Yeah, this place is great -- now when do we eat?

Sport and LegoGuy have this endearing little thing they do when we go to museums. I always forget about it until we're actually at one of these monuments to history, and then I have the urge to hit myself in the forehead and say, "Oh, yeah."

They have a race to see who can get through the museum the fastest.

SO and I rediscovered this at the Clinton Presidential Library. We'd chatted with the security guards while they checked our camera bag for explosives, and then visited with the friendly volunteers while the boys made a mad dash for the escalators. We'd barely made our way through the Campaign exhibit and past the Cabinet room full-scale replica before Sport was back, bouncing from one leg to the other.

"Wonder what's on the third floor?" he asked.

"Honey, pace yourself. Take a look at all this stuff. Hey, here's a letter from Bono!"

That held his attention for about 5 seconds. Quickly, I passed him off to his dad and hid out in the Timeline alcove. Then, I ran into LegoGuy.

"Is President Clinton dead?"

"No, he's not dead. Why don't you spend some time at one of these interactive stations and learn something about him?"

The family gathered in the Orientation Theater to watch a short film on Clinton's life and political career. Then it was off to the 3rd floor to see a reconstruction of the Oval Office and keepsakes from world leaders presented to the 42nd American President.

"When are we going to go eat?" It's Sport again.

"It's only 10:30, kiddo. Can you give us another half hour?"

My favorite moment came at the end of our tour. I talked one of the volunteers into summoning an archivist from the bowels of the library. Dana used her special magnetic key to take the family past the security doors and into a section reserved for researchers. She told us she was one of 9 archivists employed at the Clinton Library. Her background was in Political Science/Museum Studies, and she and answered all my questions with enthusiasm.

"So few of our visitors are interested in how the documents are organized and accessed," Dana said, and went on to explain their cataloging and classification system, which is decided by the White House of Office and Records Management (WHORM). It sounded arbitrary and chaotic to someone used to the rigidity of AACR-2 and LC classification schemes. On the other hand, it sounded like a completely fascinating job. "Some of our research projects can last up to 2 years. We become experts in the subject over that period of time. I could write a book!" Dana trilled.

The boys were sprawled on a couple of leather couches, glazed looks in their eyes. I took pity on them and wrapped up the visit.

We walked down to the gift store where I bought an "I miss Bill" bumper sticker. I'm thinking of sticking it on my dad's car, right above the "Loveya Dubbya" that graces his back window.

Too late, too early

Today has probably been the most relaxed first-day-on-the-road-trip we've had with the boys. LegoGuy set up an adolescent bachelor pad in the back seat of the rented mini-van (complete with GI Joes, miniature airplanes, and books), while Sport took residence in the middle seat, thumbing through his card games. SO put in our homemade trip CD, featuring artists such as Johnny Cash, Emmylou Harris, Snow Patrol, and Sia, and we were off on a smooth ride. Surprisingly, we didn't run into any construction on I-40 until just outside of Little Rock. That never happens.

The hotel was right off the highway. We unloaded our gear and thumbed through our Arkansas Travel Guide. Eeyore had recommended we visit the Central High School National Historic Site, and we negotiated the streets in downtown Little Rock to arrive promptly at 4:30 -- right when it closed. We peered through the glass, but the park ranger, clad in regulation brown, wouldn't even look up from the cash register where she was busy tallying up her drawer.

At least we could look at the high school. It was just across the street, and enormous -- much bigger than I had ever imagined it to be. I'm not sure the boys understood its significance, but SO and I were glad to have the opportunity to see it.

Shank had recommended we try out Doe's Place, supposedly a favorite Clinton eatery and hangout when Bill was governor. We parked and showed up at the door at 5:00 -- 30 minutes before it opened for the supper crowd. We were eyeballed by a group of men standing on the corner by the Salvation Army. Sport suggested we pull out the soccer ball and have a game while we waited, but we were too hungry, and piled back in the van to look for another eatery.

You know how this turns out, don't you?

We got caught in rush hour traffic downtown, waylaid by an accident, lost in the suburbs, stopped back in at the hotel to ask directions to the nearest restaurant, participated in a "heated" discussion, before finally pulling into the Fireside Grill for hamburgers, quesadillas, and fried cheese. Afterwards, all the boys wanted to do was go back to the hotel to swim.

The hotel seems to be rather loud -- with huge diesel trucks pulling in and out of the parking lot. I hope I sleep tonight.

I got the "Hunnerd Percent Cotton" blues

It's the same thing every year: I get jazzed about planning our family vacation, plotting the trip route, picking sites to visit, checking out the Off the Beaten Path guides for a destination jewel, and then, before I know it, it's the day before we leave on our trip. Pre-departure day. I spend the next 8 to 10 hours loaded down by the drudgery of list making and packing. It's enough to make me swear off any future family vacations. But, like birthing a baby, you forget about the pain once you're on the road.

Because the next 8 to 10 hours are so much worse.

Every pre-departure day brings with it a distinctive meltdown. In the past, we've exploded over lost spatulas, misplaced tennis shoes, what kind of music CDs to bring, and excessive stuffed animal passengers. Our latest melt-down ocurred over laundry. I thought I'd done every last stitch of laundry in the house, but overlooked the one in our bedroom. Of course, this contained all of SO's newly purchased t-shirts and shorts, so he started a load about 7 o'clock and finally pulled it out of the dryer around 10 p.m.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" I heard him shout from the TV room. "These shirts are ridiculous! Look at these wrinkles!"

I checked the tags. "100 percent cotton. They'll need to be ironed." We stared at the pile of clothes, frozen like deer in the headlights of an H3.

I'm not sure what this little episode augurs for our trip to Memphis, but I think it has the potential for a great little blues song. Here's the first verse. I'll work on it some more and keep you posted, if I can find a local library in Little Rock that welcomes out-of-towners. Leave me some suggestions for a second verse, if you're up to a challenge.

Hunnerd Percent Cotton Blues

Got me a package of t-shirts,
Washed 'em with water and soap.
Pulled 'em out of the dryer,
And lost e'vry last bit of hope...

Oh, I got the blues,
Hunnerd percent cotton blues.
Them shirts are wrinkled, and shrunken, and sad,
Don't know what it means, but it must be bad.
I got the blues, them hunnerd percent cotton blues.

God moments, part 2

I grew up in San Antonio, South Side, and most of my friends were Catholic. They’d invite me to catechism on Wednesday nights, but I always had plans. In the evangelical church I grew up in, Wednesday nights were dedicated to NYI. There, I was told that all my Catholic friends were going to burn in hell because they worshipped Mary. Not in so many words, of course – they were more subtle than that. But this is the message conveyed in the pulpit, in Bible study, in the songs we sang: We’re right, they’re wrong; We’re in, they’re out; We’re saved, they’re damned.

I knew it was heretical, but I didn’t believe it. No matter how many times it was crammed down my throat, a part of me would whisper, “It’s not true.” My faith evolved over time, and I came to believe that God’s grace was extended to all. I still considered myself to be a Christian.

But the definition of “Christian” has changed significantly in the last 20 years. Now, many in the mainstream connect Christianity to the words and actions of people such as Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, James Dobson. These men may call themselves Christians, but I don’t identify with them. They have hijacked my faith.

How to get it back?

The other night, a group of ten gave a special presentation at my church. They are members of CrossWalk America, and are trying to change the face of Christianity to be more compassionate, more in touch with everyday life, more justice-oriented, and include Jesus’ radical welcoming of diverse people and viewpoints.

After the presentation was over, I found myself talking to a gentleman I'll call M. He had a white beard, great tan, and kind smile. He was about my father's age, and was raised as a Baptist.

"I was as conservative as you can be," he told me, and we discussed our similar backgrounds. But he told me he'd had a change of heart about ten years ago. I tried to picture my father changing his personal belief system, but I couldn't do it. It was impossible to imagine what would bring about such a radical switch in my dad.

Apparently M had made friends with a woman at work, and they'd really hit it off, had lots of things in common. Then, he learned she was a lesbian. His personal relationship, his love for this woman -- his friend -- called into question everything he'd been taught, everything he believed in, and he found he couldn't believe it any longer.

I shook M's hand, looked into his eyes, and saw something holy. I was reminded of a lyric from a Les Miserables song: To love another person is to see the face of God.

I sat in my car after the program and sobbed. Love changes everything.

Love changes everything.

God moments, part 1

God talks to me.

Now, before you dismiss me as just another Joan of Arc wannabe, let me explain.

As my devoted readers know, I’m a cataloger, and part of my job requirement is checking page numbers, making sure the book is not defective, assigning subject headings, noting additional authors, editors, illustrators, etc. Sometimes I get caught by a paragraph, and skim part of the book. It's impossible to read every book, although that’s the stereotype that most librarians hear each time we introduce ourselves and mention our occupations.

“Oh, you’re a librarian? I’d love to have a job where I could just sit around and read all day!”

Anyway, back to my original assertion. God talks to me.

I’ve never heard a voice, never felt the ground shake, or seen a burning bush. But when I’ve needed to hear from God most, I’ve experienced what I like to call “God moments.” Call it coincidence, serendipity, fate or destiny -- it’s happened so many times I refuse to believe it's a random event.

So lately, I'm sick and tired of fundamentalists. From any religion. During the early part of the Iraq War, I was traumatized by images of kidnapped victims, held by Islamic fundamentalists and then beheaded. When Margaret Hassan, a charity work at Care International, was executed, I couldn’t sleep. I kept having nightmares. I stopped listening to the news, even to NPR. I tried, as my pastor has said, to view these people, the “other”, as human beings, people just like me. But I truly could not imagine myself in their blood-soaked shoes. How could I understand their motivations? How could I stop myself from hating them?

