Seed Pearls, Swine's Ears: The Exhilarating And Exhausting Celebration That I...

From this time last year. I hope you like it! ==> Seed Pearls, Swine's Ears: The Exhilarating And Exhausting Celebration That I...: The kids are all gone home, tucked into their own warm beds with their children entrapped in the fatigue and sugar induced coma of the perf...

Road Blocks and Speed Bumps

When we are babies our bodies change visibly every single day, new teeth, longer hair, another shoe size, or larger diapers. One day we can walk under the dining room table without even noticing it is there and the next we bang our foreheads into it. We tip over, fall over, and tumble down stairs. We fall out of and off of anything we are on or in. We stick wet fingers into electrical sockets, put pennies and rocks into our mouths and beads up our nose, stand on high chair trays, pull clothing racks on top of ourselves while hiding under them and watching mom and dad have screaming panic attacks looking for us. Our parents are our road block at this stage, something to get around or under while we stumble and roll through life. We are just learning how to use all of our parts and they keep changing on us. It is a miracle anyone learns everything at all.

Change and growth slow down to a manageable speed when we are learning how to be daring. Mother nature reigns herself in long enough for us to develop courage and grace and speed and a desire to succeed. Riding bikes, skateboarding, skiing, gymnastics, horse back riding, jumping, running, sliding and skating are all approached with an incredible verve and abandon. Danger is something we understand intellectually only. We fall, tumble, take a spill, crash, wipe out, and take a header. Bruises, Charlie-horses, knocks and dings, strawberries, casts and missing teeth are worn like badges of honor. Our bodies heal like magic. Broken bones? No problem, we are back riding that bike with our cast on in a week or less. We shake our heads at parent’s admonitions to be careful, slow down, wear a helmet or just plain don’t do it because we are going to get hurt. How bad can something be when the worst pain can be tolerated with the help of a new Sponge Bob episode or a visit from our very best friend? Our parents are still trying to be road blocks but in reality are more like speed bumps. We run them over with our enthusiasm, our youth and our promises to be careful. We chuckle behind their backs, sneering at their concerns and fears. We are young and we are invincible.

Late adolescence and young adulthood are a whole other story. While most of us give up the things that caused contusions, sub dermal hematomas and lacerations we find new ways to test our body and judge our skills. We are seriously just getting to a point when we know our bodies and we start screwing with them! Alcohol, pot, uppers, downers, acid and other mind altering substances become the new thrill. It takes years to realize that while we are not covered in bandages and held together with stitches we are still doing incredible harm to ourselves. Vomiting, headaches, sleepless nights and comatose days, dangerous sex, loneliness, confusion and paranoia are the order of the day. We say that we must have had a good time because we can’t remember it and remember when we… whatever. The ‘remember when’s’ happen because we are so busy destroying ourselves that the past becomes a beacon for us, for a time we knew what we wanted, when reaching the top of that tree or jumping off that garage was a worthwhile goal and we succeeded at it. Our parents try calling us, stopping by, taking us to lunch at work. We accept this love as a burden we must bear in order to get help when we can’t make the rent or our hearts are broken yet again by the obviously wrong person. We use and abuse them and they keep coming back for more which makes us respect them even less.

Sometime in our early thirties (or for those of us that are a little slow, our forties) we wake up and realize we feel like shit. Our hair is dry, we have bags under our eyes we could pack a wardrobe in, our faces are booze swollen and our hands are shaky. We have stopped progressing at work and our love life is unsatisfying. Our parents, long since having given up on telling us to be careful are happier and more successful than we are. Like a switch flipping and a light coming on we realize we have to slow down before it all goes to hell. We rededicate ourselves to work, to finding someone to settle down permanently with. If we have children we find ourselves telling them to be careful, they could hurt themselves. School, which we suffered through, becomes enormously important for our progeny. We allow them to do all of the crazy physical things we did at the appropriate ages and warn them off of all of the things we wish we hadn’t done early and often. Sometime during this period we have a slow realization that we have, indeed, become our parents. It is disheartening. It makes us feel OLD for a while and then we realize that our parents did ok, they aren’t total ogres and there are a lot of role models that are worse than they are. Our parents can actually become our friends during this period if we let them.

It only takes us forty or fifty years but we finally reach a point where we are content if not the ephemeral ‘happy’. We are making good money and have the respect if not the admiration of our peers and subordinates. Our love life has settled into a comfortable pattern, if not with one person that with serial monogamy. With the help of Advil and Motrin we can still get out on the weekends and do something physical, like snorkel or hike or ride bikes with the wife in the park. Our parents are either wildly self sufficient and intent on doing everything for your children that they were too smart to do for you, or, in sadder situations, your responsibility. You are now their road block, their speed bump, and the person who allows themselves to be used and abused by the crafty old geezers they have become. Your children run rampant. Whether trying to kill themselves with dangerous physical activity or drinking and dancing the night away before an important presentation which will make or break their whole career  they are the only thing that still causes you true concern. You almost look forward to the ‘I need rent money’ or ‘Can I eat at your house tonight’ phone calls because you can see them and judge the state of their decline and in turn the amount of worrying you must do.

Before you know it, in the mere blink of an eye, you are the old geezer worrying your children to death. You either bring home a mini-bike for the 11 year old bookish grandchild or accidentally drink bleach because it is in an orange glass and it might be juice. You are now prescribed pills you would have paid good money for in your twenties but they don’t do what they are supposed to do, much less make you feel like you aren’t falling apart. You look back at your contented grown children and wonder that they made it that far without killing themselves. You wonder how they bore children so smart and pleasant when they were horrid, ignoring you at best, sneering at you at their worst. You finally, sadly, realize what a gift your body, your family, your life here is when it seems all but over. If you have twenty years left (it seems like an immeasurable space of time for a child but it races by as an adult) you need more. It simply isn’t enough to appreciate what God or fate or a random confluence of matter, time and space have given you.

The Three Stooges Vs. Don Quixote

I fight a battle every day. Well, actually myriad, but this one is the big one. Well, not really the big big one but a Lieutenant Colonel in an army of Generals.

The big big one is my vision, or lack thereof. It fights on two fronts, the obvious head on assault screaming at me as it charges “You can’t see shit, you can’t see shit, nanny nanny boo boo”, holding its fingers in the shape of an ‘L’ against it’s forehead, demeaning me at the same time it throws its weapons at me. And the flanking maneuver, surprising me almost daily with little arrows thrown from the shadows; Words disappear on the page, ten feet are gone and I can no longer recognize my kids from 15 feet away by the way they move, now they must be five feet away. It is a sneaky and vile method of warfare and one I know I have no chance of holding my own at, much less winning but just can’t seem to quit fighting. In this case every new defeat steels my determination. I am Don Quixote but my donkey keeps pissing on my bedroll at night.

The big one, the one this writing is about, is depression. I have seen pictorial representations of depression and they are always dark and moody, coloring the periphery with grays and blacks, or hulking, overpowering shapeless beasts that cover and smother and drown.

My depression manifests itself more as an imp, a poltergeist, a malicious sprite. Hiding in nooks and crannies waiting to jump out, slap me around and disappear again under the love seat or out the car window. I know this won’t kill me, I know I can continue to live my life and enjoy giant swaths of it, I KNOW that this little bastard can’t do anything more than rattle me but it is so damn good at it that it is wearing me down.

Like a tiny vaguely painful cavity it reminds me that one wrong bite, wrong step, miscalculation or assumption and it will be there, grinning, slapping, yanking my hair and poking my eyes before popping out of my life in an instant leaving me blinking furiously, growing a bruise, shaken and confused. Picture the Three Stooges rolled into one vaguely poopy smelling creature and me, Don Quixote with a urine soaked blanket. Depression does, indeed, stink.

In The Beginning There Was Nothing

This is the short begining of what may be a longish piece. Be warned! Let me know your thoughts on this.

