have lived through hardships we could never imagine; but it is our job to let them know that they do not have to hide their grief.  We must let them experience it fully, feel it acutely, comfort them through it, and guide them to a place of peace and acceptance.  We do that by hearing their stories, by offering them a hug, a sympathetic word.  We give them room to grieve by letting them talk about their lost loved ones, by sharing in memories of good times with them, by not seemingly forgetting that they've lost someone who was very important to them.  We give them space to share their experiences without changing the subject or pretending we do not hear them.

Death is very much a part of life, and no one understands that more than the elderly; that doesn't mean the pain is any less real to them than it is to us when we have to say goodbye to someone we love.  We owe them our support and encouragement, and we have so much to learn from the stories they need so desperately to share.

Completely Normal

Today I had the pleasure of taking my daughter and the new baby for his two week check-up at the pediatrician.  He is, of course, cuter than just about anything I can think of, with his little cleft-chin and chubby cheeks, sleeping undisturbed in his car seat while little kids race around the lobby in complete disregard of social moors.  As I watched him so perfectly comfortable snuggled in his blanket, unaware of the chaos around him, I felt a little envious.  Oh, to be so blissfully unaware of all the things in the world about which to feel anxiety!

When they finally called his name and we got into the exam room Hannah was overcome with relief to learn he had gained a proper amount of weight and is indeed already growing like a weed, having gained an entire inch in length in the space of two weeks.  I doubt if he's felt any growing pains, but I'm positive she has and will for years to come.

When the nurse concluded her duties and the doctor came in she spoke quickly, going over information that she no doubt repeats dozens of times a day.  Lay him on his back to sleep, if he cries a lot when he's about 2 months old don't be worried, never shake or hit a baby.  You know, all the things a doctor has to say but really shouldn't have to say.

Then she showed us his APGAR chart and assured us that he is on a good curve.  That was when she also looked up his hospital test results and concluded aloud that he was "Completely Normal."

I looked at him lying there peacefully in my arms, his little bottom lip curled out, milk dripping down his chin.  "Completely Normal" I thought.

"You are completely normal, little guy." I said to him.  Then, "Are you really completely normal?"

I looked at Hannah and repeated the phrase, "completely normal".  She smiled...maybe giggled a little.

"Sorry buddy," I said, turning my attention back to his sweet little face.  "You were born into the wrong family.  You will never be completely normal, and that's okay."

I know, I know...the doctor was talking about test results so we actually didn't meet on the same plane--but seriously, outside of blood test results, who the heck is completely normal??

Who wants to be?

I hope Liam, Athena, Arthur, Charlie and both my girls will forever be completely who they are.  Forget normal, I want them to just BE, and may they, by being in the world, bring color and joy and light to it.  May the world give back to them a hundred-fold the joy and color and light they send out. I want their lives to be complete, whole with the love and warmth that is meant for us all to embrace, no matter how far outside the bounds of "normal" we may fall.

I hope for them that all the dark corners of life are made bright by their ability to imagine, to grow, to reach past the ordinary and grasp the supreme.  What is life after all,  without the remarkable moments created for us by the whimsical and the wild?

The Medlins

Four boys walked barefoot down a damp sun-warmed red clay path from their house to the river.  Each had a cane pole in his hand, fishing line securely tied to the end, hooks and sinkers swinging from side to side with each step they took.  It was early morning, but not too early.  Charles was up at dawn to milk the cows and it was he who woke his brothers and urged them toward the well-worn byway to their favorite fishing hole. They spoke in thick Southern drawl, laughed about the usual things in which boys find hilarity.  The brothers were friends, thick as thieves but more honest than most young lads their ages.  Their mother trusted them to behave themselves, to respect their elders and show respect even for what belonged to others.  Their father, a small sinewy man who stayed awake all night in a guard shack at the Singer plant, had once been a harsher man.  Their younger days acquainted them with the consequences of addiction, the devastation of loss and its power to transform.  Their father had not touched alcohol since the death of their little sister, three years ago.

As a family, they were what all families want to be.  They were loyal, honest, talented.  Each member had a space to fill and each filled his or her space completely.  They were guitar pickers, gardeners, fishermen, singers.  They were faithful to God and to one another, their love of music strung them together in a way that lent harmony to the life they made together.

About half-way down that well-worn red clay pathway between their house and the river stood an old abandoned house.  It had once been inhabited by a husband and wife, an elderly couple whose years of child-rearing and farming had long since passed.  The Curtis boys passed it by without a second thought, not to honor or respect it in any way, but because being malicious was the farthest thing from their minds.  They walked the path with a singular goal: To see who would catch the biggest catfish.

Along the way they met up with the Medlin brothers.  Three adopted boys who lived in a house on the other end of that worn pathway, with a father who never quite got a handle on them.  They were known for causing trouble, stealing cars and vandalising property.  For a few minutes the seven boys mingled, talked about fishing, and then went their separate ways.

At the end of the day, fish caught, boys tuckered out, they headed back home dangling their catch on a stringer, one boy carrying all the cane poles.  Charles was the tallest, was always the stoutest of the boys, so he carried the fish and walked a good stride ahead of the other boys.  In all aspects it seemed a pretty ordinary summer day for a bunch of poor farmer's boys, but in days to follow, that day would become an indelible memory for all of them, especially for Charles.