Now, it’s the fundies on the Religious Right who are on my last nerve, demanding a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, pulling the puppet strings of elected officials, cramming their intolerant agenda down the throats of a relatively moderate public. And check out the latest video game to be backed by these guys in the name of sharing the Good News of Christ. I don't get these people. What motivates all their fear and loathing?

The answer came in a book I cataloged by Jim Marion: The Death of the Mythic God: the rise of evolutionary spirtuality. In it, Marion discusses how the consciousness of human beings evolves upward from one level to the next, beginning with the archaic consciousness of infants all the way up to the Christ Consciousness and nondual consciousness demonstrated by Jesus.

There’s a lot to this book, but here’s what struck me (and what I call my latest “God moment”) was a paragraph in which Marion detailed the mythic level of conscious.

People who function at this level, such as religious fundamentalists, believe their religion, scripture, ethnic group, nation, morality, and values are supreme. They see themselves as good, the “other” as evil. God is on their side. They “see their intrinsic self-worth in terms of external rules and roles. They assume that everything in their immediate cultural environment is the only true way to do things, and the only true way to think. Tolerance and understanding for other points of view and behaviors, and compassion for people who hold these views and practice these behaviors, are simply not possible. They can’t see any good reason for even attempting such tolerance because, for them, this would be a betrayal of their external God, the God whose rules and roles define their entire self-worth.”

I like to group myself with people functioning at the rational level of consciousness. We “see the world as one, believe all people are created equal and have the inalienable right to practice their own religion, see the world as governed by universal scientific and spiritual laws that apply to everyone no matter what their politics or religion.” As Marion says, “Thus they usually tolerate fundamentalists even though the favor is normally not returned.”

I feel like my faith has been hijacked. So what can I do to let others know that not all Christians are fundamentalists? Stay tuned for God Moments, Part 2.

Slowly mouth the word "vacuum" and people think you're swearing

My dad took off for the Great White North and asked me to check on the Grand Dame and her daughter during his 10-day leave. Mom's expecting a visit from her best high school girlfriend on Monday, thus the impetus for a frantic phone call.

"Queen, can you come over and vacuum the house? Lord knows I can't do it; my bones are too brittle." She's got the osteo.

I was just over there on Friday and offered to vacuum, but she'd said the house was fine. Two days later, the place had suddenly become filthy. I wondered if Grandma had thrown a kegger on Saturday night.

Sigh. I grabbed my keys and pulled the minivan onto the main road, mouthing "vacuum" at every aggressive driver who passed me.

As expected, the carpet looked fine. I could still see the groves cut into the carpet from its last vacuuming, but knew there was no point in arguing. Turning the behemoth on, I started working the acres of thick white carpet, ignoring the twinge in my lower back. I'd pulled a muscle early that morning while out yanking weeds in my garden, but I knew the pain I felt didn't hold a candle to the possibility of my mother snapping her tibia or losing a toe bone in a freak suctioning accident.

"You don't have to vacuum my closet," I heard my mother yell from the back of the 3,000 sq. ft. house. Thank God! The only time I ever vacuum my closets is in the rare instance that I do a spring cleaning, which is about once every ten years.

"That carpet don't need cleaning," Grandma shouted from the comfort of her recliner. "It's just fine like it is." I nodded, but kept on going.

The truth is, my mother is a clean-a-holic. Despite four children and a full-time job, she obsessively cleaned the house from the moment she got home until she dropped into bed at 10 every night. She set the bar so high, I knew I'd never be able to match her housekeeping zeal. Before I had kids, I didn't even try. SO and I co-existed with a relatively relaxed set of rules: 1) If it bothers you, then you clean it; and 2) Wash your own damn clothes.

It worked pretty well. Then, we reproduced.

LegoGuy came along, and everything changed. Sleep deprivation combined with a rather long recovery period due to a difficult birth. (The kid was just a little too big, and the stitches a little too numerous.) After about six weeks, I snapped out of a fog and realized I was wading ankle deep in clutter. My mother would never have been able to live like this. She'd have it whipped into order in no time. Why couldn't I get a grip? I sank into a deep depression.

My doctor said I was suffering from Supermom Syndrome.

"What matters is bonding with your baby. Give yourself time to heal. Everything else will fall into place. Eventually." He patted my shoulder.

I didn't trust it to all fall into place without some kind of effort on my part. My organizational skills kicked in and I came up with a weekly schedule, with all the chores broken down into manageable chunks on a day-by day basis. We still use this system today.

And I only vacuum once a week. Even if it doesn't need it.

Flight

Never pass up the opportunity to swing. One of my many maxims. Whenever we're out walking the dog and pass by the neighborhood park, we'll let Bella off the leash to explore and take a few minutes to swing. With each arc comes a liberating sense of freedom. I'm usually able to get really high, pumping my legs faster and faster. Then, when I've gotten as high as I possibly can, the thought pops into my head.

Jump!

Why is the thought so compelling? Launch yourself out of that black plastic seat and into the air. Sail up into the branches of the trees.

Fly!

As a kid, I did this pretty often. For one brief moment, I'd experience the exhilaration of flight, poised with my arms raised, before gravity took hold and pulled me back to earth. I'd land painfully, twisting skinny ankles or tearing up my knobby knees. Once I even landed flat on the ground, knocking the breath right out of me.

I'm older and wiser now. I don't jump. But I can see the thought is not far from the mind of the child swinging next to me. "Don't jump, Sport. You'll break your glasses."

His mouth widens into a grin. I know he's going to do it anyway, so I don't watch. The next thing I know, he's dusting himself off before running back to do it again.

LegoGuy has always been interested in flying. When he was barely 3, he'd spend lots of time drawing pictures of his favorite superhero, Superman. He'd meticulously ink in a black curl on Superman's forehead, and a beautiful red cape. At night, he would pray, "Please God, let me fly."

There are plenty of stories about gullible children, seduced by Superman stories, tying towels around their shoulders and jumping off roofs, only to break their legs. I'd patiently tell LegoGuy that due to the laws of gravity, people cannot fly. We are simply too heavy. That's why we invented airplanes.

"But God could make me fly, if He wanted to." LegoGuy was adamant.

"Honey, God is not going to suspend the laws of gravity just for you."

So LegoGuy's never tried to leap from the roof and take off into the air. But shortly after this conversation, I took him to a nearby airport. This place had a great little diner. It served pancakes and cinnamon rolls. Pilots flew in for breakfast, parking their private planes nearby. LegoGuy was mesmerized. After about half an hour, a man came over to talk to us. He and his son had flown in from who knows where, and had been watching us from the diner window while they ate. "How 'bout we take this boy for a ride?" the pilot asked.

My first thought was: He'll take us up and throw me out of the window over Lake Hefner, then sell LegoGuy on the black market to some desperate, childless couple. But his son was staying behind, and I doubted the pilot had ulterior motives. This is Oklahoma, after all, and most Okies are above the board, kind and generous. Mostly.

So we went up. LegoGuy wouldn't crack a smile, but that was because he was focusing intently on what he was seeing. The pilot even let him take the wheel for a moment, and it was an amazing moment.

Now, LegoGuy talks about joining the Air Force. He wants to be a pilot so he can fly, defy the laws of gravity, and seek the face of God.

As for me, I'll stick to swinging. Maybe I'll risk a little jump every once in awhile, just to keep me young.

Anne and Tom are not welcome here

I have been awarded the Monkey Totem, a small idol carved from the husk of a coconut. It sits near me wearing a black pair of wire-rimmed glasses, hands clasped to its ears in homage to Edvard Munch's most famous painting. It mocks my failure.

I lost at Book Lover's Trivial Pursuit.

Our Memorial Day celebration was extended to our small but faithful circle of friends: Shank & the Collatress, Eeyore & Willa and their brood, and MamaJ. Due to circumstances beyond their control, only Shank was able to make it. We plied him with steaks, chicken, an assortment of salads, drinks, and a key lime dessert concoction. Then, sated, he issued the challenge.

"How 'bout we play a board game?"

SO groaned and gracefully declined. That left two highly competitive uber-librarians to pit their knowledge, skill and recall in a fight to the death.

I started strong, quickly grabbing three pieces of the pie. I was throwing out random literary nuggets from the likes of Dickens, Melville, and Poe. After having lost the last 3 Scrabble games to Shank and his lovely wife, it was rewarding to see the sweat break out upon his noble brow. Sport hovered nearby, offering to roll the dice. "I'm lucky," he declared, slamming the dice onto the board and halfway across the room.

Then, the kiss of death. I got too cocky. Perhaps I was distracted by the soccer game SO was watching and the lean, muscular thighs of the Westbrom goalie, but when asked to name the author of the popular novels featuring a Southern vampire, I completely blanked out.

"Anne somebody. Tom Cruise was in the movie. Vampire Lestat..." I stuttered. I knew it wasn't Ann Rule, but I couldn't see through the mist in my mind. What was her last name?

Time passed. More pieces of the pie were won until we were both neck and neck. Back in the center of the hub, he hit me with non-fiction questions while I parried with kid lit. Then, the nail in the coffin:

"What popular fiction writer wrote a non-fiction book about a submarine?"

"Aaah, Harrison Ford was in that movie. Patriot Games. He wears sunglasses..." Again, I choked. What was my problem? Am I such a literary snob I erase these popular authors from my very subconscious?

Shank won by recalling the title of my favorite Jon Scieszcka children's story, The Stinky Cheese Man.

