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.

Pieces Of Me, Part I

I have had a lot of truly wonderful things happen in my life. Glorious things that make me stop and thank the heavens above. There are moments I have conscientiously tucked away thinking this is a perfect instant in time and so should be treasured. I want to keep them near my heart. I pull them out with a child’s delight, savoring the unfolding memories and laying them like quilt pieces, seeing the beauty in the squares, the lovely pattern that is my life.

I have the birth of my children for instance.  My first took place in a dark quiet room with only myself, my husband and a young doctor, just reassigned and catching me as his first patient. He is so new to this base that his bags are quite literally lying in the corner in a heap. There is a second heap, my husband’s kit. He is going off on a three day maneuver to Greece as soon as the baby comes (if it comes before 4 o’clock).

Like everything else before and since nothing has gone according to plan.This baby is four weeks past due. My husband had taken his vacation the week it was supposed to come. No baby. His parents had come to stay the week after. No baby. My neighbors and friends checked on me constantly the week after that. No baby. This week was the worst possible week ever for me to deliver. Hey! Baby! My parents are thousands of miles away and my friends are all busy helping their husbands get ready for the same trip to Greece. We have been mostly undisturbed in a room in an empty ward, chatting about the future, doing crossword puzzles and dozing in and out since 3 AM. I have no idea what the baby will be. I hope it is a girl, my husband is sure it is a boy. My doctor is 'not available' which bothers me a bit but they all seem calm so I am too.

My husband keeps looking at his watch, the clock on the wall, my watch, all the while trying to not seem as if it matters, though it matters terribly to both of us. At three o'clock in the afternoon a young, harried looking man comes in to the room, dumping a pile of stuff behind the door and introduces himself as my doctor. I am barely 18, my husband is barely 21 and the doctor looks barely 12.

Right when I am sure something is  wrong with this child who refuses to come, that the doctor is really a kid who took the wrong bus and said what the hell, that we are the only living souls in Bonn on this rainy October afternoon I feel a tremendous push, then another and bam. In less than five minutes 12 hours of really easy labor comes to a screeching halt and I am holding a stunning little girl. My husband, with 29 minutes to spare is crying. The doctor, who blames it on jet lag, bursts into tears as well and soon confesses he has never delivered a baby before. My daughter and I size each other up. I am sure I am found lacking. I must be, because I am a mere mortal and she is the epitome of perfection.

The Yard Sale

Another sort of story. I hope you enjoy it. Pass the word if you do!

***********************************************************************

I feel cluttered up, I realize. I feel like I can’t move in my own house anymore. Things are piled up taking the air and the light from the place that I live, making me feel small and abandoned and afraid. Time to have a yard sale.

I don’t know if yard sales are popular everywhere, but here in the Deep South they are almost a tradition. We bring out our dross but also our gold for others to paw through on beautiful weekend afternoons. It is true that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I have treasures I have bought at such sales that I wouldn’t part with for a million dollars. I also have heavy decorative things that I paid way too much for that I can’t wait to get the hell out of my house.

Some yard sellers are highly organized individuals, they spend weeks going through their attics and deep dark cellars judging the value of objects carefully. They clean, they label, they affix a price. They sort by type, by size, by color and by age. They have a trash pile and a good enough for charity but not worth a quarter pile. They never ever have the I know I buried this down here out of sight but now that it is cleaned up I might just have to keep it pile.

I am at the other end of the spectrum when it comes to deciding what goes into the yard at dawn. I decide to sell things at the last minute, I sit and ponder for two days thinking where did I put so and so or I know that was a gift but gawd I want it gone! I wander through barely lit spaces dragging out boxes and peeking inside. I say ‘That’s where that went’ as often as I say ‘I knew that piece of junk was still here somewhere’. If I am not careful I go on a rampage. Haven’t touched it in two months? OUT! Haven’t noticed it’s beauty in a month or two? OUT! Do I need two things so similar even if I love them or need them totally? OUT! Just tired of this life being cluttered and yearning to be free? OUT! OUT! OUT!

I also keep things for no good reason. If something stood me well at any time in the past, I feel obligated to keep it. If I reached for it once an eon ago and it was where I had put it the eon before that, I keep it. I keep artifacts from those that have come and gone through my life both good and evil; My mother’s robe, my son’s pocket knife, my first husband’s cuff links. I take them out mad in my desire to empty the corners and come to a skidding stop. The shock is so sudden and so loud in my head I can almost hear the noise it makes it the room. I gently brush the wrinkles from the robe and bury my face in the soft terry. I know it is impossible but even after 7 years I think I can still smell her on the fabric. When my son died this robe soaked up an ocean of tears and an oil slick of anguish, substituting it cotton embrace for my mother’s touch I had wrapped myself in it night after night until the pain had lessened just enough for sleep to drop in for a moment. I refold it and tuck it back away, crying and shaming my self for even considering it for a split second. 