In the beginning there was nothing. No dark, no light, no heat or cold or wet or dry or loud or quiet of soft or jagged. In the beginning there was a single lucid thought:

“This is not a good situation.”

I can’t say I felt disembodied. I can’t say I felt frightened. I felt nothing, nothing at all and that was what let me know that this was not a good situation. Another thought appeared, floating in the nothingness that was my universe:

“I must keep my wits about me”

This was going to prove to be easier thought than done.

There was no time in the vast nothingness so when I realized I heard something I had no idea if it had been a second after my floating thoughts or an hour. I heard my name, loud and insistent, repeated over and over about one inch from what I realized must be my ear. The sound seemed to tunnel through the nothingness, leaving rends and tears and slamming into my ear, funneling down to my brain and reverberating, sending waves crashing up against my consciousness and irritating at first, then abrading, then scarring the tenuous connection to the world I found myself in.

“Ma’am? Ma’am can you hear me?”

Did I answer?

“Ma’am? Can you tell me what is hurt?”

Huh! I must have. I took a space of time. I can’t breathe, that can’t be right. My arm won’t move. I am frozen in a block of nothingness and something keeps screeching in my ear. I summon every single ounce of strength and courage and life left in me (here I wish I had said or done something heroic or life affirming, instead…) and croak out “Make him shut up”

Another space of time passes I hear someone say “She is talking, she made sense for the most part, we are getting her out.” The screeching stopped. I sank deep into the nothingness.

I open my eye, I am in a room with what seems like too many people, or one person in a white coat with many ,many arms. I sink into the nothingness with relief.

Crap, I have kids! How could I have forgotten I have kids? Someone needs to tell the kids… something, whatever! I still haven’t decided what happened and I really can’t face it at this point in time anyway.

My body is weightless yet weighs a ton at the same time. I can barely  speak but my grunts and squawks get someone’s attention. I need to call my kids I tell them. There is a flurry of activity and a man with no features leans over me and asks what I said. I repeat myself, fading into a whisper, which forces me back into the void for a period of time. Oh crap, I have kids! I swim up and inspire myself by imagining I am kicking like a frogman up from the depths.

When I break the surface of the nothingness an incredibly hot, burning pain sears through my head. I try to grab it but can’t move at all. I think the first clear words spoken by me were “MOTHER FUCKER” Another flurry of activity, the featureless man (whom I could now tell was sporting wire rims) came running back into the room. The light reflected off the rims and sent darts tipped with  red hot coals through my eyeballs and into my brain. I tried to turn from him but couldn’t. I closed my eye (where was the other one?) and muttered I have call my kids.

"Who do we call?"

Now that was a good question. I pondered it for a while, trying to pilot my muddied  thoughts around the ever increasing maze of pain in my head. Ah hah! Call my mom and dad. I could feel the whole room sigh with relief that I was making sense and helping them out.

“What is their number?”

Stymied. I had no clue. They had had the same number for 18 years but it appeared to have fallen out when whatever happened to me happened. I try  thinking of ANY number and realize they are all gone, my folks, my own, my house number, do I have a house number, do I have a mom and dad, what is a mom and dad, oh crap, I have kids!

“Can you tell us their names?”

Thank God, an easy one… Mom and Dad I say with a bit of triumph

“No dear, we need the name in the phone book”

I speak slower, obviously I am not the only one with head issues tonight. Mooom  aannnddd dddaaaddd. Idiots.

My job is done. I feel I have given them the best information possible and the nothingness is sucking at my shoulders, trying to bring my head back under. I haven’t the will to fight it.

A whispered voice, a cool and soothing carress, grabs my attention. I try and I try to swim, try to picture the frogman and finally break the surface of silence gasping for air and feeling the pain surge back through my head and my neck and shoulders as well. I hear the voice I open one eye (I can tell now I have two but only one is working) I see my mom. She is talking oh so quietly to my sister in the semi darkened room. She sounds sad. I mutter something that didn’t even make sense INSIDE my head. When she turned to me and said Oh Jean the first big crack appeared in the nothingness. I hadn’t realized I had been afraid, now I felt an immense relief. She would take care of things. Pain and relief;

it occurred to me I wasn’t dead at the same time that I realized I thought I might be.

Some fun in the AM from this not-always-Debbie-Downer

Courtesy of Scorp Writers

The Typo Goblin

I am the Typo Goblin, my heart is made of flint,
My role in life is simply this: to keep you out of print.
I sneak into your manuscript and do my fiendish work,
... Adding errors guaranteed to make you look a berk.
And then I cast the ‘Careless’ spell: you say, ‘Ah, what the heck!’
And pop your script into the post without that final check.
At length some hapless editor receives your golden wit,
And after reading fifty words he writes it off as ... unpublishable.

- Michael Shenton

Love and Demons

I loved my first husband with a passion known only to youth. I, indeed, would have lain down and died for him if he had asked. I could see no future without him and my past seemed cold and colorless until he arrived on the scene. We grew up together raising four children in the process. It was an ever changing weave held together with laughter and adventure, tears and raw desires. As often happens with unions created in adolescence we fell spectacularly apart. Not quickly, even though it happened in an instant it took eighteen years. Not physically, our chemistry was solid. Not even emotionally, we shared our love of family, shared a religion, and shared a vision of what could be if we just hung in there.

My husband had a ‘nervous breakdown’; an over used but very apt term. As I was going through the nightly drill of dinner cooking, homework helping and living room cleaning his boss phoned the house. Since this was before caller ID was prevalent I snatched up the phone ready to chew out either a salesman or a bill collector, only half paying attention as I stirred, spelled, yelled and diapered.

“Ms. G----?”

“Do not bite your sister!!”

“Hello? Hello?”

“I am not interested, thank you”

“WAIT!! This is Lonnie? From the garage?”

“He’s not home yet; can I have him call you?”

“I just wondered why he didn’t come in today?”

Now THAT got my attention. I turned on the laser death stare, impaling my brood so they froze where they stood and let loose the evil hiss mother’s only pull out when life or death depends on complete and total attention.

“Not at all? He didn’t come in at all? He left at the same time he usually does” I snuck a look at the clock and was shocked to see he had left the house 13 hours before, uniformed, lunch in hand with a kiss and a wave like always.

Lonnie, realizing that I had no clue what was going on quickly backtracked, hemmed and hawed and finally, with a mumbled “I am sure there is a good reason” slammed the phone down. I lit a cigarette, gave the kids their dinner and started making calls. Our family first, then police departments, then hospitals. I finally found a nurse at an ER front desk who remembered him checking in sometime in the morning. She assured me he was just fine at the precise moment he walked in the front door. I was frightened and angry and relieved. I started hollering “Where the hell have you been?” even as I grabbed him hard and hugged him to me.  I looked into his face and saw a fear so deep and dark I recoiled as he burst into tears and hung on to me for dear life. I was lost. We were lost.

I am a mother, I did what a mother does, I hugged him back to me, patted his back and said it’s all right, it will be alright but I knew something tragic and permanent had happened and I was at a loss. Like kissing a child’s hurt knee it was ineffectual but he, assuming I could fix it, cried out his pain on my shoulder

I hustled the kids off to bed. The fact that there were four of them meant that even in a hurry it took a bit of time and when I was finished, the last tooth brushed and nose kissed, I realized he had gone to bed.  The door to our bedroom was locked. I sat through the night at the dining room table chain smoking and worrying.

At six o’clock I opened the sliding glass door to the cool February morning and let the smoke blow out. I made yet another pot of coffee and poured us both a cup. I walked quietly upstairs and hesitated before I tried the door. Still locked. “Honey? Honey it’s time to get up! I have coffee!” I heard a strangled cry and I left the coffee by the door, letting him know it was there, and went to wake up the children.