The Monkey Totem sits here, and I swear his eyes are sad rather than malevolent. He knows it's only a matter of time before I'm checking into the Alzheimer's Longterm Patient Care Center down the street. And he's coming with me -- so I can use him to bludgeon the next person who asks me to play another boardgame.

Saturated with girls

It's official. LegoGuy has a girlfriend. He's been fighting them off all year, and last week was finally reeled in by a cute little thing with highlights in her hair and a budding figure. They've eaten together in the cafeteria, hung out on the playground, and, on the last day of school, held hands during orchestra.

"I'm really going to miss her this summer," he sighed. I love the fact that he hasn't figured out how to use the phone to invite her over, or arranged to meet her at some clandestine location after we've all gone to bed. He's clearly puzzled by the feminine mystique: why she gets insanely jealous seeing him talk to a girl he's been friends with since 1st grade, or pouts when he doesn't immediately rush to her side during recess, or scribble her name on his arm in blue ink. He likes her, but he hasn't been swept away in the manner that she has. Thank God for small miracles.

In the meantime, Sport came home completely exhausted from his last day of school. "I was saturated with girls," he told us. He'd been hugged all day as the girls in his class were distressed at the thought of not seeing him over the summer. "My neck is chapped," he complained. I found a handwritten note in his backpack, a heartfelt message printed in nearly illegible letters. "I will miss you, Sport!"

Aaah, puppy love -- a necessary yet somewhat painful step on the path toward maturity. I remember it well. In the 7th grade, Steve asked me to "go around" with him. He popped the question the day before summer vacation. Shyly I accepted, and our status improved significantly in the eyes of our middle school peers. We were now a "couple". I didn't see him again until September, when he broke up with me and starting going with another girl. That was okay, as I'd fallen deeply into puppy love with a church boy. I would suffer from that particular crush for the next three years.

E was 2 years older than me, Hispanic, with beautiful green eyes and a dreamy smile. I was so obsessed with him, I filled my diary with the most mundane of details: whether or not he'd looked my way, smiled at me, ignored me, brought some other girl to church, sat nearby. The intensity of my feelings for him were overwhelming. I was too shy to do anything about it, and in high school, a 2-year difference is practically a gulf as wide as the Grand Canyon. But I really believed I loved him, and when someone told me what I felt was "puppy love," I was furious. I felt as if I'd been dismissed.

To make matters worse, my dad teased me relentlessly, chipping away at the fragile layer of self-esteem I'd managed to build up by getting braces, a good haircut, and eye make-up. But my mother was kind, letting me buy a ring with E's initial. I wore it to school, pretending we were together. It was a harmless fantasy.

As far as LegoGuy's romance goes, I'm treading very carefully. One boy's puppy love is another's True Love.

The sound and the fury

I'm recovering from another duty visit to my folks' place, or the House of Dread, as I call it. Whenever I go by, which is about once every week and a half, I'm treated to a bad remake of a Fellini film. As the oldest child, I feel a certain obligation to make sure the triune of elders are doing okay. But once I've been there for about 15 minutes I'm eyeballing the clock, begging Chronos to speed it up a little.

My grandmother is always eager to see me, though she often calls me by my youngest sister's name. She orders Sport to play the piano, and he runs through his repertoire in no time. Meanwhile, my mother is reciting her usual litany of family-oriented news, with a dash of church news for added spice. She finishes with the chilling details of the death of a former San Antonio congregation member. "Pancreatic cancer," she whispers, shaking her head. Dad, stoic and silent, whisks SO away into the study to remove the cookies embedded in the computer. LegoGuy escapes into the magic fingers massage chair, ignoring the nervous energy in the room.

At one point a clock starts to chime. It's the battery-operated Seiko. Mesmerized by its garish tackiness, I watch as the face drops down to reveal a little figure made of red plastic. It starts a manic jig to the tune of "I could have danced all night." At this point my mother puts on her latest CD, purchased from Dollar General. "Fifties classics!"

She can barely contain her excitement, and turns to Sport. "Don't you just love this song?" she asks as "Purple People Eater" starts to play. Now, he's never heard that song in his life, but he nods politely.

The clock treats us to a concert of four additional songs: theme from "Phantom of the Opera", "Tonight", "The sound of music," and "Memory". All the while my mother is talking non-stop, asking questions and then moving on to another subject when I try to answer. After awhile, my responses grow monosyllabic. It's all I can do to keep from screaming.

What terrible thing did I do in some past life? How the hell I ended up in this family, I can't say. I'd like to believe I'm learning a lesson in patience and tolerance, but by the time our hour is up, I'm ready to kill somebody. Most likely myself.

I finally escape from the musical assault and wander down the hall to find SO. As I enter the study, I'm afraid I'll find more than I bargain for. Surely there's a corpse lying on the guest bed in full repose, swathed in a bridal gown. Faulkner may have written stories about creepy Southern families, but he didn't grow up with mine. We'd have provided additional material for his novels, I'm convinced.

Luckily, SO is just finishing with the computer clean-up. We gather our things and head out the door. When we get home, I'm headed right to the garden to pull weeds in an effort to calm my sound-induced fury. My mother is still talking to us from the front stoop, dressed in her lavendar babydoll pajamas. I wave like I can hear what she's saying, rolling down the window, catching her final words as they fall from her mouth and scoot across the lawn toward the car.

"I loooooooooove yoooooooooou!"

Just what do you do?

I've gotten some grief lately over why I don't write about my workplace and my job as a cataloger. It's simple: the work I do is tedious and a little dull. We don't get many people wandering in to watch the trained monkeys. Hell, the other day, the library executive director came by the circ desk downstairs and asked for a key to cataloging. A key! As if we're escorted to our 12' x 15' room and locked in each morning. How else could they get anyone to do this kind of work?

Ask me what I do, and I'll try to keep it as simple as possible, narrowing my response down to a couple of sentences before you get that glazed look in your eyes. It's like data entry, only more complicated. It's logic and access points and taking a 3-dimensional object and translating it into a 1-dimensional medium. A constantly changing field, with a language unto itself.

But mostly, it's relentless. This poem sums it up:

Cataloger's day

book book book book book
book book book book book
book book book book book
book book (break) book book

book book book book book
book book book book book
book book book book book
book book (lunch) book book

It goes on for another 3 paragraphs, but you get the idea.

I wish I had the ability to retain every little detail I read, the tidbits of information I pull from paragraphs scanned: topics such as the Black Death, bartending, brownies, barbeque, bird migration. Sometimes I surprise SO with an occasional nugget I dredge up from the back of my mind. "How did you know that?" he asks, amazed. "Read it somewhere," I shrug, secretly thrilled I remembered. If I had total recall, I'd be some kind of game show freak. Poised to hit the big time with the weight of my cerebral superpowers, I'd make a million dollars and buy an RV, traveling across the country in search of the perfect blackberry jam. It'd be a sweet life.

As it is, I'd barely remember the books I read last month if I didn't keep a reading journal.

Our contribution to society

I wonder. Are we making a positive contribution to society by raising kids? After another bedtime meltdown, I despair of them ever making it out there on their own. How will they find a fulltime job, performing complex duties and requiring critical thinking skills, when they can't even remember to throw their clothes in the laundry after a shower? Or find their shoes in the morning for school? Or clean off the table after a meal? It boggles the mind.

I think they have possibilities; I can see they're special and unique, but then, I'm their mother. I'm not sure what other adults are thinking, especially after getting yet another email from Sport's teacher. "I have to ask ... Did Sport live in Germany, go to school on a bus, get involved in a roll-over bus accident?" I assured her that we'd never been to Germany and he'd never been involved in a roll-over accident, although there are times he distracts me with his endless questions and I want to crash the van to stop him from talking.

Sport's latest obsession is favorites. He could go on for hours, asking: What is your favorite _______? (color, animal, professional football team, planet, food, number, teacher, president, drink, restaurant, book, fish, car dealership, insult, knock-knock joke, movie). The list goes on and on.

When I've finally had enough, cranking up the radio to drown him out, it's LegoGuy's turn.

"On this episode of the Simpson's, Bart did this thing, and Homer ate something, and Lisa was involved in saving this whatever, and..." You get the picture. I usually zone out as he rambles on, reciting the storyline in a monotone, interspersed with "likes" and "uhhs." All the while, I'm panicking at some deeper level because I know there are kids out there like SGK who are delving into the geography of Africa or learning the causes of WWII, while my children are studying the plots of a subversive cartoon sitcom in which the main character is a sarcastic, disrespectful brat.

Not that I was any kind of superstar as a child. I swore off Saturday morning cartoons when I turned 12, but I didn't do it because they bored me. I did it out of some misguided belief that I was superior to my brother and sisters and watching cartoons was beneath me. I used to doodle in class, ignoring the teacher, sketching out my dream for the future: a cat ranch. Yes, since there are so few cats in the world, I figured I'd be the owner of a ranch full of cats, breeding and selling them to an enthusiastic public. As I got older, and realized that cats might not sell so well, and changed my goal slightly. I would have a horse ranch, raising thoroughbreds in the Kentucky hills.

I'd read a book during math, hiding it behind my thick textbook. Mr. Cuellar, my 4th grade teacher, caught me and slammed his paddle onto the desk. (I'm not kidding. He carried a paddle around to traumatize the class, bringing it down on the lower back of a doozing child in the most painful of wake-up calls.)

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Reading," I whispered.

"Well, you just keep right on reading, little missy." His eyes were narrow. Beady. The paddle was poised for punishment in his beefy hand."It's obvious that math isn't your thing."

I suppose he had doubts I'd add much to society.