It all started with a phone call from someone else's son; the son of the elderly couple who used to occupy the farm house that sat between the Curtis's and the Medlin's on that trail.  The Curtis boys had been spotted that morning, making their way to the river and someone, that very day, had thrown rocks through the windows of the old house, shattering every single one of them.  Chris Curtis listened as the act of vandalism was described, anger and embarrassment rose up inside him.  He found it hard to believe his boys would have committed such an offense but they were seen near the house, and the house was left windowless shortly thereafter.  All four boys were therefore summonsed to the woodshed and whipped accordingly for their alleged crime.  They all protested, "We didn't do it!" they told him, but their father wouldn't hear them.  It had to be them, he thought, and he couldn't let them get away with such a deed.

Meanwhile the Medlin boys kept quiet.  They let the Curtis kids take all the blame, let them work to pay for all the broken windows and continued on with their wicked ways.

Twenty years later, Chris Curtis spotted a hitchhiker along a back road in Pickens.  He pulled over and let Tate Medlin climb in the passenger side of his Chevrolet.  They exchanged greetings, talked about the weather, then fell quiet along the way.  As Chris drove along he noticed that Tate was giggling to himself.  "What's so funny?" he asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking about that time me and my brothers broke the windows out in that old house and you whipped your boys for it.."  At that he gave a big guffaw, and my grandpa's foot quickly found the brake.

He stopped the car.  "Get out of my car!" He demanded.

Tate was dumbfounded.

"Why?" He asked.

"You caused me to whip my boys for something they didn't do.  I'm not taking you anywhere, you can walk, you sorry jackass."

Tate, shaking his head and still chuckling to himself, opened the car door and got out.  He stood frozen as Chris drove away, leaving him in the dust.

It nagged at him, the memory of the day he whipped his sons behind the shed as they claimed their innocence.  He should have listened to them.  He was wrong to have punished them.

Before he went home he drove to Charles' house and found him working on a lawnmower outside.  He told my dad how he'd picked up Tate Medlin, how the truth had been revealed and how sorry he was for punishing his sons for a crime they didn't commit.  Of course, so many years later it was water under the bridge, but Chris knew it was never too late to try to set things right.

His humility and honesty won him the unconditional respect of his sons.  It won him a legacy that even his grandchildren admire, though some of us never knew him.

My father told me this story over and over again during the last few years of his life.  It stood out in his mind as a pivotal point in his life--a part of his life that shaped him into who he became.

We start down our well-worn paths every day, always thinking we know where we are going and what results we will acquire, but life throws us curveballs sometimes.  Life isn't fair.  We take on the transgressions of others, watch those who should get punished go scott free.  We often don't get the apologies we feel we deserve, and we fail to give apologies we owe.

The truth is, no matter how clear you've made your pathway, you'll still encounter some Medlins along the way.  My father and his brothers never lost their respect or confidence in their father's judgment, even though they knew he was wrong.  They were hurt, more by his lack of belief in them than by the whippings they received, but their love and respect for him won out in the end.  They knew their father was not composed merely of his mistakes, no more than the songs they played together on the front porch on Saturday nights were composed of flat chords or broken guitar strings. They learned a hard lesson--that Medlins happen, it's how you carry on after them that counts.

My dad got an apology he never even expected, it was almost like a reward for his long-suffering confidence in his father's judgment.  We don't all get the apologies we'd love to hear, but we do all get the opportunity to forgive.  Forgiveness is freedom, it is growth and strength.  It allows us to find new paths to wear clear of debris and softens the clay under our bare feet, just enough to keep us from growing weary of the journey.

Whatever lies at the end of your trail, never stop seeking it.  Don't let the Medlins get you off track.  Sooner or later, they'll be left standing in the dust watching you drive away in your Chevrolet, wondering where they went wrong.

Black History

Sometimes the world is too big.   It's struggles and injustices swirl around us with such power that escape becomes the primary goal at the end of every day.  I can't count the weeks that I've anxiously awaited the arrival of Friday, an end to the fight, a chance to see the light at the end of the tunnel that is reality.  I get caught up too frequently, in the idea that my life is too hard, but once in a while, I get a profound reminder that my struggles in this life are among the least difficult.

Ronald Edens is a tall dark skinned black man in his mid-sixties.  He looks much younger than his age, his skin smooth and his walk, an easy balanced stride. He is quiet but pleasant, a good conversationalist.   I met him less than a year ago when he showed up at my senior center with his friend.  He was shy at first, only looking me in the eye for a few seconds at a time when I sat down with him to fill out the membership forms.  He brought in his computer one day and asked me to teach him how to email.  Once we had that down, I asked him if he wanted to learn Facebook.  "We'd better wait on that." He said with a grin.  "One thing at a time!"

Since then he has gotten internet access at home and I don't know if he ever figured out Facebook.

Today he brought in his high school yearbook and gave me a lesson in history that I didn't know I was missing.  As I thumbed through the musty-smelling pages I noticed only black kids in the photos.  "Was your high school segregated?" I asked

"Yeah, it was." He answered after some thought, and then a discussion about exactly what year desegregation started erupted.