As the kids squabbled about cereal bowls I peered outside. The regular houses had the regular lights coming on. The regular neighbors were either driving out slowly or returning from a hard nights work. All of my children were subdued, dressing without prompting and eating without enthusiasm. They drug their feet as they gathered their books and backpacks. My oldest daughter finally asking was her daddy ok? I felt my breath hitch as I said he just had the flu, no big deal. “Why was he crying? Does he feel that bad?” I had no answer so I just nodded my head and ushered them to the door.

For the next three weeks he stayed mainly in the bedroom. I would hear the door unlock and I would scurry up to try to talk to him, to gather some clothes, to ask him why. I grew angrier and angrier as I was met with either silence or tears or the locked bathroom door. On the 19^th day I used a butter knife to open the door and started screaming like a harridan.  “What the &$#@ are you doing! Talk to me dammit! TALK TO ME!” I had a shelf with countless paperbacks which I started hurling at the lump in the bed with all of my force. I got into a rhythm with the books yelling “TALK TO ME” whumph “TALK TO ME” whumph “TALK TO ME” until he shot up and slung one back at me. “You bitch!” “You bastard!” We stood on both side of the rumpled stale bed, both breathing hard and ready for battle. “I need to see someone” he finally confessed. “No shit Sherlock” I replied. We went down together to make some calls.

My husband never went back to work. He was diagnosed as Bi-Polar after many failed stops and starts with various doctors and medicines. A couple of years after his initial break I found out what had happened that day.  He had been driving down the road, as always, when a terrible and black void as deep and wide as the universe opened up in front of him. It was full of evil, shadows that took on and lost form as they beckoned him into their terrifying world. Some hours later he found himself sitting in a parking lot on the other side of town, alone, the void gone, the creatures at bay but forever now a part of his consciousness. He did not know who he was or why he was there. As he calmed he realized he needed help and by the time he got to the nearest hospital he knew himself as well as he ever would again. He waged a valiant battle but the demons finally caught him.

A Hearts Desire

I don’t remember any birthday’s before the age of four. I remember being deathly ill and hospitalized. I remember magical moments where I played in the cool German evenings as the sun set and the air cooled and mothers called out to their children to come in one by one, their voices mingling together and rising and falling with the sound of an ice cream vendor's bells to create the music of summer. I remember interminable flights which everyone complained through but I was wedged into the embrace of my mother and thought them heaven on earth. These are the things that make a mark on a toddler; abject terror, perfect joy and absolute love are forever imprinted, birthdays….not so much.

When I turned four I had my first moment of absolute, inescapable, life-or-death scenario desire. I wanted a horse. Nope, I NEEDED a horse. I would never be happy again in my whole entire life (at that point my 14 year old sister was, in my mind, ancient and my brother, soon heading off to college, dead and gone already) if I did not have a horse of my very own.

I knew there was work involved, brushing and feeding and cleaning their hooves. I knew they were expensive, they had to be or everyone in their right mind would have a whole herd of the animals, I knew they were big and bulky and smelly and pooped A LOT. I wanted one anyway. Without one I would die. I decided on a wear-your-parents-down strategy. I pined, heaving huge long dramatic sighs as I threw myself at their feet. The first few times they reacted just as I had hoped, with concern and pats and sweet explanations about why I wasn’t going to get a horse. By the third day they were stepping over me, sliding their feet up under my back and sliding me out of the way, picking me up by the back of my overalls and depositing me like a bag into a corner or nook. So they wanted to play it that way, huh? I ramped up the attack.

At the end of the first week I started crying, huge gulping sobs with one or two alligator tears accompanied the falling to the floor. I would get totally into it, the tears would flow more and more freely, my chest heaved, snot bubbled, and it was AWESOME! I could make myself gag if I kept it up long enough. It was truly Oscar worthy and I knew, just KNEW that horse would be mine. Just about the time I realized it just didn’t get any better and I had a good shot at a guest spot on As The World Turns I was yanked up off the floor and tossed onto my bed. The door slammed and I was alone. What? What? Not likely mom! I stomped back downstairs to air my humiliation and hurt and was summarily picked up and dumped on my bed again. And again. And again. I felt the first terrible frisson of fear run down my spine-- Maybe my mom was going to wear me down first. I retreated and licked my wounds for a bit while I developed a new strategy. Kill them with kindness!! Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

The next morning I came down fairly clean, teeth brushed, smiled at my mom in my prettiest Shirley Temple imitation, head tilted, dimples exposed (I had none, but it was a good attempt) batted my eyelashes and said “Good Morning Mother, How are we today?” My mom, looked at me over her coffee, shook her head and said ”What is wrong with your neck? Did you sleep crooked? Stop doing that thing with your eyes! Is something in them? Why did you call me ‘Mother’? What did you do now?” I tried for a few more minutes but it just wasn’t happening. She was convinced I had a crick in my neck, soap in my eyes and was only being polite because I did some as yet undiscovered bad thing I was trying to get out of trouble for. I stomped off with the grand indignation only little children can get away with. I thought I heard her laughing quietly to herself, but when I raced back down to catch her in the act she was looking calmly out the window, sipping her coffee.

I had underestimated her. My mother was a much more worthy opponent than I had initially thought. I decided a head on assault was what was needed and that, indeed, I had wasted valuable time with my guerilla maneuvers.  Over the next two weeks I went through sheet after sheet of drawing paper and an entire 8 pack of crayons. Pictures of horses littered every surface in every room. Being four they were not the best, I realized looking at them that they didn’t even come close to portraying the magnificent steed we would soon have ensconced on our screened in porch, but they were noble attempts, full of passion and heated desire. I begged for stories about horses, for jodhpurs, for western boots or clean black riding boots, I was pretty easy. ANY of it would be PERFECT. I let our dog walk me and spent what seemed like hours pulling burrs out of his coat after he drug me through the hedge just to demonstrate my ability to care for an animal. I swept (as well as a toddler could) the screened in porch and looked in the newspaper for ads with pictures of bales of hay or pitchforks or tack in them and crookedly cut them out and left them in impossible to miss places (i.e. the toilet seat. I was a very, very smart kid).

My mom took this attack with much grace and aplomb. Over and over she repeated, firmly, DEFINITLY that I was not now nor would I ever get a horse unless I bought one myself when I grew up. Every attempt I made was given the same gentle rebuff. The night before my birthday I cried myself to sleep. These were real tears, so hot they felt like they scarred my cheeks as they ran down into my ears and hair... She patted me, she kissed my cheek, she shushed me quietly. “Have you ever had a bad birthday?” I tried to remember but didn’t even think I had HAD a birthday before so I said no, grudgingly. She left me with a kiss and a reassurance of a wonderful tomorrow, a celebration of me.

I woke up the next morning feeling groggy, my head pounding, my eyes hot and dry and my hair still damp from the tears. My face was stiff from the snot that my heartbreak had released, smeared across my face and dried into a mask of childhood agony. I could not help it. I knew I was being foolish. I knew I was acting like a little baby. I knew if I told ANYONE what I was going to do and why they would think me a true idjit. I inched my way out of the bed I shared with my sister trying desperately to not wake her. I eased the door open and slid out, working my way down the hallway and the stairwell on my tippy- toes, close to the wall where the stairs did not squeak. I pulled open the door, and tried to push the screen door out fast, so it wouldn’t creak and moan but not so fast that it slapped the side of the house when I flung it. I stepped out in to the morning sun with my eyes closed tight as I turned to face the screened in porch.  I prayed to God and my imaginary friends that my parents were just really, really, REALLY good at keeping a secret and opened my eyes slowly—

No horse. I was stunned. I was shocked. I felt smote by the hand of God.