SO and I have doubts about our two boys, but we have lots of hope as well. Hope that they'll always try to do the right thing, no matter how difficult. Hope that they'll do no harm. Hope that they'll walk through their lives focusing on what really matters, rather than focusing on what is the most fun. Hope that we can communicate to them the message Eeyore is trying to communicate to his girls:

"We weren't put on this earth to be happy. We were put here to do great things."
-- Boris Pasternak

Sweet fancy bruises!

There's a creepy fairy lurking on the valance of my bedroom curtains. On Saturday mornings, when the sun starts to rise, I shake off the throes of slumber and usually end up peering at the fairy, wondering why I can't banish it back to Erin. The curtains aren't really decorated in mythical creatures; the material is a floral print. But the fabric is bunched up in such a way that my brain sees the outline of a fairy, leaning pensively on a toadstool. And it's not just me-- SO sees it, too.

A wizened face, formed by peeling paint, stares out at me from the tiny bathroom where I work; the tile floor of the break room spells out words I cannot read; and I think there's a goblin frozen in the cabinet door of my library shelves. I see images in random patterns. They are everywhere.

Sunday night, SO came home from an 11-hour day at his new workspace. Unfamiliar with the newly-constructed rental counter, he'd plowed into the corner with his tender ribs. "I think I'm going to have a bruise," he said, pulling up his shirt. Sweet Fancy Moses! The fist-sized Pollock-inspired creation hovering there sent us into shock. This was no bruise. It was an unknown biological entity (UBE).

"I think it's trying to take over your soul," I mused.

Turning my head to one side, I swear I could see the haunting profile of Alfred Hitchcock.

Let us bless them everyday

I don't usually believe in omens, but last week I saw something that made me reconsider. A mallard couple, trying to cross the street during morning rush hour, met a terrible fate. The female had been hit. She lay there like a crumpled piece of notebook paper. The drake paced back and forth along the curb, confused by her absence. One moment she was there, the next second she was gone.

Then, Fletcher died.

LegoGuy's friend had been diagnosed with a rare cancer in the 2nd grade. He'd fought the good fight for more than 4 years, and on Tuesday, he surrendered. We were all expecting it, of course, but nothing prepares you for the moment a person you care about leaves this world.

Many of the kids in his youth group planned to be at Fletcher's memorial service, so I arranged to go with LegoGuy. I was dreading it. I am not good at funerals. I doubt there's a normal person out there who likes going to funerals, but I mean it -- I am really not good at funerals. My empathy meter starts clicking the minute I walk into the church, and soon I'm sopping up those grief vibes like a crack whore looking for her next fix. One whimper and I tear up; a sob sends me into a crying jag.

I used to mourn from the perspective of the departed. No more sunsets! What a shame. She'll never get to have the beautiful wedding she always wanted. So, so sad. He won't get to see his son grow up. What a pity.

Once I had children, however, I watched the service from the eyes of the lost one's mother. The first time this happened to me, LegoGuy was about 2 years old. A young girl died unexpectedly while on vacation with her husband. They were newlyweds, and I'd known her since she was a little girl. The two had gotten separated while hiking. Not dressed for the quickly changing mountain weather, she'd died of exposure in a relatively short time. It was tragic.

But as I sat there in the church, I didn't mourn the loss of her life as much as I mourned that mother's loss of her child. I tried to muffle my sobs, but it was no use. A friend of mine clutched me to her as I let loose. It was embarrassing, but with so much grief in the room, I figured I would be forgiven.

I managed to hang onto my emotions during Fletcher's funeral. The ceremony was an even blend of sorrow and celebration. I shed a few quiet tears during the prayer and a special song. I choked when the pastor stated, "If the power of love could have kept this child alive, Fletcher would be among us right now." When the man next to me cried so hard he made the pew shudder, I held fast. I made it through the eulogy with my mascara still intact, as little old ladies grabbed for Kleenex, squares of white fluttering like doves released from their cages. It was during the reading of the poem that I dissolved.

And as I watched him go, my beautiful boy,

and a weary woman was I...

I swallow hard, reach out to my own beautiful boy.

Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow,

and the lips of love and of song!

I cover my own brow with my shaking hands.

For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child,

and he waves to me...

No longer even pretending to be composed, I keen.

If he called from the ends of the earth

I know that my heart would hear...

No tissues at hand, I get up from the pew and stumble out, unable to see. I can't take another verse of that poem. Have to get out of there. LegoGuy follows, finds a box, stuffs a handful of tissues into my palm.

The strains of Amazing Grace, played on bagpipes, follow us into the afternoon sun.

Hello, my name is AQ and I am a soccer mom

Another Saturday, another soccer game. It was supposed to be the last, but they've rescheduled the one that was rained out ... I've got one more weekend left before diving into neglected garden chores.

Shank met us for lunch. He'd promised to come watch Sport play at least one game before the end of the season, and although The Collatress wanted to come too, she had to work. Shank helped carry the necessary soccer paraphernalia: sunscreen, a basket of snacks for the team, insulated bag of drinks, a blanket, and, with artless grace, a pink parasol.

Parked on the top row of the aluminum bleachers, my bottom nestled cozily on a bit of "cushy" (folded blanket), I settled in to watch the game. By now I know all of Team Wizard's names: no more reading a book when my kid isn't playing. I'm yelling out words of encouragement and advice along with the rest of the parents:

"Sam, watch the line!"

"Be aggressive, Chad!"

"Taylor, take it down!"

Shank turned to me in surprise. "Jeez, you are totally a soccer mom."

Much as I hate to admit it, I am, and I've got the mini-van to prove it. Last season, I found myself completely losing it when Sport's team failed to score any goals. He had somehow ended up on the worst team, filled with players who were new to the game -- children who had no idea what they were doing. It was frustrating to watch my kid try to play just about every position the entire 45 minutes. I turned into a raving, slobbering loon. I remember giving Sport some ridiculous strategy on how to play the next game, jaw clenched in rage, before I caught myself.

What was I thinking, anyway? Why was it so important to me that his sad excuse for a soccer team win?

Humans are hardwired to be competitive. It's there in the genes: win at all costs, no matter what kind of activity you're taking part in: mammoth hunting, house-building, pin the tail on the donkey. Win, win, win!

Unnerved by Shank's observation, I tried to limit my benchside coaching to an occasional low groan and bitten lip. Cringing under my pink parasol, I even managed to reduce the number of spoke pokes to the heads of Shank and LegoGuy. Eventually, Sport broke through the other team's defense and made a dramatic goal. The Wizards shook off their slump and ended it, 2-1.

I wish I could say I wouldn't have minded if they'd lost. But it's so much better to win.

The gray brigade vs. the ponytail brigade

I started going to yoga many years ago as a way to help alleviate lower back pain and to build up my sadly underdeveloped muscles. The first class I attended at the YMCA was a power yoga class, and it seriously freaked me out. Some of the people in that class were able to execute a perfect Parsva Bakasana without breaking a sweat. Being the weakling that I am, I knew I wasn't about to go back and subject myself to that kind of humiliation.

But I kept going back.

I was never very flexible as kid. I wasn't one of those girls who could collapse into the splits at the drop of a hat. I could do a backbend, and I was pretty good at cartwheels, but I knew I didn't have a future as a cheerleader. Still, yoga enticed me because of the "payoff" at the end -- 10 minutes of delicious relaxation after 40 minutes of forcing the body into unnatural positions.

We eventually lost our drill sergeant of a power yoga instructor and inherited a kinder, gentler teacher. We've got a core group of devotees, mostly a graying, over-40 crowd of men and women with the weary air of having battled personal demons all day long. Every January, we get a new batch of members, eager to try out the class. I've come to despise these newcomers: young women dressed in the latest yoga fashions, hair pulled perkily back onto the tops of their heads in a loathsome ponytail. It's obvious when we start the warm-up that they're former cheerleaders. They aren't interested in getting the pose correct -- they prefer to show off their youthful flexibility by stretching their bodies into adorable cheerleader stances. As winter melts into spring, they eventually drop away, and the gray brigade settles back into relaxed familiarity, comfortable in old sweats and stained t-shirts, no longer harassed by those perky ponytails.

Last night, our teacher tried to get us to try a partner move. I watched as a gray-bearded man and a woman who'd recently had surgery put on their game faces and attempted the pose. Having just seen an SNL sketch in which Tom Hanks and Rachel Dratch did a similar move with disastrous results, I decided not to try it out. I love a good challenge, but I have to trust that my partner isn't going to smack me in the face with his "package."

I settled into Child's Pose and waited it out.

Grit your teeth and keep your eyes on the karma

Got a funny email from my dad this morning, an all-out rant regarding the latest Grandma incident.

This was not a good day for us. It began at 6 a.m. with Grandma outside the door saying "I don’t feel good." Mom was not in her usual place because I had snored too loudly for her delicate ears. So I attempted to ignore the wake-up call until the door opened and the light was turned on and Grandma said, "Daughter, where are you?" The old bear was roused from his hibernation and growled loudly....SHE’S NOT HERE ... NOW LEAVE ME ALONE. She then proceeded to the front bedroom to find her daughter…As the bear fumed and tried to return to sleep, it was an impossible task ... all I heard was groaning and coughing and I finally gave up and got up. After a bite to eat, I headed out of the house for a walk, hoping that Goldilocks would come and render assistance … Later, as I was sitting in the Archie Bunker chair, the wake-up artist came and said, "Is lunch ready?" Of course, the bear had a sly remark: "I thought you were sick ... can you eat?" The answer? YES! Then she said, "Daughter said you were going to move out." That really got me going and I said, “If anyone goes, it will be you.” Yes, I know, I should have kept my mouth shut, but I never do what I should do.