Because it is ritual with me I go from the robe to the knife. I hold it and laugh. My son worked at a concrete plant and the knife has been rendered unusable. A Swiss Army knife, all of the spaces between the blades and screw drivers and hooks and bottle openers and corkscrews are packed with concrete dust soaked with his sweat, resulting in an eternally preserved, concrete entombed amazing piece of engineering. One lone blade, the corkscrew hangs out teasing, taunting the viewer, forcing them to wonder what blades remain encased. I always ask myself what spared the corkscrew. My son would drink a forty but he would never open a bottle of wine. And why did he have this useless piece of metal and stone in his pocket the day he died? My husband and I had given it to him one Christmas, years before. I like to think he carried it for the same reason I kept it. To remind himself that he was loved, that people were out there who would give up their lives for him if asked. I wish he had asked.

His father’s cufflinks rest in the same bag. They are a child’s, given to him on the day of his confirmation. They are gold squares with an elaborate monogram, WYG, etched into the smooth face. For years when I saw them my stomach turned and a black, venomous anger swelled up inside me, a chant arising unbidden ‘youselfishnogoodsonofabitchhowcouldyoudothattoyourchildren’. I had thrown them away a million times, only to dig them back out from the coffee grounds and the empty milk jugs and put them away for another day, another time. 17 years have passed since he died and I can finally look at them, not with love or affection, but not with that soul eating anger either. I say ‘huh’ to myself and put them, with a bit more care, into the bag. I tie the drawstrings tightly, once more smoothing it’s contents and place it softly on the clean, well lit and airy shelf where I try to keep it. Pain is as important as love and joy in this life. I realize that.

The day of the sale dawns (or will shortly, it is 6 AM) softly and I waken early, pour a too stout cup of coffee from a pot only half through brewing. I pull on sweats and tennies and get to work. Tables are pulled out of the garage, from the back porch and out of the breakfast room. Mismatched cloths are used to cover their stained or cracked or scuffed up finishes and to showcase the items that will be sitting on them. Boxes of books (I loathe giving up books, but they bring people to these things) are lovingly lined up, spines all facing the same way, with one or two being set under the table with the longest cloth, having decided that I absolutely couldn’t part with this copy after all.

Cartons and crates with odds and ends go next; Candle sticks and salt and pepper shakers and ashtrays and banana holders and doilies and odd cutlery and old handbags lay next too a drill without a charger, barbells, framed  photos of strangers with the price tags still on the back, random children’s toys and a box of buttons. A few stunning objects take center stage, Murano glass ware, sterling silver brightly polished for the event and jewelry. These would be the money makers, but will most likely not sell. Jars for keeping odd screws sell, the cordless drill (with no battery) to tighten them sells, the Italian vase for 5 bucks will not but it will make people stop and shop.

A few last-minute-thought items sit on a box half under a table. I know I need to get rid of them, they aren’t doing me any good, but I am not sure I can part with them either, so they sit, sort of displayed, sort of not, waiting for fate to make the decision for me.

The first few customers come early but don’t buy anything. They take a quick walk around, looking for items for their thrift stores or flea market booths. A man, a professional yard sale shopper, asks me off handedly if I would sell my five dollar vase for a buck. I tell him I bought it in Venice myself, I know it is worth more than a buck and he snorts, pulling out his handkerchief and making a rude, rude noise. He tells me he will be back at the end of the day to give me a dollar for it because it sure won’t sell for five and lumbers in his dirty boots and old jeans and sprung suspenders back to his filthy, creaky truck and putt putts away. I am a bit irritated but the slow and steady flow of buyers takes my mind off of him, allowing his ugly aura to dissipate with the rising sun like the last lingering wisps of morning fog.

A man jumps out of his car, looking irritated with me because he felt the need to stop. ‘Hey!’ He shouts while scanning the objects about him, everything (except my beloved books and the box containing the items I have been unsure about letting go) in plain view. ‘Hey, do you have any lamps I need a lamp!’ I look around at the tables containing even the proverbial kitchen sink, but no lamps and state the obvious. ‘Uhm, no, no lamps.’ ‘Well I need a lamp’ he wails as if expecting me to whip one out of the pocket of my sweatshirt and present it to him with a chuckle and a flourish.. I suggest WalMart, he glares at me as if I told him to go to hell and storms back to his car, gunning the engine and pealing out of the driveway like he was in Knightrider. ‘Weirdo, weirdo!’ I say to myself while smiling at the lady with four kids struggling across the yard.

