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.

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.