My parents inherited my 84-year-old grandmother after my uncle David “took care of her” by emptying her savings account, paying off his condo, buying himself a new boat and a truck for his youngest son, and then disappearing when confronted by her worried daughter and the authorities.

Dad and Grandma have never gotten along. Ever. She thought he was a tightwad. Mean-spirited. She didn’t think he was good enough for her daughter. They fought all the time.

Many of their battles took place over me. When I was about 3, my grandfather died of a devastating battle with lymphoma. Mamaw redirected her grief into a hyper-attachment to me, her eldest grandchild. I’m not proud of the fact, but I was her favorite. Everything I did was, in her eyes, absolutely charming.

I have a vivid memory of my grandmother facing down my dad over something I’d done at a family reunion. I was probably 5 or 6 at the time, I don’t remember what I’d done (Dad said I was behaving badly toward my sister), but he wanted to spank me. Mamaw picked me up and I clung to her with a death grip. She wouldn’t let go, and Dad couldn’t pry me off of her. I escaped that time, but I’ll bet the next time I acted up, he spanked me twice as long and hard.

I respect my dad for doing the right thing, taking responsibility for a woman who never liked him and who constantly interfered in his marriage and his family. It speaks volumes: do the right thing, even if you don’t like it.

And trust me, he doesn’t.

For my sins, he'd been left behind

For my sins (British & Australian, humorous):
A phrase you say in order to make a joke about the fact that something you have to do or something that you are is a punishment for being bad.

Well, it’s official. I’m a bad mommy. Rainy weather, a distracted mind, and complicated scheduling coalesced into every parent’s nightmare: I left my child behind.

I’d arranged to take LegoGuy and his friend Z to a church youth activity, after which I had to drive to Edmond to deliver Sport to yet another piano competition. A light mist was falling as I dropped the two teenagers off at church. I saw adults going in and out of the fellowship hall, so I didn’t bother to go in with the boys. I waved and headed north.

Imagine my horror when I got home and found this message on my answering machine:

“Hey Mom, we’re at the theater with Z’s mom. Talk to you later.”

(Note to self: review with LegoGuy the necessary components of relaying an effective message.)

I gathered from this minimal bit of information that the group outing had been cancelled. Z must have called his mom to get the abandoned boys. She’d given up her Saturday morning to shuttle the boys to a movie and lunch.

What must she think of me? Would she ever trust with her son again?

I called the youth leader who confirmed my suspicions. The ranch had cancelled. Too much rain, too much mud, and not enough buffalo to watch. “I emailed you last night,” she said. Unfortunately, the email address she has is my work address, so there’s no way I would have gotten it on a Friday evening.

Eventually, LegoGuy called back and said they were going to do some shopping and would be back later that afternoon. Z’s mom didn’t seem angry at all, just amused.

I know parents with the best of intentions eventually make mistakes. Where does this rank in my long list of missteps? How does it compare to the time I left the passenger door unlocked, and Tiny LegoGuy opened it while we were turning onto a busy intersection. Or the time I bundled him into an idling car to take him to preschool, went back into the house to retrieve something, and screamed as the car bumped into the garage wall. (He'd put the car in drive all by his 3-year-old self.) Or the time I let him ride his tricycle in the dark (with a helmet), saw him barrel down the driveway, hit gravel, pitch forward over the handle bars, and knock out a front tooth in the process.

Shiver.

Truth is, my mind just wasn't on what I had to do. It was on what I wanted to do. What I really wanted to do on Saturday was go up to Stillwater with some friends to protest possibly the worst president ever. I wanted to work in the garden, pulling up the swampweed that has sprouted since we started getting all this rain. I wanted to shop for a new swimsuit. But the kids and their activities have to come first.

I guess it's just one more incident LegoGuy will have to discuss with his future therapist.

Today's miscellany:
Sport's score for 2 piano solos: 99, 100
Finished reading: On the wild edge: in search of a natural life, by David Petersen
Inches of rain over the last week: 3+
Hours weeding: 2 1/2
Bush clock countdown: 987 days to go

Perched on the edge of a guffaw

SO came up with the above phrase after dinner the other night when Sport and LegoGuy got the giggles and couldn't look each other in the eye without busting up again. They are so silly.

We laugh a lot as a family. Sitting down to our nightly dinners, I know it will only be a matter of time before LegoGuy tells us a new "Your mama is so stupid" joke and sends Sport into gales of laughter. We laugh at our dog Bella and her youthful hijinks. When I hear a song I like and start to dance, SO laughs. (He can't help it -- I am just so bad.) When we watch our favorite movies, like the Blair Thumb and Monty Python and the Holy Grail, we roll. When we play games like Pictionary Jr. or The Game of Life, we crack up. Laughing is part of who we are.

No, Gouldie, SO and I didn't connect through an act of violence, but through humor. One of the first things I noticed about him was his beautiful smile. And he was so hilarious! I had a number of requirements for the men I dated: they had to be smart, they had to be funny, and they couldn't be too tall. (Also, they couldn't be studying for the ministry, and I didn't care for blondes.) SO met all my requirements. I've known him for 20 years now, and he still makes me loose it.

Both boys have inherited their father's beautiful smile and love of all things hilarious. True, their timing is still off when it comes to telling jokes. I can't tell you how many Knock Knock jokes I had to endure before they finally graduated to another level of comedy. The thing about kids is, they'll grab onto something that's funny the first few times they tell it, then recite it over and over until your eye starts to twitch like Chief Inspector Dreyfus in The Pink Panther.

Sometimes they are funny without meaning to be. For example: after Sport lost a tooth, he asked me where the tooth fairy got all that money. "What do you think?" I asked. “She must be a Democrat,” he replied. Another time, I made a comment about our little mutt, who had aged to the point that she didn't seem like she'd be around much longer. "Poor girl, she's on her last legs," I said. "How many legs did she used to have?" Sport quipped.

And LegoGuy is just as funny. Recently, he was complaining about being hot. “Why are you so hot?” I asked. “It’s got to be these hemorrhoids,” he said emphatically. Hemorrhoids? “You know, those chemicals making me grow.” “You mean hormones!”

Yes, laughter is what makes it all worthwhile.

Playing house with the Son of God, or, It's weird being me, part 2

I'm sure my dedicated readers can't wait to read about my miserable elementary school years!

Shunned by classmates because of my crippling shyness, I dreaded recess. I’d walk with my head down, looking for stray pieces of candy to take to my only friends, the fire ants who lived at the furthest edge of the playground. It was the highlight of my day – and I firmly believed that there was an air of excited frenzy around the ant mound when I showed up each day.

Yet, I did have one more friend. Being raised in the home of fundamental Christians, I was constantly told that Jesus was my best friend, and I took this to heart. I often pulled Jesus out of the realm of the holy and made him my imaginary friend. How many little girls could say that they had the Messiah as a playmate? Casually attired in his long white robe, he'd often read the newspaper while sitting in an easy chair. I made dinner, of course. His favorite meal was broiled fish. We had lots of interesting conversations out there on the blacktop.

Jesus and the red ants – the sum and total of my childhood pals.

Luckily, my sister was growing into a bit of a tomboy. Taller than me, and more confident, she took it upon herself to threaten some of the bullies who entertained themselves by making my life a living hell. “Say that again,” she warned Laura Pacheco who’d mocked my terrible overbite, “and I’ll punch you right in the face!” But, being a year younger, my sister couldn’t be with me everywhere. I tried to be philosophical about it, figuring that suffering brought me closer to Jesus, but it was truly a trial to love my enemies when Laura, who was built pretty solidly, jumped on my back the day I wore my new pink dress and skinned both my knees.

By 6th grade, I could see an end to the horror of elementary school. I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Roessler, who gave me a variety of responsibilities and duties. When the other children watched The Electric Company as part of their free time activity, she allowed me to read at my desk. When I’d finished my assignments, I was able to get a pass to go to the library. She complimented my writing. She made me feel good about myself. If not for Mrs. Roessler, I’m certain I would have become even more neurotic than I already was!

That was the year I became infatuated with my desk mate, Melvin Howell. He really was named Melvin Howell, a name right from of Gilligan’s Island! As the only Jehovah’s Witness in our class, he already had an air of mystique about him, quietly sitting at his desk while the rest of us said the Pledge of Allegiance, never taking part in birthday celebrations, bravely refusing to participate in Halloween festivities. With his white blond hair and incredible blue eyes, I thought he was wonderful. And so, I did all I could to annoy him.

During one afternoon, we were quarrelling over a pencil. He tried to take it from me; I swore it was mine. In the shuffle, I pulled back on it and accidentally jabbed him in the eye. I was mortified! Here I was, trying to get Melvin’s attention, and instead I had mortally wounded the love of my life! His eye quivered and watered as the teacher examined it. She determined that, as he had not been blinded, he would survive. I knew, however, that any chance of romance between us had died with the entry of that eraser into his eye socket.

Walking home that day, I felt as if the world had come to an end. Melvin! Oh, Melvin! His sculpted beauty, those pale white hands, his slightly curved spine, his belted, brown corduroy pants. I knew he would never talk to me again. What freak of nature skewers her lover’s eyeball on a pencil? Was I destined to be alone forever? Sobbing my heart out at home, I prayed that he would forgive me. Although I knew, deep down, that there was really no place in this world for the daughter of a Nazarene minister and a practicing Jehovah’s Witness, I was romantic enough to believe that true love could overcome the differences in our theology. But would he forgive me for taking out his left eye?

The following day, Melvin’s eye was red and puffy. And yet, he gave me a small, shy smile. Somehow the tide had changed. He’d noticed me! No longer was I the girl he sat next to in class. I was the girl who’d popped him.