‘I need a night light’ she says as her head swivels trying to keep an eye on all four of the kids swarming around the yard. ‘I haven’t got a single one, sorry’ I answer as my head swivels also trying to keep an eye on all four kids swarming around the yard. Somehow both of us miss one of them pick up stones from my garden and start tossing them at my car. I yell at the kid, because it is my rock, my car and my yard. She looks a bit miffed and snatches him by the ear, tugging sharply so that he comes up on his toes and back pedals as fast as he can to get closer and therefore reduce the pressure on his ear.

‘What’s in that box under the table?’ She asks me in a confrontational tone, as if she thinks I am hiding a whole box of night lights from her on purpose. There isn’t a night light in the box but now I wish there were several, all perfect, all exactly what she needed and none of them for sale. I try to explain to her that it is full of old items that I am not sure I need anymore, but not sure I want to sell either. She bends down and drags it out into the light. ‘What the hell…..’ she mutters as she and the herd of children start rummaging through it like so much dross. ‘These look like lights’ she hollers triumphantly as she yanks one out and holds it in my face accusingly. I am mortified. I can feel the flush start at my toes, now shooting roots into the ground so that I can not move, and race through my veins to the very top of my head where it breaks out in a cold cold sweat.

‘Ummm, that was a not so bright idea. I thought it was a great one, it burned like lightening for a few moments but then dimmed perceptively once I turned my full attention to it.’ The idea still held a little glimmer, a little glow letting me know that it wasn’t the worst idea I ever had but not much of one. Not enough to make a good night light that’s for sure. She turned it in her hands, this way and that way then asked me flat out ‘Why in heaven’s name did you think this was a good idea in the first place? Anyone can see this will only cost you more money than you have and more time than you have and the emotional investment alone, well that right there shows you it is a damn bad idea’ My arm jerked out spasmodically, grabbing my once shiny idea and shoving it into my pocket. She laughed at me and the kids sneered as she herded them up and out of my yard.  I pulled my little idea out and saw that she was right. Any glimmer of light left in it was just a reflection of the midday sun and that in the daylight it looked flawed, irregular and ugly. My heart broke a little with the realization. I turned and shouted at their collective backs ‘Your kids smell like pee!’ and I threw the bad idea after them as hard as I could, but it fell short and skittered across the pavement and away from me as her laughter wafted up into the heated air.

I feel suddenly exposed, sitting in the middle of my yard surrounded by junk and fight back the tears and the anger that threatens to stifle me. I pulled my box over and started to take out the items one by one. The idea to make my living through painting was big and heavy, still pregnant with possibility and hope but in the harsh light of shame and anger I saw that it would never bear fruit as long as I kept it in my possession. I rubbed it with the hem of my shirt until it shone like a gem, an opal in the center of a mound of crude rock, and laid it on the closest table. My idea to be a teacher was cracked, having suffered from dry rot when I realized I was D O N E with other people’s kids in general. It could be salvaged, I supposed, but my heart sure wasn’t in it anymore. A quick buffing and it too took it’s spot between the deviled egg plates and Christmas decorations. My idea for an English garden (hello, I live in the Deep South) was moldy and had no hope whatsoever of being revived, at least in my area so I tossed it into the dustbin with a satisfying thunk. As I sifted through the ideas, both big and small my mood began to lighten and my spirits to soar. Decorating ideas? Polish and price. Adoption? Dustbin for sure! The idea of a dog or similar pet? On the table the furthest from me, front and center, priced to sell. A few went back into the box to be kept and possibly resuscitated at some point in the future. The idea for an Alaskan cruise, that baby is staying here! I may never use the idea but it is so much fun to get out and play with every few years that it is worth the space it takes. The idea for opening my own restaurant? Although cumbersome, frighteningly heavy in fact, I see its possibilities and still have faith in it. I carefully put that one back, hiding it under the others. It is near and dear to my heart and I do not want the neighborhood rapscallions taking it out and questioning it’s worth.

Under the pile of ideas lay the personas I have shrugged off throughout the years. I had honestly forgotten they lay in this box, weighted down by ideas to keep them in place and seeing them gives me a start, a quick heart beat of panic and I try to slap the cardboard flaps in place before any of them can escape.