As I stood in mute and trembling shock my mother came out behind me carrying a cup of coffee and a glass of milk. She nudged me toward the screened in porch with her knee and somehow managed to open that door with one elbow while balancing both drinks, steering me and talking about what a lovely day it was. She pulled me on her knee, wiping my shiny face with spit on the edge of her apron.  She combed through my damp hair with her fingers and smoothed my nightgown and pulled me into her and rocked and rocked in the straight backed chair until I slowly began to relax, to relent, to accept the fact that we don’t always get our hearts desire. I dozed off for a bit, waking up as she tried to lay me down on the sofa inside.  She smiled at me and I smiled back at her.

Pieces of Me Part V

On this, the birthday of my fifth and last child, I give you his story.

I had had four children by the time I was 25. I was exhausted, broke and lonely for adult company. I had waged a silent, vicious war for the entire term of my last pregnancy. I was done, D.O.N.E. done! I had two beautiful charming daughters and an adorable and mischievous son. They were all remarkably brilliant, natural comedians, phenomenally healthy, outgoing and charismatic through and through.

My husband thought they were perfect so we should just keep having them, one perfect child after another. I thought that if I had to spend another year changing diapers, practicing spelling words and sleeping three hours a night I would kill someone, and he would be the first one in my sights. In the end I won. It was my body, my time and my sleep that were to be affected. You carry them, I hissed at him more than once, and you can decide how many to have.

I had my tubes tied in mid-September. I felt free and unfettered by worry for the first time since I had realized it was possible to get pregnant if you slept with someone ONCE even if were only 17 and supposedly bright. I had roughly two months of feeling pretty, young, light on my feet. Every milestone my infant daughter passed… rolling over, strained peas, grabbing her toes, laughing out loud… had a new and almost nostalgic quality. I just knew this would be it. The last first- time for everything.

I was working out hard every day. At 7 AM Jane Fonda and I had a standing date for sit ups and squats, toe touches and back bends. I started looking for a part time job. I bought high heels in simple anticipation of actually having somewhere I could wear them. I was ahead of myself but I could taste the freedom that having no babies would give me and I liked it immensely.

I caught a cold at the beginning of December, waking up one morning hot and nauseous. I tried to do sit ups with Jane and felt a wave of heat over take my body and started shaking uncontrollably. A year ago I would have thought I was pregnant but that was impossible now. I had taken the ultimate step. I had nipped and tied, stitched and burned, followed every rule the doctors gave me so it just couldn’t be that. I took over the counter medications for nausea, for headaches, for the flu. I bought Pepto and Maalox, Bayer and Midol. At the end of the second week I walked to the store toting all of my young ones in strollers and backpacks to buy a test. I mentioned I was bright, right?

The test was, of course, positive. Bright blue line, yep, positive, no doubt. I went with my husband to buy another. Positive again.  If possible even brighter blue, straighter line. I made a doctor’s appointment the next morning.

The doctor, having done the procedure a scant two months earlier assured me it was a false positive as he drew blood. My husband and I sat there in silence. It took every bit of control I had to not run screaming into the street in my back tied gown. My husband, who was also bright, realized how close I was to the edge and stayed silent in an effort to minimize his presence in the room.

The doctor came walking back in the room with an over jovial grin and manner and I just knew.  I thought for a moment that I would burst into flames, that I would fall like water with a splash to the floor, that my head would literally explode. My husband was trying to not get up and dance a jig while yelling “In your face!” to me and the doctor was making a mental note about calling his lawyer and checking on the value of his malpractice insurance.

We spoke at once—

Me: Well then.

My husband: In your face!

The doctor: You signed a disclaimer.

As soon as I got home I started calling abortion clinics. I wasn’t discussing it. A girl has to do what a girl has to do. At 16 weeks I was ready. I had arranged sitters. I had several nights meals prepared and in the freezer, my house was clean and my conscience was clear. The day of the procedure dawned crystalline and azure. My head was clear but my heart was muddied. I hugged my babies good-bye, told them I would be home after lunch, poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.  I looked at all of them looking back at me for a minute and then we all spoke at once—

Me: Mommy’s having another baby

My husband: I love you

My daughter: It better be a girl

My son: Can I have a cookie?

My baby: gah

From the beginning this pregnancy was different. My body which Jane and I had been working on for months was not adjusting very well to it’s new co-op’ed state of being. My boobs hurt, my back hurt, my feet went flat and my intestines revolted. My hair turned dry and brittle and I broke out in terrible acne. What the hell?  It turns out though while 25 is very young it is a lot older when it comes to carrying children than you might think. Every time I went to the doctors I was chastised for gaining weight, for not getting enough rest, for not getting enough exercise. I was always treated to little smirks and grins or “what kind of slut are you” looks from other mother’s as I trudged about town with my big belly and three little munchkins in tow. Single women sneered at me and any man under 75 shuddered when I passed with my diapered entourage. I was not, as they say, a happy camper.

As the pregnancy progressed and I continued my quick decent into fat ankled hemmoroidal hell I was informed that my baby was not only breech, but was in fact sitting up facing forward and had no apparent desire to flip himself over and around like a good baby would.  The baby grew so large, and I got so tight that near the end when he turned his head you could make out his facial features. It was revolting and fascinating at once. It’s little hands or feet would press outwards in a stretch and I could trace them with my finger tips.  The end result was that I felt I knew this baby; I had seen his face and tickled his feet even before I held him to my heart. I knew him already and loved him with a fierceness I didn’t know was possible at that point.

Labor Day, 1986.  I woke with a tug and a rend and an “oh crap”. We had stayed at my parent’s the night before, just in case, to be closer to the hospital. Being old hands at this now we calmly waddled to the car and, waving a cheery goodbye, raced to the ER. My midwife (who by now had delivered two of my children) did an ultrasound and assured me that the baby’s butt was socked down good and tight and, since this was my fifth would probably just tumble out and we could be home by lunch. No special precautions were taken, no special rooms readied. We were all so at ease in this situation that I was tempted to ask if anyone wanted to play cards while we waited. Every ten minutes or so she would walk back in and listen to the baby’s heartbeat and check my vitals.  On her third trip into the room she asked us to hush a minute. She turned on the volume so we could hear it for ourselves.

“The baby is in distress, the heart beat is slowing dramatically, we don’t have time for him to deliver naturally, we have to do a caesarian immediately”

Before these words had a chance to register the room was full of people, sticking tubes in me, hooking monitors to me, shoving papers at my husband saying sign this sign this, sign this. They started to wrap my wedding ring in tape but I jerked it off and handed it to my husband. He looked at the band in his palm and said I am going to name the baby after my grandfather if it is a boy. A mask was placed over my face and I was rushed down the hall watching the numbers on the baby’s heart monitor go from 100 to 80 to 50. My last thought was “Please God, don’t take this baby from me now, I am so, so sorry”

I was trying to drag myself out of a deep dark nothingness because something was terribly wrong. My body was wooden, my mouth was full of cotton, my breath rattled and I was surrounded by eerie noises, beeping and hissing their way into my consciousness. A terror so overwhelming I knew it could kill me made me jerk and sit and thrash about looking for something, looking for a piece of me, looking for my heart. My midwife shushed me, called my name, rubbed my back, lay me back down saying over and over it is all right, everything is all right, the baby is all right. I cried like a baby as she held me like a mother.

When I had regained a semblance of calm I realized three things; I had no idea if it was a boy or a girl, my stomach hurt like a sum-a-bitch, and my husband’s grandfathers were named Cyril and Henry. “Boy or girl?” I croaked. Boy! “Name?” Henry Roger! (Thank God. I didn’t know either man, I am sure they were grand, but I didn’t want to pin a kid with the name Cyril in 1986). “Can I have some good drugs please?” Yes!  I smiled as the nurse carried in my little Henry, my baby, my last. Hallelujah, life was good.

Henry passed on August 5^th, 2008. Today is his 25^th birthday. I love you buddy and I miss you each and every day.

