Thursday, September 24, 2009

Bee good

So, at Starbucks we have bees. Only at the drive thru window. They swarm around the trash that is about 20 feet past the window (where folks dump ALL THE TRASH THEY'VE ACCUMULATED IN THEIR CAR OVER THE PAST SIX MONTHS) and they often get confused and end up inside the drive thru. The area we're in is a little box. It holds two or three people, an espresso machine, cups, lids, flavorings, etc..... so when there are bees in there too, it's pretty crowded. Today I was enjoying the bees. As I would talk to people in their cars, I would watch the bees hang out by the straws and I'd look at their intensely furry yellow and black bodies. They're so cool. Their tiny brown legs are so busy and purposeful. They just want to slurp up a little vanilla flavoring and go put it in their honey (that sounded fun, yet slightly risque).

Well, I have no problem with bees. Bees never sting me. I'm not afraid of bees. There. I'm not afraid of bees. I like them, and apparently, they like me. I herd them out of the window with my hand, gently guiding them on their way back to the exquisite trash can filled with sugar products. So, later I volunteered to empty the outside trash. That can was overflowing with MacDonald wrappers and Burger King cups and BEES. There were at least three dozen little buzzers inside the bag. I tied the top in a loose knot, pulled it out of the metal can and carried it outside the store and around to the dumpster (glamor, my job, hell yes) and just as I about got there I noticed a bee crawling through the knot and WHAM, I got stung. I have to say, it hurt for a second. No welt or swelling. And it wasn't the bee's fault - it just wanted out of that bag. I pulled the stinger out and went back inside for another four hours of coffee immersion. And bee watching. But most everyone else, especially customers, were terrified of these bees. The involuntary movements that come from a fear of flying insects is truly hysterical to watch. Hands flapping randomly in the air, coffee flying into the back seat, Hahahaha. I kept thinking, everyone (who is not allergic and will DIE from bee stings) should just get stung. Once. It's nothing. Just get stung and get over it.

It made me think of when I was in my twenties and, for some odd reason, was deathly afraid of getting beaned in the head with a Frisbee while at a concert. A very specific fear, but a fear nonetheless. I almost never went down on the floor. I saw Foreigner, Berlin, Fleetwood Mac, and Tom Petty all from the safety of the seats. I danced in my chair to Golden Earring, The Rolling Stones and Bob Seger because I was worried about some lone Frisbee arcing through the air and meeting up with my skull. My fear eventually caught up with me. I was in California at Venice Beach and there, while walking on the sand, a Frisbee did indeed come out of nowhere and hit me right square in the back of the head. Yes, it hurt. I was momentarily disorientated and may have fallen to my knees. But I didn't bleed or die. And I was never afraid of it again. I saw The Scorpions and The Cars and several 80's hair bands that I'm too embarrassed to admit to from the floor after that, pushed and crowded and Frisbee fear free.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Mom

I never wrote my mom a note on her birthday. It was August 24th. It's not a required thing but since I wrote a letter to my dad, it would have been nice (and fair) to write one to my mom too. So, since I don't really know if time even matters in the after/life, I'll write one today.

Dear mom,
I forgot to write you on your birthday. I did think about you. I think about you often, but on your birthday I thought about how it would have been to have you around without the Alzheimer's. Right now I'm in Newton, Kansas. Yesterday, Jay and I went to the Historical Society. We talked with some folks who were so kind and friendly. It's one of the things we love about Newton. The Historical Society is in a three story building (plus basement) that was built in 1906. The stairs are old dark burnished wood. The windows are etched in places and have peculiar latches that I can't always figure out. I told the woman upstairs (the one in charge of archives) about the bible I found after you died. The one that was given to you when you were nine years old. When you lived in Newton. We never knew that you lived here. You didn't remember it.