It was the turning point. At that point, a new chapter in my life began.

It's weird being me, part 1

So the other day Sport sucks back a Diet Coke, slams it down on the table, and asks, "Do you ever think about how weird it is to be you?"

I knew what he meant. He'd probably spent some time contemplating how he came into existence, and freaked himself out. I thought, how odd that he's asking me the very same question I used to ask myself when I was his age. Is this something all children go through, or did he get this little personality quirk via half the genes I'd passed on?

How did I get to be me?

My parents tell a story, perhaps apocryphal in nature, that when my father was bringing my mother and me home from the hospital, he missed the exit because he couldn’t take his eyes off me. My mother says it was because I was such a beautiful baby. I think he was plotting the trajectory of my flight off the front seat toward the dashboard should he slam on the brakes. This was 1964, in the days before child safety seats and the like. I was simply placed on the seat between my parents in the front of the car and my survival was left to fate or angels. (Wasn’t it obvious to my parents that if hitting a good-sized pothole, I’d be propelled up and over the back of the seat, and possibly out the open back window?) When he hung a quick right at the next exit, I tumbled like a doodle-bug into his lap and he nearly lost control of the car.

It was a difficult birth. My mother remembers scraping her nails up and down my father’s arms the night she went into labor. 42 hours later I was born – blue, underweight, cheerless. Dad's arm looked like hamburger. I stared out at them with unreadable eyes and a swollen face. The doctor gave a quick diagnosis: I had brain damage and would probably never be able to walk, read, or properly butter bread. My father refused to believe him and later sneaked us out of the hospital early, hoping to remove me from an early stigma and to save money on the doctor’s bill at the same time.

Little did I know that I had only 381 days until the tranquility of being an only child was brought to an end. Only a year and sixteen days after I arrived, my mother gave birth to my sister, and soon after that, a brother. It’s apparent to me now that I was damaged irrevocably by this upset in my routine. For a brief period of time, I was the center of my parents’ world. They thrilled to my smiles, were amazed at my babbling, wildly anticipated my first words. Then, in less than 2 and a half years, there were three small children in the house, and focusing on any of us for more than a few minutes was a virtual impossibility. And yet, despite this childhood trauma, I eventually did walk, learned to read at age 3, and didn’t worry about putting butter on bread as I loathed the stuff.

Looking back, I can see now that I was a weird child. Though the doctor had misdiagnosed me, he was right in some respects. I was hyper-sensitive, hyper-shy, and socially stunted. When someone talked to me I stared right in their eyes, forgetting to blink. Soon my eyes became watery and red, my nose began to run, and all thoughts flew from my head. I could barely hold a conversation, so conscious was I of being looked at. Why, then, did I stare so fervently at people? Obviously, there was something wrong with me. I felt things too strongly and heard things too loudly. Even complete silence was painful because my thoughts seemed too loud. I mourned the passing of insects and small birds, as if their deaths were somehow my doing. Sunlight was too bright, darkness too oppressive, and the whistle of a passing train made me cry because it sounded so sad.

Doubts of my own existence later haunted me. Was I real or a character in someone’s dream? If my mother had married another man, would I still be me? And then the really profound questions bothered me. Does the universe continue to expand, and if so, into what? What is outside of the universe? Why did it sound so strange when I repeated the same word over and over again?

I doubt my parents had time to see how weird I was. With two others in diapers, and my brother’s bout with pneumonia, I was often overlooked. Yet, the worse was yet to come. It was in grade school that I faced probably the worst 6-year period in my life.

But that's another story.

In search of the perfect pair of socks

On yet another shopping trip to buy new shoes and jeans for the growing boys, I furtively slipped a bag of socks into my cart. I felt a spark of joy course through my veins. New socks -- for me! Guilty pleasure.

As a little girl in San Antonio, where the humidity can hit 95% at Christmastime, I usually shucked my shoes once I got home from school and spent the rest of the day barefoot. My feet got to be so tough, I could walk down a gravel alley and not feel a thing. I could step on the sparkling bits of green CocaCola glass or catch my heel on the scary-looking pop tops we'd make into necklaces and come away with nary a scratch. By the time Mom called us in for our baths, I looked like one of those Dustbowl-era waifs.

Once I got to Oklahoma, where there's actually a winter, I experienced the discomfort of cold feet and the pleasure of a warm pair of socks. I wear my socks until they're paper thin, and when holes finally develop, I knot them up and give them to Bella for a chew toy. There's no better toy for a dog.

Is it just me, or is it impossible to find the perfect pair of socks? The package I picked up from Target said they were for shoe sizes 4-11. What the heck? Can't they make socks a little more specific? I mean, it's only logical that a size 4 foot would belong to a petite person, while a size 11 foot probably belongs to a woman who plays semi-professional basketball. It's ridiculous to expect a package of socks to be one size fits all!

My feet are pretty small. When SO first saw them, unshod, he thought they were freakishly tiny, almost hobbit-like. Most packaged socks end up with the heel of the thing hanging awkwardly from the back of my foot. So usually my joy of socks is marred by the letdown of a bad fit.

I still prefer being barefoot to wearing shoes. But I take better care of my feet. I'm not one to go shoeless to the grocery store or a master's level class. There are limits, for crying out loud. My days of running down a gravel alley are over, however.

Unless I'm wearing a thick pair of knitted wool socks.

Reunion blues

I'm in the middle of planning my 20th (gasp!) college reunion and I'm honest enough to admit I only want a handful of people to show up -- my circle of friends. The rest can just stay put. I know it's shallow, but I don't have the energy to invest any more time getting to know people I never wanted to get to know back in the day.

More than likely, most of my friends will not be coming to the reunion, and it's a shame. We'll probably never be together again like we were in those halcyon days.

I remember graduation day as if it were yesterday. After all the celebrations were over and most of the class had drifted off with their proud parents, I walked the campus mall. I ran into a few friends and we hugged goodbye, promising to keep in touch, but it was all a sham. I knew it wasn't true. Most I would never see again. Four years, probably the best years of my life in terms of freedom, growth, and adventures, and then it was on to the real world. I'm grateful I've managed to keep some of those relationships alive, but it's been hard. We've all got commitments, families, jobs. We're all exhausted.

I miss them, though. I really do.

When I look back at my college years, I hardly recognize the person I was. Is it possible I could go an entire 4 years without having a single political discussion with anyone? (My 13-year-old son knows more about the current political climate than I ever did at his age.) That I failed a current events test, making up answers to amuse The Professor? (No, Gorbachev was not the latest fashion designer to emerge from the Crimea, but I got credit for creativity.) That flirting with boys was my number one priority? (It was.) That I would change clothes 3 times in one day just to impress the student body? (I did.)

I was so superficial. Thank God they still liked me.

Teddy's gone now: the first of that dear circle of friends to die. The Advocate called with the news, sobbing, and we drove down to Texas to his memorial service, trying to tell his family how much he'd meant. All I could think about on the way back was, "Who's next?"

So it's important to me to try and get this crazy gang of alumni together so we can scour the yearbooks again, pointing to pictures and asking each other, "What ever happened to him? Who did she marry? Look at that outfit -- what were we thinking?"

All the while, never saying out loud, "I love you, you crazy bastards."

Fun with tornadoes

One of the benefits of living in Oklahoma is seeing beautiful sunsets and witnessing incredible bouts of weather. Last night we had some excitement after a tornado hit the El Reno airport, destroying a hangar and tossing some planes around like toys. As tornadoes go, this one was a gem: it was a cyclonic tornado, which means it spun backwards, a very rare phenomenon.

El Reno is only about 10 miles west of us, and when the sirens started going off, Sport ran into his bedroom like a shot, grabbed his beloved teddy bear and his OU football (autographed by the 2005 team and Coach Bob Stoops), and a favorite GI Joe. He was ready to head to the shelter. Although he was less than 2 years old, he still remembers the night of May 3, 1999, when an F5 tornado hit central Oklahoma. That evening, we got him and his brother up out of bed, grabbed our little mutt and raced to the storm shelter at a nearby church. When the dark clouds gather, he'd rather play it safe than be sorry.

LegoGuy, on the other hand, is less fearful of storms and tends to view them with a scientific eye. He's a lot like me: we love to watch the lightning displays and sit on the front porch watching the driving rain and exchanging weird weather facts. After storms, he will often hop on his bike and ride through the puddles, a huge grin splitting his face. “I could never get bored with rain!” he once said.

We ended up staying put. The weather system weakened, turning into a heavy downpour mixed with hail, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't relish the thought of spending the next hour in a dark church basement with crying children and barking dogs.

I get enough of that at home.

Brokeback heartbreak

As SO had to take the weekend off to heal up from his minor surgical procedure, I loaded up on movies checked out from our local library. One of the films I picked up was the much-hyped Brokeback Mountain. I was prepared to be disappointed. I didn't think it could possibly live up to all the buzz.

I was wrong.

It really got to me, this movie about two people caught up in an impossible, doomed relationship. Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal touched me deeply as they became the characters of Ennis and Jack, young men drawn to each other against their own better judgement and dictates of society.

We watched half of it Saturday night. At church on Sunday morning, I couldn't focus on the sermon because I kept wondering what was going to happen in the movie. I've seen enough movies to get the pattern down -- I knew this kind of film would not end well. Tragedy was just around the corner. Which one of these cowboys was going to die? Were they both going to be murdered by a bloodthirsty mob? My stomach churned.

After lunch, with both kids safely involved in other things, SO and I sat down to finish the film. Lots of things were left unspoken, and the visual impact of the movie was left to the interpretation of the viewer. I'm pretty sure I would make a poor film critic because there's so much I miss. I watched several scenes many times over, and even downloaded the short story off the Internet to see what Annie Proulx had written. Maybe that would answer some of my burning questions.