Louisiana, Part I: The Way It Was

I recently spent six days in Louisiana in my father’s home town of Abbeville. According to Wikipedia ‘Abbeville is a small city in and the parish seat of Vermilion Parish, Louisiana, United States, 150 miles (241 km) west of New Orleans. The population was 12,267 at the 2010 census. Abbeville is in the heart of "Cajun Country", and is home to many restaurants that specialize in the authentic tastes of the region.

Abbeville is the principal city of the Abbeville Micropolitan Statistical Area, which includes all of Vermilion Parish. It is also part of the larger Lafayette–Acadiana Combined Statistical Area.’

Abbeville for me is a piece of home, something remembered as unchanging, wild and fecund and so beautiful it makes my heart ache.

From left, back row, My mother Ann Sorbet, Aunt Geneva, John Sorbet Jr with baby James, Grandmother Sorbet, Grandfather Sorbet, Aunt Joyce, Mary Sorbet

From left, second row,  cousin Roy, cousin Scott, cousin Rose Marie, cousin Nancy, myself, Elizabeth Sorbet, Uncle Agee, Uncle Harold

From left, thrid row, cousin Jeanne, Joe Sorbet, Robert Sorbet

The old house, 1964

When I was a child we would spend a few days in Abbeville every time we made a move from one of my father’s posting to the next. My parent’s traveled at night, Ostensibly because the traffic was less, in reality because the 6 or 7 or 8 kids in the car slept for the most part, alleviating the need for potty stops and refereeing of arguments which consisted of  ‘He’s BREATHING again’  “She won’t get her elbow outta my face” ‘He has his foot on my book!’ ‘Why did she get a coke when we stopped last time?’ ‘That dog peed on my stuff!! I can’t wear clothes that smell like dog pee!!’ ‘STOP HUMMING’  ‘She’s eating the last apple and I wanted it!’ ‘Get off my pillow!’ ‘Make him STOP BREATHING’. 

While I am sure that my folks often were tempted to make us all stop breathing we would tumble out alive and in one piece and the end of a crushed shell road into my grandparent’s yard and be slapped in the senses with the lovely aromas of ozone and chickens, rotting vegetation and charred rice, fig preserves and baking cinnamon rolls.

If we came early enough my grandmother would still be in her soft faded robe and nightdress, her long graying hair in a thick braid down her back. She had lovely hands, coarse and worn and strong and gentle that made me feel like she could do anything. She had raised fourteen children (that alone merits ridiculous honors) and each had turned out strong and proud and successful in their own right. Others might remember her differently but to me she was always soft spoken and tough as nails. She was the epitomic matriarch and I would have done anything she asked of me.

My grandfather would be sitting in his chair near the fire, waiting basically with arms extended for us to run and hug him or shake his hand. He too was an icon in my mind. A man who knew work, who knew family was all important. I never saw him dressed in anything but overalls. In the cool months he wore long johns under, in the hot months he wore a short sleeve button up shirt under them. He was brown as a walnut with a thick graying curly, unruly bush of hair (which I have inherited sad to say). His Stetson hung on the chair back, his hands rested on his knees, his low gravelly Cajun accented voice swirled around my head mixing with the scent of the rolls and the smell of the ozone and my grandmother’s thick braid  weaving a fabric of wonder and love.

Each of these visits had certain adventures that could be counted on.

We always drove down to Pecan Island for a trip through the swamps while my Uncle Agee pulled his crawfish traps. ‘Gaters would swim right up and under the little pirogue he towed behind his putt-putt motored boat, turtles would swim up and be snagged handily and tossed in the boat with us. The turtles were destined for restaurants in New Orleans, the crawfish for sale all over the state and country, the ‘gaters were cursed as varmints. Once endangered, they now numbered in the tens of thousands and roamed freely literally eating my uncle’s profits and sunning themselves in his front yard.  My Aunt Geneva would often meet us afterwards with iced cokes, their little curvaceous glass bottles sweating rivers in the heat and humidity cutting clear trails through the frosted glass, a rare and wonderful treat for us, almost as exotic as the ‘gaters and swamps.

After Pecan Island we would carry coolers of crawfish back to my grandmother’s house and boil them up in the yard, excitedly waiting for visits from the cousins who were near by. My Uncle Harold and Aunt Joyce had settled near Abbeville so we saw them each and every time. Their children were close in age to the second four in my family and we liked them. They were a bit wild, a bit exotic and we raced around telling them our secrets and listening to theirs.

We always made a visit to their house on our trips as well. They lived on a river and if we were lucky a boat would sound it’s horn while we were there prompting the bridge man, or my uncle or one of my cousins to race out to the bridge to open it, allowing the boat to pass. The old bridge was wooden and had a crank which swung the bridge sideways instead of opening it up like a modern bridge would. Sometimes a car racing across the bridge with too much speed went airborne, hitting the wooden roadbed with enough force to settle it a bit too deep into the mud for further travel. What with the actual road now being 8 or more inches higher on either side than the middle of the bridge, the car would sit, stranded while a tow truck was called and my father and uncles muttered ‘damn fools’. On several occasions my cousin Scott had gotten his hands on a packet of Picayune cigarettes and we would smoke the terrible, acrid things, tuning green and talking about our visions of the future.

My godparents lived a short drive away and we always made a visit to their house a priority. My godfather, Ray Allen, was my father’s first cousin and he was usually working when we visited during the day. He too was an overall or coverall man. He too had the lovely accent, the quick laugh, the enchanting voice, the angelic smile. He loved his daughters and he loved his wife, my Godmother Earline, and he loved his work. My godmother always had a gift for me. She knitted, crotched and sewed. Whatever she made for her daughter’s she made for me. I can not tell you how special that woman made me feel, quick with a hug, with a joke, with a story, with a touch.  I was part of her family. She called me her little blond, her Cher, her Chat. 

Her brother-in-law (another cousin… there are many) would often be there if we came at lunch or in the evening. Everyone called him Bubba and I never questioned the fact, never even considered it might be nickname or an endearment.

These visits were never long enough for me. My father had many, many brothers and sisters and we never got to see even a quarter of them on any given visit. When we sat around the table after supper at my grandparent’s house I saw pictures and heard stories of their exploits, their successes and their failures. I looked at pictures of my many Aunts, Uncles and cousins, most unknown to me or vaguely remembered from a vacation years before. So many were blond! They rode horses (something I always wanted to do), swam in oceans (something I am still terrified to do), they got scholarships and joined the military and got pregnant out of wedlock, they were cooks and scientists and engineers and teachers. All of the aunts and uncles were called by both their first and middle names. For years I thought there must be twenty children in the family and they were all geniuses and beautiful and wildly successful at anything they tried to do. 

Time and age have put these stories into perspective but I still love imagining these hordes of gorgeous brilliant people carrying my name and making the world just that much more exciting to live in.

Pieces of Me Part IV

One morning in the fall of 1984 as I was making my husband a nice fresh egg salad sandwich for his lunch I opened the mayonnaise and made the mistake of looking at it and promptly realized I was pregnant. The by now all too familiar heat raced through my body, my mouth watered uncontrollably as I tried to not lose it, a cold clammy sweat broke out all over my body and I let out a strangled “Well damn it to hell” as I tossed the eggs, the bread, the mayonnaise and my morning coffee into the sink.

My husband rushed into the kitchen, shirt undone, face still have lathered with shaving cream and seeing me hunched over the sink, mayonnaise slicked knife still clutched in one  hand making horrible gagging sounds and moaning said (this is why I love men, right here) “Is something wrong?” While I resisted the urge to turn and stab him with the mayonnaise knife right where his motile little marathon swimmers nestled all smug in their beds I could not help but shout “Does it look like something is freaking wrong?”  Not being a dimwit, he took in my posture, my flushed face, my aggressive almost to the point of “The Exorcist” manner of speaking and tone of voice and jumped up and down, clapping his hands with joy saying You are pregnant! Yahoo, whoopee and any number of other exclamations of unrestrained joy.