In 1954 South Carolina temporarily suspended its desegregation efforts in the wake of the Brown vs. The Board of Education ruling. Eventually Governor James Byrnes re-engaged in the process after consulting with other state leaders, but desegregation in the South remained slow and painful.  Most schools began by allowing only a few black kids to attend all-white schools as a gesture to show they were "integrated"; however, few black schools were integrated by white students.

 Officially, segregation ended over a decade before Ronald Edens and three other black students entered the doors of Slater-Marietta High School in August of 1965.

"They had the whole school together in the gym," Ronald said, "and then they brought us in.  Boy they showed out!  It was somethin'."  He gestured with his arms in a way that signified how huge the crowd of angry white students were in comparison to him and his peers. Racial slurs were shouted, objects thrown.  They were told to go back to where they came from.  Ronald and his friends were left with no doubt as to whether they were welcome at Slater-Marietta High.  They knew they were not wanted and for the remainder of ninth grade Ronald was reminded daily.

"You'd just say 'Lord let me have one good day.  Just one easy day,' but it never happened. It was every day.  They'd hit us in the back of the head, come up from behind us and knock our books on the floor, call us names, throw stuff at us.  It was terrible."

"Did the teachers not do anything about it?" One senior asked.

"They wasn't nothing they could do.  And some of them were racist too, to tell the truth, so they didn't want to try to stop it.."   Two elderly black ladies sat at the table with us, nodding in agreement, remembering what those years were like for them and their children.

"Nope, didn't nobody try to stop it." One of them said, shaking her head and looking to the floor.

"I had a nervous breakdown." Ronald admitted.  "I told my mama 'I can't go back there anymore.' but she talked me into just staying for the rest of the year.  She said if I finished the year at Slater I could go back to Lincoln for the tenth grade and that's what I did.  I never went back to Slater after that.  I finished the year and went back to my old school.  The band teacher put me right back in there as Band Major, just like before and I did fine in tenth, eleventh and twelfth grades."

I listened to his story and noticed that it caught the attention of other people in the room.  All of us white folks sat dumbfounded at the experiences of this tall, gentle black man.  We would have never guessed that in his lifetime he faced such adversity.  He described years of internal struggle, trying to see the good in white people, and then eventually figuring out with age, that good people come in all colors, as do bad ones.

Ignorance, as it turns out, knows no race, but if whites wanted to corner the market we probably have made a good start.  We all sat and listened with sympathy for what Ronald endured for that year of his youth.  It was a year of adolescence that should have been filled with sports and girls, dances and school clubs, but instead stands forever in the history of this man as a coming of age story from hell.

"It was hell."  He said.  "Every single day being treated like that."

How apropos that on February 24th, the middle of Black History Month, he chose to bring a piece of his own history and share it with us.  Google changes it's homepage to honor black people who accomplished big things, NPR spotlights a different influential black person every morning, and at school my boy has been learning about black influences in the history of our country all month long.  We so often forget that history is not made by one or two, but by many working together to create change.  We credit the Civil Rights movement, its protesters, marches and leaders with the progress we've made thus far, and rightfully so--but the true change?  The true change happened in little schools like Slater-Marietta High where four black kids were marched into a crowd of angry, ignorant, racist white kids to be verbally dismembered.  It happened in hallways all over America when the black kid ended up trying to pick up his scattered books off the floor in the hallway and make it to his next class on time.  It happened in classrooms where kids like Ronald at 14 years old, had to push the hatred and anger aside just so he could focus on learning.  Ronald and those like him, who were bussed into schools as a symbol of integration, made the first small cracks in the facade of segregation.

Because of their bravery, their sacrifice, their pain, I never knew a world where black and white were two separate castes of humanity.  I played on playgrounds with black classmates all my life.  I ate lunch with them, called some of my black classmates my best friends.  To me they were just other people, not lesser people.  Because Ronald and others took on the verbal, physical and mental abuse of ignorance, I grew up in a changed world.

"So Ron, let me ask you this." I said.  "Have things gotten better since then, or have you just learned to ignore or accept that this is how people are?"

"Oh, things are a lot better than they were back then, for sure!" He replied with an incredulous smile.  "There are good white people and bad white people, and there are bad black people and good black people.  There are people of my own race that I don't want to have anything to do with them, and there are white people that are bad too.  I had a hard time for a while, thinking I should hate white people because of what happened to me, but I learned white people can be good too.  Just like black people can be bad.  Race don't matter."

As he packed his yearbook away in a yellow Dollar General bag and got ready to leave, I walked over to him.  Standing beside him I feel very small, not only because he's so tall but because now I know something of the man he is and the adversity he faced to make it to today.  I put my arm around his middle and he rested his across my shoulders.

"You are black history." I told him.  "We hear a lot about the black heroes of the past, but we need to hear more about people like you."

He teared up a little and with his arm still around me said, "You're right.  Nobody knows what we went through.  All of us are black history."

With that he was on his way out the door clutching his Dollar General bag, his history and our country's, to priceless to keep under wraps.