My heart was broken.

When I watch a story this good, it's transcending. I'm lifted beyond what I have just seen and apply the lessons to the world around me. With the Constant Gardener, I reflected on human greed and the plight of the powerless against the powerful. In America found me sobbing over the responsibilities some children must shoulder in order to keep their families intact. Truly Madly Deeply left me devastated by the knowledge that death always wins, no matter how strong a love is shared, and that one must go on living as Pablo Neruda said so aptly in one of his poems.

What lessons did I take away from Brokeback Mountain? Some people are doomed to meet their kindred spirit in the body of another of the same sex, a coupling deemed unacceptable by society. Every moment shared brings with it the realization of how few moments there can actually be. If you refuse to apply a moral construct to this coupling, the tragedy is apparent and overwhelming.

SO and I wondered if the film would have had the same impact if the characters had been women, but women don't have the freedom to leave their families for weeks at a time in order to go "fishing" with a buddy.

I doubt there will be a Brokeback Mountain II: the Alma and Lureen story.

(Check out Eeyore's real life BBM story: Ennis and Jack and Junior and Tim.)

The shadow child

I've seen him over the last few years, darting in and out of my consciousness. He stands off to the side, lost in the shadows. I can't quite see his face, but I know he has dark hair, and his eyes are so blue they look steel gray.

His name is Quinn. He's the child who will never be. As of 2 p.m. yesterday, we are out of the baby-making business. SO went in for a vasectomy and is resting uncomfortably in bed while I imagine our shadow child.

Having given birth to two boys, I can only assume our third would also have been a son. In listening to anecdotes from friends and co-workers, I know there's always one child in the family who makes all the wrong choices, takes the path less traveled, worries his parents into an early grave. In short, he's the bad seed. Quinn, I am certain, would have been that child.

Quinn would have been the one who stole my heart. His birth triggering a bout of postpartum depression from which it would take me six months to recover, I would have tried to make up for the guilt of not being there for him by overcompensating. He'd be given whatever he wanted. Instant gratification.

Flash forward.

Jealous, LegoGuy and Sport do whatever is in their power to make Quinn's childhood a living hell. And I do whatever is in my power to make Quinn happy. My marriage deteriorates. SO questions my irrational attachment to the child. Quinn steals money from my purse and his father's wallet. He gets in with the wrong crowd at school. He does poorly in all subjects and drops out at 16. A runaway, he comes back into our lives when he's 18, addicted to heroin. He begs us to help him, and we do. Again and again, we bail him out of difficult situations. At 26 he's still living at home. SO is fed up and threatens to leave, but I beg him to give the boy one more chance. He relents, but the stress catches up with him. My beloved husband dies at 69 from a massive heart attack. Quinn promises to take care of me, but ends up draining my savings account. When all the money is gone, he disappears. I'm left alone, sprawled on the kitchen floor with a broken hip ...

Maybe, after reading the above paragraphs, SO won't feel like a couple days of discomfort are such a bad deal. The thing is, he's having a hard time and I'm feeling pretty guilty. I'm the one who encouraged him to get the vasectomy, and yesterday was a long and difficult day. He's being a trooper about it, but when he read a list of the side effects from the antibiotic he's taking, we both got a little freaked out.

"Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, loss of appetite, mouth sores, black hairy tongue..."

"Black hairy tongue?" I interrupted. "You are making that up!"

"Black hairy tongue," he insisted, showing me the paper that came with the prescription.

There it was, in print.

"What kind of radiation-soaked drug are they giving you? I mean, have you ever seen a human being with a black hairy tongue?"

We pondered that image.

It's been 16 hours and SO's feeling pretty crappy. I'm going in to check on him and see if there's anything I can get him. But it's a real challenge, communicating with his new black hairy tongue.

What fresh hell is this?

If asked which historical figure I would like to sit down to dinner with, one of the first women that comes to my mind is Dorothy Parker. She's one of those indomitable she-roes I wish I could have seen in action. Wouldn't it have been a kick, sitting near the Algonquin Roundtable, hearing her exchange insults with Robert Benchley and George S. Kaufman. "What fresh hell is this?" she'd ask as Alexander Woolcott dragged his bleary-eyed self over to order yet another drink.

I love that phrase. It comes to mind every evening at around 7:30. The clock ticks, heading inexorably to the deadline we've set for LegoGuy and Sport to start getting ready for bed.

All the parenting books we've read state emphatically that children need a good 10-12 hours of sleep each and every night. Or. They. Will. Not. Grow. Into. Decent. Human. Beings. That kid of your cousin's who stays up every night until 10 o'clock? Serial-killer in training. The infant who only sleeps in the daytime, but giggles with joy half the night? Baby Hitler.

SO and I established a bedtime routine when LegoGuy was in first grade, and during the school year, we follow that routine to the letter -- without fail. And without fail, the boys test the boundaries every single night.

7:25. I start eyeballing the clock with dread.
7:26. Sport asks, "Can I go outside and play?"
7:28. LegoGuy remembers he left something in the van.
7:29. SO retrieves him from the garage. He's been distracted by a G.I. Joe.
7:30. I tell the boys to take a shower.
7:31. Both boys are wrestling in the living room. One is poked in the eye. Accusations and excuses fly.
7:35. SO yells.
7:40. Sport is finally in the shower. LegoGuy rushes to the other shower in order to turn on the hot water and steal it from Sport. There is lots of screaming as the hot water fluctuates.
8:01. I force Sport to get out of the shower. He resists. 6 inches of water cover the bathroom floor.
8:05. SO forces LegoGuy out of the shower. Wet towels and clothes remain on the floor. Again.
8:10. Dripping wet and naked, both boys try to tell us about something that happened at school that neither would divulge while we quizzed them during dinner.
8:15. Both are asked to comb their hair. Again.
8:20. Sudden onslaught of hunger pangs -- both rush to the kitchen to eat a bowl of cereal.
8:25. Both are asked to brush their teeth. There is a tussle in the bathroom. One has his ribcage slammed into the doorknob. More accusations and excuses.
8:30. In the bedroom, but not yet in bed. Arguments over what kind of music to listen to.
8:35. More heated exchanges from bedroom. I close their door to muffle the sound.
8:45. Exhausted, SO and I stare into space.
9:00. Sport is asleep. The sound of legos being played with disturbs our somnambulence.
9:01. We put in a DVD.
9:05. LegoGuy appears with a question.
9:06. SO yells.
9:07. LegoGuys disappears.
9:15. Peace.

Of course, each night brings its own subtleties and nuances. The boys take the art of stalling to another level. They are stall masters. Each night is its own fresh hell.

It's a good thing they look so adorable while they sleep, or I'd just let them stay up all night.

But I guess the world doesn't need any more baby Hitlers.

Don't fear the Reaper, fear the reaping

I have been intimate with the porcelain throne. I woke at 2 a.m. with one thought sounding urgently in my brain, "I am going to throw up." And I did ... repeatedly. Stretched out in the hallway in front of the bathroom door, I had time on my hands between bouts of serious retching to reflect on just how crappy it is to be sick. I didn't have the energy to get myself a blanket, so I shivered on the carpet until LegoGuy stepped over me to go the bathroom, somewhere around 3 o'clock, and then brought me a blanket and a pillow.

Think about what it means when someone says to you, "Well, at least you have your health." It is a truly profound statement, and can only be fully appreciated while in the throes of a 24-hour virus.

The day before, I'd listened to a moving story about a young woman who lost her husband to a brain tumor. She'd watched him change from a loving and gentle man to a violent, verbally-abusive stranger. After battling the tumor for a year, he died, and she was glad. Yet, there on my carpeted pallet, I thought about him. What a hellish existence, the gradual loss of self, the theft of his ability to speak, recognizing fear in the eyes of his wife and children, and having to depend on them at the end for his basic needs.

"If I had a brain tumor, would you take a rock and crush my skull?" I asked SO later, when I was finally feeling a little better.

"No, but I might smother you with a pillow."

"What about injecting an air bubble into my veins? Would that feel like indigestion?" But he wanted to read more than he wanted to discuss possible end-of-life solutions.

I've never been afraid of death, but I am afraid of the process of dying. I hate the thought of having to depend on someone to bring me a cup of ice chips or to make me a bowl of soup. I don't want to rely upon the kindness of strangers to give me a sponge bath or feed me a bit of jello. When it's my time, I want it over with in a heartbeat.

This is why I am embracing a recent diagnosis of high cholesterol. Both of my parents have high cholesterol. I've inherited it from them. Instead of correcting it by diet or drug, I coddle it and nickname it Clara. Clara is my ticket out of here -- look out massive heart attack, here I come!

Unless the polar ice caps melt first. I'm not that strong a swimmer.

You win some, you win some

I've never been very competitive. Except when playing Scrabble, it doesn't really bother me to lose. As I've said in a previous post, I like it when my kids win, but I don't push, cajole, threaten or harrass them to be the best. I'd never make a good stage mom.

When LegoGuy was in kindergarten, he joined a soccer team. I was mortified by the actions of hyper-competitive parents, overzealous souls who would scream at their six-year-old from the sidelines and reduce the child to tears. "Do you want to eat dinner tonight? Then get in there and kick that ball. Make a goal, dammit!"

We didn't stay with that league very long. I was afraid LegoGuy was going to be dragged off the field after he was seen chasing butterflies near the other goalie's box.

Which is why I was so uncomfortable at WA Sport's District Achievement Auditions. He had to play a piece in order to qualify for State. I ran into the mother of one of his piano classmates.