After the birth of our son the previous August and the success of his first year my dear hubby, who at one point had thought about leaving me because I had conceived, was ready for a soccer team of his own. He was talking four, five, six, hell TEN kids. He wanted to dance around the kitchen, to call our parents, to tell our daughter and toddling son. I wanted to quit sweating and heaving.

As he bounced about I lay on the cool linoleum floor and wondered how I would ever tell him that this was it, the last one, no more, no how, no way did I ever want to feel that surging heat that meant 18 more years of my life belonging to someone else, of my heart alternately swelling with pride or quaking with fear and shriveling with guilt. My son was still not sleeping through the night, being plagued with vivid dreams even at the age of 1. This would mean TWO sets of diapers, TWO sets of bottles and TWO children clutching hungrily for me in the night. While I was only 24 it had taken me twice as long to get my figure back as it had at 18 (after my daughter was born). My house was covered with toys that stabbed bare feet, clogged toilets where tiny cars and He-Man tooth brushes had ‘accidentally’ fallen in while the bowl was emptying, other people’s children standing shoulder to shoulder with my own, lined up beside the bed staring at me, asking in hushed voices “Are you awake yet? We’re hungry” at 4 in the morning. Slamming doors, crying, shouts of “I HATE you”, singing, squealing, laughing, “I love you mommy”, cartoons and Sesame Street, the Chipmunks Christmas album in August played over and over and over again until I just wanted to scream “Give him the damn hula hoop already!” One more child we could squeeze into the maelstrom that was our teeny house, any more than that would kill me.

After the initial wrenching hour of discovery the pregnancy was smooth sailing. I took my son’s bottle away, telling him he couldn’t stay a baby forever, he was 14 months old at that point and I informed him it was just time to man up and use a cup. He pined for a week, begging me, crying and clutching my ankles, asking for just one more mommy please, just one more.  I would be gentle and firm and then go to my room and cry for the both of us. At 3 o’clock in the afternoon, as hormonal sleep claimed me I would put him with some crackers in the playpen, turn on terrible, trashy  TV for my daughter and pass out for an hour.

My husband was making decent money that year and we had health insurance, a rare occurrence, so other than the ordinary day to day stressors life was pretty sweet. I got rounder and rounder and bustier and bustier and slid through nine months of mild weather and happy holidays at a comfortable pace. As the time drew nearer I tracked down a second crib, bought a few items that were necessary and a few that were just for fun, something I hadn’t been able to do during the last pregnancy. Teddy bears and a soccer ball, pretty new green and yellow onesies and pajamas. At that point in time the sex of a baby was still a surprise and this time one I was not worried about in the least. Either-or since I already had one of each would be just fine with me. We settled on names early on and for the first time ever enjoyed the experience itself. My son who was an accident waiting to happen had me racing to the emergency room on a regular basis but the unborn baby was good as gold.

One reason why this pregnancy was such a joy was because I had decided it was the last, NO MATTER WHAT. We had been waging a mostly silent war fought in quick, hard battles when the children had gone to sleep. I was getting my tubes tied, it was decided, I had already filled out the paperwork, signed the disclaimers, made arrangements for my mother to help my husband with the kids while I was recuperating. He was in turns heartbroken, angrier than I had ever seen him, reasonable and pouty. The argument always came down to this… “When you carry the babies, nurse them and change them, you can decide how many we will have” It was a statement he just couldn’t argue with though he tried his damdest.

My baby was due on June 21^st and I woke feeling heavy and achy and uncomfortable. I called my sister who kindly volunteered to chauffer me around so I could make sure everything was stocked, cleaned, fed, watered and ready so I wouldn’t have to worry about it after. We went grocery shopping, scrubbed floors and washed laundry, made beds, cleaned toilets and vacuumed. My husband cooked out on the grill and when, by midnight, nothing had happened to make me think the baby was going to come that night we went to bed.

I was dragged out of sleep by the cry of my son, lost in another dream he was thrashing about and shouting. I stood up to go to him and felt what can only be described as the bottom falling out, literally. I went from no labor to the final stage of labor in one quick hot instant. SHIT! I yelled at my husband who leapt up, naked as a jay bird and tangled in the sheets yelling at me in return SHIT SHIT SHIT. We both threw on clothes and I slid down the hall on my butt, yelling to my kids that everything was okay, aunt Mary was there and I would see them tomorrow with the baby. I bumped down the stairs still on my rear. I had a feeling that if I stood up the baby was going to fall out on its little head and we were 30 minutes from the hospital.

I was picked up and dumped into a chair which was dragged to the car where I was tipped, like a load of manure from a wheel barrow, into the front seat. I could see my sister dialing the phone, calling the doctor while she waved and yelled “Good luck!”. The car roared to life and we raced into the night. It was 2:07 AM.

My husband drove like a maniac, taking corners on two wheels, hammering the horn at the one unlucky car in front of us at that time of night. I would scream for him to slow the hell down but then another wave of contractions would hit me and I would scream “Hurry up! Hurry the eff up!”. We made the 20 mile trip through sleepy small towns in record time, arriving at the emergency room doors at 2:24. I had no choice but to stand, to wait for a wheel chair would have meant the baby coming out on the sidewalk. I am no stranger to embarrassment, no prude by any stretch of the imagination but I was ab-so-lut-ly not going to have my baby bare assed on a sidewalk in the middle of the night.

I began walking with my hands between my legs which were bowed like an old cowboy, quickly if not gracefully toward the entrance just as my midwife drove up. She tried to get me to lay down, wasn’t happening, she tried to remove my dress, unbuttoning one strap then the other only to find that I could, indeed, stop the baby from tumbling out AND button a button with one hand while suffering terrible contractions and cursing like a sailor. The three of us, myself, my husband and my midwife created a millipede like creature with flailing arms and awkward gait until we finally made it up to my room where we broke apart, myself to the bed, my hubby to the chair and the midwife in baseball catcher position at the foot of the bed. As nurses rushed in with the requisite instruments for tending to the new born I felt a lovely rend and knew my baby was tired of holding on. Looking down the length of the bed I saw the midwife smile and then tense. My husband and I both saw the lines deepen around her eyes, the tight set of her lips, and watched in horror as first our baby’s head, then feet, then head again, then feet again, then head flashed in front of her grim visage. At the end of the baby-gyrations she held a perfect little doll up over her head and yelled “it’s a girl and she is fine!” Apparently the cord had been wrapped around and around the baby and she had tossed and turned the little gem, unwrapping as she delivered her like a lovely gift at 2:31 on that beautiful, beautiful morning.

The End

I have been thinking about funerals today, the myriad of funerals and memorials I have gone to and what they did (or didn’t) do for me.

Funerals are always unique, always a little strange, always unsettling.  There were the big ones, my husband, my sons, my mother’s. There were also a lot for people to whom I had no great attachment but attended out of a sense of duty or respect for the family left behind. From each of these I took memories and sentiments, leaving in exchange a piece of myself in the form of tears or sadness settled down upon the casket or mixed in with the ashes or folded up with the flag and tucked away out of sight until the next service brings them rushing out leaving me to deal with the residual confusion of emotions all over again.

Never fear, I am not going to trot out my angst, lay bare my soul, set out my sins like platters of cheap  buffet food so you can pick through them, discreetly spitting out bits and pieces into your kerchief or a potted plant. Those are mine and God’s and I won’t burden or titillate you with them. What I am doing is planning what I want done in the event of my passing. This ought to be fun!

Pre-passing:

If I am laid up somewhere, a hospital or nursing home or whatever and you get a call from someone saying it’s time to say good bye please feel free to rush to my side. If you loved me, and I loved you it will be nice to say goodbye, I will miss you, take care and travel well. If you did not love me, and I did not love you it will be good for me to say see you, glad I am done with you and for you to say the same. This will give me an opportunity to fantasize about haunting you, making it rain on your picnics etc, finishing up my last hours with a bit of malicious cheer. You in turn can talk bad about me, literally for eternity after that point in time, so we should both be feeling pretty good.