I looked up your parents (my grandparents) in the City Directory. There they were. It was somewhat shocking. You lived HERE. In Newton. I had several dreams right then, in the space of five minutes. I thought maybe the house I'd bought was the one you lived in as a little girl. If that wasn't true, I daydreamed that I would drive by your house and it would be for sale. That it would be restored (the kitchen at least...who wants an old dingy 1927 kitchen?), but that the original woodwork would be intact. That the lawn would be green and mowed, and that the house would be an exceptional bargain. That in the attic I'd find an old doll or a journal of yours, or that somewhere I'd find something that had been yours. I'd buy the house, and I'd visit and own the house where you had lived.

The first night I slept here on this visit, I dreamed about you. I never dream about you. You were wearing a yellow shirt, and you weren't memory sick. You were just my regular mom, and you knew me. I looked right at you and said, "I KNEW you'd be here." and I hugged you and you hugged me back. Man, it felt so real and good. Anyway, after Jay and I left the Historical Society we drove to the address of where you lived. It was sad. It was an old, run down house that hadn't been taken care of. Jay said, "well, I guess you don't need a picture of that." but I took one anyway. Shoot, I don't care about that house. But the thought of you being here, maybe walking down Main Street on occasion, playing in your front yard, going to the Sunday school that gave you that Bible all those years ago, that I like.

If you and I sat down together, I don't even know if we'd say much. I think we'd just sit on some couch and pull our legs up along side us and chat a little. Your hands were always so beautiful. Nice nails, long fingers, smooth and olive in complexion. You would always play with our hair, just brushing it back from our faces. You would touch our shoulders or drum your fingers along ours. You were just perfectly affectionate with all of us. You loved us all, but you weren't sappy or mushy about it. You were strong and capable. You were a great mom, and I'm not sure if we celebrated you enough. Since dad's birthday was first, he seemed to always get the parties and the hoo-ha. And you were the one that held everything together. Don't think I don't know that. Don't think we didn't all know that. We did. So I'd like to celebrate the little girl who lived in Newton, with the beautiful hands, who grew up to raise a good family, and brush the hair out of all our eyes, and who showed us girls how to love, and care, and be strong and capable. Happy Birthday, a little late.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Welcome Isabella


This is going to sound funny, but I'm sleeping with Suzy tonight. I'm in the spare room at my sister's house. Suzy, my niece is lying about a foot away, asleep already. We've been sporadically sharing the same bed for 35 years now. We are just a few years apart and our birthdays are on the same day. We are in Phoenix today because her sister, and my niece (Hi Annie!) just had a beautiful baby girl, Isabella. And here we are, sleeping in the same bed, talking late and laughing. When we were little, I can remember lying in the dark, finally quiet and near sleep, and out of the blue she would ask me some goofy question, or make a comment that was completely off the wall. It happened so often that after a while, I would just start to giggle anytime I slept next to her because I was waiting on that voice in the dark.

I used to do this horrible thing to her. I had moved from Kansas to Phoenix when I was 21 and I lived with Suzy, her mother (my sister), my niece, Ann, and my nephew Neal. I worked late and would come in around midnight. Suzy and I shared a room and had a bunk bed and I would tap her on the shoulder and say (she was still in high school and on the volleyball team, which had practices at 5:00 am) Hey! Your alarm didn't go off! It's 5:15! Get up! and she would jump out of her bed and run in to the bathroom and get in the shower. She still talks to me. Amazing.

Annie had a baby. Her first. She is the baby and now she had a little girl, Isabella (Izzy) who is the youngest of that generation of kids. Jay loves her. It was really cool to see them all together. Izzy is filled with one day old babyness; strange funny noises, ability to curl up into a tiny ball, and itty bitty fingernails. The kids just want to hold her and stare at her little face and touch her soft head. Everyone is very happy about the new baby. Suzy's kids, my boy, and Annie's new baby. They're good kids. The future is coming fast.

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the
universe, a moment that will never be again. And what
do we teach our children? We teach them that two and
two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France.
When will we also teach them what they are?

We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are?
You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that
have passed, there has never been another child like you.
Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move.

You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven.
You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel.
And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is,
like you, a marvel?

You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy
of its children.
--Pablo Casals (1876-1973)