"I hear your son is quite a prodigy," she began, eyeballing Sport. "Ms. Melody says she can't keep up with him. Learns the music as fast as she gives it to him."

"He does love to play," I admitted.

"I saw he was picked to go to the Weatherford Competition. I asked Ms. Melody why my boy wasn't picked to go. He's been taking piano a year longer than Sport. We're paying for hour and half lessons, after all."

"Well, we've got a pretty good practice schedule worked out..." I began, but she thrust her son's sheet music at Sport.

"This is what he's playing. Have you ever played it?"

Sport eyed it, quickly making an assessment. "Nope. That's too easy for me."

I groaned inwardly. "Now, Sport, that's not true," I tried to cover for his lack of tact. At that moment, up strolled her son. She turned to him and said sharply, "Sport says this piece is too easy for him. What do you think about that?" The poor child blushed and shrugged his shoulders. What do you say when your mother humiliates you in front of casual acquaintances?

Sport's name was called by the proctor, and he hurried into the music room to perform for the judge. I thought perhaps Stage Mom would leave us alone, but she wasn't done yet. "I'm just going to listen at the door," she said to me with a crocodile smile. She took the place that was rightfully mine, pressing her ear to the wooden frame and spying through the narrow glass window.

What can I say? My kiddo played perfectly. He scored a I+, the highest that can be made. He's going to State!

Stage Mom grabbed her son and disappeared out the door. I'm not sure he had a good afternoon.

I hope this isn't going to develop into some kind of rivalry. Not between the boys, but between their mothers.

Ants go marching one by one

One of the benefits of cultivating an eco-friendly lawn is the creation of a healthy eco-system. It's also one of the downsides. Once all the toxic chemicals have been purged from the grass, insects return. They frolic, lay eggs, visit flowers, die. That's when the trashman cometh.

Our home has been invaded by ants, those friendly sanitation workers of the natural world. They started off by congregating in the kitchen. Next, they were seen dancing across the wood floors. Finally, they were sighted washing up in the bathroom.

I have a particular fondness for ants. In elementary school, I was on a first-name basis with a colony of fire ants. They would wait for me on the playground. During lunch recess, I would hurry out to throw them the crusts from my pressed-ham & mustard sandwich. They were always happy to see me. Convinced of their loyalty to me, I believed I could easily sit in the middle of the ant bed -- unbitten.

I never tested my theory.

SO, on the other hand, is not fond of ants. Grabbing a can of Raid, he attacks the platoons of raiding scouts with nary a twinge of conscience. He spent an entire afternoon last week battling the kitchen brigade. I sympathized, but part of me felt bad for those industrious fellows.

Until Saturday morning, when I had to empty all the pantry shelves and engage the little buggers in my own hellish wargames.

This week, I'm able to crush them with a thumbnail without a second thought. We are so consumed with getting them out of the house that we're seeing ants everywhere: on the paneling, crawling on the bedspread, on Sport's leg, in LegoGuy's hair. It's even more creepy to actually find one in a weird and unsettling place: one was crawling on my chin last night.

In looking for an environmentally-friendly way to uninvite the ants, I came across a home remedy that incorporates baby powder. Apparently they don't like scented talcum. Also, they won't cross a line of cayenne pepper. I'm willing to try this first before calling an exterminator.

But if I find another one of those suckers on any part of my body, I'm calling out the weapons of mass destruction.

We're havin' us a wedding!

My boss is getting married again. A widow, she put herself out there and snagged a younger man. Last week she was weeping over the six-month anniversary of her husband's death. Three days later she was engaged.

Even more horrifying, she's planning a "semi-formal" afternoon wedding. Will she wear a white lace dress, cut to reveal the small of her back? Possibly. Will she have an entourage of attendants dressed in frothy organza? No doubt. Will I take part in her special day? Absolutely not.

I think we are all entitled to planning one over-the-top, no-holds-barred nuptial celebration. But only one. After that initial dew-eyed, naive walk into marital bliss, another wedding side-show should be barred by law. It's one thing to look on with hope as a 20-something couple ties the knot and promises to live together "till death us do part." It's quite another to watch your thrice-married cousin don yet another off-the-rack satin gown and embarrass herself in front of a church full of cynics.

I came to this conclusion about five years ago. Clothed in a lavender, tea-length dress, I stood up as bridesmaid for a co-worker who inexplicably asked me to be in her wedding. It was her second marriage. I was baffled by the request, but touched as well. I had no idea she considered me her best "work friend."

Later, I found out she only wanted me up there because I was skinny and I "clean up real good."

It was a disaster. She kept us all waiting for nearly half an hour. The pastor mumbled throughout the ceremony; no one could understand a word he said. Another bridesmaid was blistering in her criticism of the bride and her getup. One of the flower girls acted up and was mercilessly whupped in front of the entire congregation.

"If I get out of this alive," I thought, knees locked with fatigue as the ceremony dragged on, "I will never do weddings again."

I can honestly say I have not gone to another wedding since. To be honest, I haven't ruled them out completely; I'll make an exception should the need arise. Where else can you watch the bride's veil catch fire from the flame of the unity candle, or a groomsman throw up all over the photographer's shoes, or hear a song sung that celebrates the joys of premarital sex? That's some hilarious stuff.

But I'm sitting this wedding out.

"I got you something..."

The first birthday present I remember getting from SO was a novelty cartoon t-shirt purchased from Sound Warehouse. We were 10 months into our relationship: he was new to dating; I was used to getting dumped. At that time, he didn't realize how much women read into gifts. Pulling it out of its plastic bag, my face must have given away my alarm. Was I the kind of girl who could be wooed by a George Jetson portrait, inked in flourescent pink and green? We laugh about it now, but then it caused a huge and ridiculous argument.

The art of giving gifts is fraught with peril. I schemed for months to surprise SO with an aquarium for Christmas, tricking him into thinking he was getting a new CD player in order to be certain of his total and complete surprise. The fish tank fell flat -- apparently the idea of new electronics far outweighed his desire to be an aquarist.

Who hasn't been on the receiving end of poor gift choices? God bless'em, most of our family members don't know how to shop for us. SO will never forget the time he got a box from my mother that was completely empty. His lastest Christmas present from my parents was a thrift-store shirt, complete with stain. I once got a gift of clothes hangers. They were padded, but I couldn't work up much enthusiasm.

I don't want to disparage anyone's good intentions. Buying a gift for anyone over the age of 12 is difficult. It's easy to buy for kids: they love everything. When babies, they even love boxes and the wrapping paper. I don't really feel the need for gifts. I'd rather not get one than be given something that was thrown together at the last minute. As I've gotten older, my desire to own things has dampened. Sure, I love to sink my money into plants and garden hardscape, but I no longer have the need to wear the latest fashions. I don't care what kind of car I drive as long as it's paid for. I like having a little house because it requires the least amount of furniture. SO's the same way.

He's gotten much better about gift giving as time goes by. He surprised me with an American Girls doll the year I moaned that I didn't have any little girls to dress. Bought me leather-bound volumes of my favorite books. Purchased and assembled an enormous swing made of logs before I got home from work one day.

I think BN LegoGuy is following in his father's footsteps. He came home from the Medieval Fair on Saturday bearing gifts: replicas of ancient coins for Sport, a hand-tooled leather wallet for his dad, and a tortoise pendant for me.

"I got you something for your birthday," he told me, draping it around my neck.

I love turtles, and the fact that he remembered this really touched me. But what really got me was the fact that he'd bought me a present with his own money. His dad didn't tell him to, no one prompted him to do it. He just did it.

(Flashback to all those handmade cards, beads strung on yarn, handprints in plaster, ash trays, pencil holders.)

He's kind. He's generous. And he loves his Mama.

I think I'll keep him.

Death by raptor

It was a glorious weekend to be gardening. In between shuttling Sport to soccer and LegoGuy to the Medieval Fair in Norman, I managed to put in a few good hours of hard landscaping labor on Saturday. Thanks to SO, I had a sod-free patch ready and waiting for weed barrier, sand, and pavestones. I paid for it later, though, since every muscle and bone ached through the night. I did not sleep well.

SO doesn't get the obsession. Those who neither garden nor have any inclination to garden can't understand the compulsion to get outside and change the contours of the land. SO's a computer guy, happiest when he's solving some tricky technology problem. But since he can't handle seeing me perched on top of a shovel, trying to break through Oklahoma clay, I'm lucky in that he will offer his help for things I'm not physically able to do. He's a reluctant gardener, to be sure.

Last night we visited best pals Eeyore and Willa (so named in honor of being her being a scholar of William Morris, the subject of her PhD. dissertation). She gardens; he does not. Willa and I spent awhile talking about how much we love our favorite hobby.

Why do we garden? For me, it's partly spiritual, partly Zen. I love taking care of my patch of ground, nourishing it organically without chemicals or pesticides. I'm able to leave it for weeks at a time and it utters not a peep. No shrill demands, no cries of distress. It merely sits there with the patience of a Buddha. I can filter out all external pressures and focus on the task at hand. My mind stops racing and I'm able to relax. Sure, there's lots to do if I want to: weeding, pruning, carting off dead branches and leaves, composting, mulching, adding more flower beds, planning a vegetable patch. The key is this: I do what I want to do. If I don't want to do it, I don't have to. I have complete and utter control in the garden.

I'm hoping I'll die there. Puttering about, still spry for a woman in her 80s, I pray that I'll keel over from a massive heart attack. It will be a few days before my grandkids discover their Granny, swaddled in a patch of daisies, eyes pecked out by a pair of red-tailed hawks, a Mona Lisa smile on my dessicated lips.

That would be a good death.