‘Yoo Hoo!’ I snap my head up from over the box to see a little old lady come toddling across the uneven grass. Torn between the need to hide these pieces of me and the desire to help her keep her footing I sit on the box and reach out a hand to her. She is a sweet woman with nothing better to do than drive around to yard sales and talk to the people hosting them. She wants to talk about the weather, about her health, my health, her children and their health, the misguided youth of today and that thing called reality TV.. As she wanders from table to table I must stand so I put a heavy plate over the top of the box, hoping that any persona for which that would not be a deterrent is either so far down in the box or so long unused as to be dead and therefore not a worry to me. As I try to follow her progression around the yard, her baby blue cotton no wrinkle shorts and pastel colored flowered camp shirt looking cool and comfy, her white orthopedic sandals cradling her bony feet and a suitcase sized white plastic purse over her arm I am reminded of my grandmother and forget to keep an eye on the box. She finally settles on salt and pepper shakers with a chicken motif and I give them to her for a quarter. I don’t think she has even that to spare but is too proud to not buy something after talking my ears raw for an hour. I offer her the matching napkin holder for free and help her to her car, an old Cadillac that was her dead husbands.

Feeling nostalgic now, and slightly saintly for having tolerated her presence with good humor long after she ceased to be entertaining I turn toward my seat and feel terror grip me. A couple of old persona are playing soccer with an idea and are not going to be easy to get back into the box.

One of them is little, slightly chubby, and black and blue. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I wail as I rush forward and try to grasp it by any available part. It promptly falls down, crying, gnashing it’s teeth and saying ‘I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry’ over and over again. ‘Stop fucking apologizing!’ I hiss at it ‘ I don’t do that anymore! That is why I got rid of you in the first place and it wasn’t easy, let me tell you!’ ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry, so very sorry!’ I pull back my leg and with all the frustration born of years of taking the blame for anything just to keep the peace I boot the little bastard into next week. My sultry persona watches him fly into the distance and turns towards me, a sneer in her lips and a cigarette in her mouth she thanks me for finally getting that little toad out of her life. ‘Listen missy, you are not hanging around out here either. I used you, I know. I took advantage of your coldness and ego centric thought processes but I have moved on from you too. I don’t need that, I am in a better place now.’ She slowly straightens, pushing up her breasts and evening out the hem of her blood red silk dress she glares at me. ‘How can you do that? How can you just box up the persona that got you through the hardest time of our life? Didn’t I get you laid? Didn’t I get you through school? Didn’t I allow you to just boot that little bastard into next week?’ ‘You did’ I make the exclamation without thought, my hands flying to my mouth. ‘You did’

I sink to my knees in the grass, shocked and confused. How have I dealt with life without her being a part of it? She is my strength, my heat, my drive all rolled up into a sexy package begging to be unwrapped. I look as she sits in the only chair, sniffs at my iced tea and drops her cigarette into the glass. She stretches out luxuriously, crossing one ankle over the other and turns her face to the sun. I open my mouth, an apology coming unbidden when it hits me; the little black and blue toad has sidled up on me and is ready to lay himself like a mantle on my shoulders. ‘Aw hell no’ I mutter as I flick him aside like dandruff.  I stand and turn to face her, blocking the sun and forcing her to look at me for a change. ‘You did do those things. HOWEVER you also made me put my kids second, you made me put my safety second, you made me put my dreams second. Because of you half of the ideas you were just kicking around died a needless and untimely death’ I feel myself growing tall and taking on light as I confront her with her failures. ‘You and the toad need to get back in the box or I will show you for what you truly are, no one here will want you’ I threw open the box flap with as much force as can be mustered with tired cardboard and pointed a long finger. ‘In, NOW!’ The toad covered it’s head, cowering and ran crouched to the box, diving in with relief at having escaped unscathed. The ego in the red dress muttered that she would be inside, waiting, she had decided to go home with the man with the dirty truck and the sprung suspenders if he came back for the vase. He, she told me, would appreciate her.

As the sun began to wane I took stock of my situation. The tables still help piles of stuff, but much less than they had. The few really good ideas had been purchased or purloined or just gone off on their own to find someone who would do something with them instead of keeping them in a box. My pocket held a few more dollars than it had this morning, my nose was burned and I felt newly at peace. As I packed up the remnants for Goodwill the man who wanted the lamp drove up, rolling down his window and hollering ‘No lamps yet?’ ‘No, try Walmart’ I hollered back. He drove into the cul-de-sac and in the middle of his turn stopped and opened his car door. I saw him reach down without getting out and pick up my little irregular idea from the gutter. As he held it it glowed, faintly at first and then brighter and brighter until it almost blinded us both. Well I’ll be damned I thought as he drove by yelling ‘I knew you were hiding a lamp!’

My dear husband came out to help me wrap and pack and I asked him would he like a bonfire this evening as I picked up my box from the yard.