After having been through two bed side vigils, one for a person I actively disliked and one for someone I loved totally I feel safe in saying I don’t want one. No-way-no-how do I want people that I love suffering through that. for everyone else there is no point. You will either stand rocking from foot to foot or sit slumped in a chair fighting a nap and wishing I would just hurry up and get it over with, text discreetly on your phones and leave often for water and bathroom breaks. All in all NOT a good experience for anyone involved. Go home at night, take your kids to the park during the day. If I am going you not being there is not going to change it.  One last thing. The nurses are paid for nursing, let them do it. I do not want my last hours spent watching my loved ones dealing with something as lousy as death.

I’m a Goner:

I have departed this vale of tears, time to get on the phone. First off, call everyone you think would want to know, either friend or foe. Do NOT call a church (or your favorite preacher). I try to be a servant of God, but I am just not too keen on churches in general and, frankly, most preachers. I have barely entered a church or listened to someone preach for 35 years. I am not such a hypocrite that I want one to talk about me when I pass. If doing so would make you feel better then I apologize, but I think my funeral should be about me. After all, this is my last hurrah, give me it in its entirety. Along with no religious trappings goes no casket. Please, cremate me. Bodies are so… extraneous when one has passed don’t you think? Ashes as well in the long run. I want them spread on the earth or the water, or shot up packed into a firework over the sea. Get rid of them. No urns, no boxes, no mantels or closet shelves. They are residue. I was so much more than that. The garden sounds good, or a creek, or hang the container out the car window as you speed down the highway. That is probably illegal but I do love seeing new places and it would make a hell of a photograph is someone had a camera handy! Last but not least, have someone with a sense of humor who loved and respected me write my obituary. Those things hang around forever and I want it to be a good read and I want to sound like a really interesting person. I am vain, what can I say?

Even though I am not a fan of most civilized rituals surrounding death I do love me a good wake. This, ladies and gents, is what makes a celebration of life, not a nod to death in my opinion. Music from Enigma to Billie Holiday to Eminem please! I won’t be offended if people feel the need to shuffle their feet. Dancing is glorious, I say go for it! Liquor should definitely flow freely but someone please keep an eye out. One wake I went to ended up with several women being groped by a drunk that didn’t even know the woman that died. Being evicted from a funeral would give the offender a good story to tell, if they remember it, as well as some lurid entertainment for the more staid attendees. A wake with a bouncer. I like that.

Children should definitely attend, hold it close to a park where they can run free together, calling to each other, shouting into the gloaming of the day. If they remember a lovely laughter filled adventure and not the reason behind it then we have done the job right. For generations cousins have gotten to know each other at weddings and funerals and now is no time to change that.

While I like the solemnity of dark clothes for a funeral, I like the sense of occasion they bring I am certainly not insisting on them for anyone. If I pass in the summer wearing black by choice would be downright masochistic and insisting on it would be sadistic. I am putting my foot down now though. If anyone tries coming into the wake with their pants down around their bottom and their boxers showing toss them out on their ear! If you didn’t respect me enough to pull up your pants why the heck are you at my wake anyway?

Feel free to tell stories about the stupid things I have done. Lord knows I have told plenty of them myself (this blog being a case in point). People are funny! If you want to talk about how I was no saint go home and do it (refer to pre-passing above). I screwed up plenty, I know this, we all do. If I haven’t managed to make amends by the day of my wake I am pretty sure it isn’t going to happen so get over it or trash talk me, just not at my party.

Post Wake

Remember me in some way and know that I have met up with so many I loved and am in a better (or at least vastly different) place.

Slick, The Chicken Hitcher

I know several people who have chickens. I find that, in general, they are inordinately fond of them. They tell chicken stories the way I find myself telling grandchildren stories. I try to catch myself before I whip out the latest pictures or talk about the glory of the little ones being potty trained. I realize that while I find them the most fascinating people on this planet  others may not. Chicken owners have no such boundaries apparently.

I have heard about the eggs hatching, the poopy butt checks, the number of little roosters that were supposed to be hens, the drama of hawks and other predators swooping in and snatching (or missing) them as they eat rocks in the yard. I have always had a hard time getting excited by these stories. I mean, chickens eat rocks. Rocks. In my opinion, enough said.

I am confessing all of this because I find myself at the age of 51 with a story to tell and that story involves a chicken. There are no pictures, I will spare you that.

The story begins like this; It is a beautiful summery Saturday morning. The birds are singing, the flowers are perfuming the gentle breeze and we are loading a saw with a blade that refuses to be straightened into the back of the truck. We are going to go pester my brother- in-law, Jack, who owns a similar saw into helping my husband figure out why the heck it is crooked and if it can be fixed or if we need to return it to the store from whence it came.

As we pulled up in the driveway he came ambling out of his garage with a chicken on his shoulders and a turkey on his heels. Both birds are adolescents and, quite frankly, I found  them less than attractive. The turkey threw itself on the hot concrete at my feet as if shot, spreading its wings out crookedly and laying it’s head at an impossible angle.  The chicken looked on from its lofty perch and pecked Jack’s ear as if to point out what an idiot the turkey is. I think the turkey must have had a stroke and the chicken is just ill mannered but Jack assured me this was not so.  Apparently, turkeys- like reptiles- enjoy sunning themselves. The chicken, Slick, thinks Jack’s ears are grubs. Overly dramatic turkeys and ear eating chickens not being my cup of tea  I go chat with my sister while the men folk fix the saw and talk turkey, literally

As we were leaving we stood around in the driveway chit-chatting about his and that and shooing off the chicken who keeps settling on the truck tires in the shade of the wheel  well. The saw is loaded back up, goodbyes are hollered back and forth a la ‘Waltons’  and we puttered off home.

By the time we got home it was over  90 degrees in the shade. A consensus was reached and we hopped back into the truck to go to the pool. Two hours were passed in sunning and soaking, the hottest part of the day idled away lovingly and languorously until our sinful enjoyment was brought to a screeching halt by a phone call. It was Jack, calling to tell us that we had run over his chicken as we left.  The way he pictured it the little bird was sitting on the tire, innocently enjoying the little bit of shade. As we backed out it MUST have leapt to its bony feet  and started running, sort of like a lumber jack in a log rolling contest. The chicken was obviously a superior athlete because he couldn’t find hide nor hair of it but he did see a chicken shaped grease spot at some distance up his road. I had an insane image of a plaid clad chicken with a teeny axe under his wing running for his life. This was quickly replaced by the image of a lovely pot pie just seconds into his tale. Sometimes my lack of empathy is down-right frightening.

I was horrified (and feeling guilty about the pot pie, savory looking though it was), my husband disbelieving, both of us saddened that SOMETHING had happened to Jack’s shoulder sitting pet. We sat around the pool for another 30 minutes but the fun had gone out of the day. We had killed Slick, apparently in a brutal and terrifying way. Back into the truck we went and drove home at a funereal pace to shower and change. After 30 minutes or so we came back out prepared to go to the grocery store and buy something (for some reason we all wanted chicken) for dinner. Realizing he had forgotten his wallet, my husband went back in and came out a few minutes later.

He was about halfway through the yard when he went to his knees saying ‘Oh My God’ over and over. Terrified, I ran to him, ‘What is it” I cried sure that he was pulling a turkey on me and stroking out at my feet. ‘It’s . Jack’s. Chicken.’ he gasped, pointing under the truck. I was afraid to look, knowing I would see little feathers caught up in the drive train or a rigored claw sticking out from the wheel well, baked by the sun and covered with flies..

I bent down to peer under the truck after preparing myself for the worst and Slick stared back at me with his beady little chicken eyes, very much alive and rather stuck on himself I thought. We stood there, struck dumb, all of us at this point were indeed monkey’s uncles, or sumabitches or darned.  It had been roughly four hours in terrible heat and Slick looked as cool and unruffled as If he had just stepped out of the coop.

Not being a chicken person I enlisted (okay, conscripted more likely) the help of our house guest in rounding up little Slick and made him ride back to Jack’s with the his body between mine and the fowl. Slick perched on my husband’s shoulder and looked out the window, turning and pecking his ear just as we pulled into the drive as if to say ‘thanks, grub’.

Jack was VERY happy to have his little bird back, the turkey stroked out at our feet , my husband proclaimed himself  the honorary guardian of the fowl and Slick had a hell of a story to impress the chicks with.

Pieces Of Me, Part III

When I was 23 I found out that I was pregnant for the third time. We had lost our son Steve to SIDS and had decided to never, ever have another child. We doubled and tripled birth control when I was feeling especially fecund. We watched the calendar like hawks always knowing exactly where in my cycle we were so that we wouldn’t have any unexpected ‘incidents’. Who knew that a quart of moonshine, terrible weather and a good night with new friends would undo 5 years of caution?

We had moved to Georgia and were living in an apartment with single pane windows and no air conditioning that had been old when I was born. A mountain man that hunted with my husband had given him the moonshine and several of the men he worked with came over with their wives for cards and corn likker. The evening was wonderful, full of laughter and amity. My daughter had been charming and well behaved. The food we had prepared had been well received. Everything had been wonderful and we were feeling relaxed, happy, and as people left, more and more amorous. The weather outside was frigid so when we realized that we had no more condoms we decided to just trust my cycle. This is called the rhythm method and explains why so many Catholics have huge families. I woke a couple of hours after our tumultuous meeting in the throes of a horrific hot flash and feeling a bit queasy. I wanted to blame it on the moonshine, the corn likker wreaking havoc with my system, but I knew as surely as I was laying there sweating and shaking that I was pregnant.

I couldn’t tell my husband for a while. This was so huge, and so scary I just worried it in my own head until I was certain that I was expecting. When I told him he turned a bit green, said okay, grabbed his motorcycle helmet and shot out the door like a bullet through a barrel. That was our only discussion about the baby for 8 months. He simply refused to acknowledge it at all.

I had learned something the last two times I had delivered. I knew that I could expect to feel vaguely uncomfortable for some period of time and then deliver the kid in roughly five minutes. The baby was due the Monday my daughter was supposed to start kindergarten and all signs pointed to this one being on time. I made plans with my mother for us to sleep at her house the night before and for her to baby-sit just in case this delivery actually progressed like it was supposed to.  The official due date dawned hot and sunny and I felt pretty sore. When I stood up I felt a tremendous shift in my pelvis and yelled out excitedly, This is it! This is it! My husband who had successfully pretended for the entire pregnancy that I was just getting really fat in a weird way leapt up and took charge

We got to the hospital at 7:30 AM and were in a delivery room within five minutes. My favorite midwife was in attendance along with my husband and my mother. My mom had had eight children and six grandchildren by this point and had not seen a single birth. She had been sedated for hers for no other reason than that is how they did it way back when.  

This baby, our son, was delivered in less than 30 minutes, though not with the fanfare of his older brother. This was my third delivery using only curse words and jokes as a means to mask the pain of it and it went off without a hitch. They asked my mom to cut the cord, and, while she looked a bit green in the gills (caused by both my language and the birth), she did and with a purpose that surprised me. She kissed me good bye and left to take my 5 year old to her first day of kindergarten just an hour late.

I, who had carried this child, this beautiful boy for 9 months not knowing if my marriage or he would survive his coming was suddenly terrified. When the nurse handed him to me I started shaking like a leaf and my terror was so palpable that it made him wail and shake as well. His father, who had not talked about him, or gone to the doctor with me, or looked at little clothing or painted walls or bought toys, took him gently and he quieted instantly. My husband touched his little face with a work worn hand and turned his head so that his tears would not fall on the milky new skin.

Pieces Of Me Part II

Having had a baby once, and being incredibly young and stupid, I assumed that I knew what every birth thereafter would be like.

My daughter had come in mid October. It had been easy, and drawn out and quiet, full of naps and whispered conversations with my husband about the future. My second child came in a much more frenzied manner. I woke knowing that this day (December 1rst, 1978) was it. We couldn’t afford a phone so I put on my parka and boots (contractions 10 minutes apart, no big deal), grabbed my small bag, plopped my 14 month old in her stroller shrouded in heavy quilts  and headed out the door into a 10 degree winter morning for the one mile walk to the base.

My husband’s unit handled nuclear devices so security was tight. I stopped at the gate and identified myself and told them what I needed. A phone call was made. A second, higher ranking man came to the gate and took my ID. For some unknown reason these soldiers always felt the need to remark on the fact that my husband had an American name and was Belgian and I had a French name and was not. My contractions had begun coming closer together and this lieutenant showed no signs of being in a hurry. I hopped from foot to foot, patting my woolen mummy of a child on the head and tried to see around him. He was jovial and talked to my daughter and complained about the frigid weather and asked did I like the snow and were we ready for Christmas. By this time the contractions had sped up considerably coming about 3 minutes apart and the hospital was 15 miles away.  I heard my breathing take on the tenor of a steam locomotive, I felt a terrible urge to put both hands between my legs just in case I had to catch the little bugger myself, I was just about to lose control of my mounting temper (as any army wife knows, permanently destroying my husbands chance of ever being more than a PFC) when I saw my man running flat out across the parade ground toward me, waving the car keys and shouting Breathe! Breathe! He leapt in the car, gunned the engine and shot out of his parking spot He did a sliding stop at the gate, throwing the door open, allowing me to stumble in as he snatched up my daughter and threw her face first into the back seat leaving the stroller where it sat.  Sliding back in he gave a wicked grin as he saluted through the window and ratcheted the car into reverse and then back into gear and we peeled out spraying ice and salt all over the starched officer.

The hospital was old, six stories with the OB-GYN rooms being on the top floor. Normally a rickety old elevator, pre WW-II, serviced the upper floors but as luck would have it the thing had died during the night and was taped off. I looked at the stairwell, feeling like someone on TV, looking for hidden cameras. What could I do? I took off my coat and began the hump up 120 stairs. My husband took my elbow but was called back by the young soldier behind the desk. Government institutions, any government institution, runs on paper and this military hospital was no exception. He turned around to fill out what seemed to be fifty forms in triplicate while I heaved myself up.

On the ground floor my contractions were about a minute apart. By the fourth floor they were hitting me like surf, constant, and by the sixth floor I was done. I slung open the fire door with a bang and grunted NOW. A young corpsman stood in front of me looking terrified and glued to the spot. I can only imagine the hot, sweaty, red-faced, pissed-off, heavy breathing behemoth that stood in front of him at that moment. Two men, who thank heaven turned out to be doctors, literally lifted me off the floor by my elbows, through a door and plopped me unceremoniously on a bed. I yelled ARGGHHHH or something similar as my drawers were ripped off and whoosh, one fellow stood at the end of the bed, drenched in amniotic fluid and holding a freaking gorgeous 10 pound baby boy like he was a football while the other was struck immobile in the process of closing the door. I still had my coat clutched in my hands.

We remained frozen in place, a vivid tableau with the only sound that of water dripping off the bed frame until my husband burst in the room with our daughter on his hip and a disbelieving look on his face. He hit the puddle and slid into the bed and gave me one of the best kisses of my life. I started laughing, he started crying, my daughter and the new baby both started howling and both doctors started whooping with glee and adrenalin release. The entire thing took less than an hour. I resolved to climb stairs and walk miles if I ever went into labor again.

I found out later that the officer was a friend of my husband and had been sent to occupy me while he finished up whatever a gunner does. He appeared at the hospital an hour after our son was born bearing flowers and a toy for my daughter and a cigar for my husband. I often wondered what happened to him. I haven't seen him since.