Fireworks

I love that after-smell of a spent firecracker. Nothing quite like it at all. The smell alone sears the inside of my nostrils, leaving some kind of rhino-memory, making it possible to somehow remember every single
4th of July since I was a child--in depth. This kind of recall is unlike any other I have known. It places me right back on the risers at the baseball dugout at our nearest school--this is where we began each holiday morning, batting it out, whole families against each other...teams with great names and t-shirts to match. This was the 70's man, anything went: cut-offs, beer can hats, afros. The games started at 8am sharp, while the crackle of the day was still a few hours from tearing into us. The games were strict..and played with a fierce gusto that only a street shaped like a horseshoe with 48 children under the age of 18 knew how to play.
This was how we commenced each 4th of July.
My mother started her 4th of July early. At midnight, she would reach into the bowels of her jewelry box and pull out great wads of old-tyme, Southern-style, firecrackers. She would then prance down the street a few houses with us at her heels, place the mound underneath Charlie Hickey's bedroom window, and light the entire mess aflame. What a way to start the festivities! Mother and Charlie had this little firework thing going for a few years now, nobody sure how it started or why, but everyone DID know that both parties looked forward with anticipation to this event. Upon mothers instructions to "run like mad", after the popping started, us kids would always hear him shout, "Happy 4th Virginia!" Mom would snicker and follow us into the house.."go to bed now, big day tomorrow!" Our father would always stay awake for this event, but never partake in its singular glorious-ness. When he heard us trampling into the house after midnight he would come down the hallway, scratching his head and wondering outloud, "what the hell is wrong with your mother?"
Nothing.. not a thing.

Ode to a 6th grader

My darling Doodlebug,

Gone are the days of waiting outside your classroom to scoop you up and take you for ice-cream.
Do you think it will look awkward if I try this antic when you start Junior High?
I long for the plays, the science projects, the Christmas Gingerbread making, and Dad and I taking photos at every turn--all of our relatives joining us to watch you perform "Let it Be". Tonight you leave on your
first camping trip-with-a-friend. Ahhhh--the fun you will have. The excitement of today, your last day in 6th grade--you and your best friend will talk about it tonight in your tent, and laugh--maybe cry--you are embarking on a whole new adventure. Officially a "big kid" you are now able to babysit, go with your friends' families on vacations--I used to love that at your age. Belly laughing until dawn, swimming in the lake with not a single care. You'll abandon your cell phone this weekend to immerse yourself in a completely freeing experience. I'm pretty sure texting from a tent is against the law.
Please take lots of pictures, and more, make room in your brain for this completely new experience....summer before junior high. Your yearbook promises "HAGS" (Have a Great Sumer), scrawls from your classmates--and you will. You deserve it.
I love you,
Mom

When it rains...

Well look at who is juggling potential job offers now?! I knew this would happen; after I have given myself an ulcer and taken two trips to the emergency room for panic attacks, the jobs they are a flowin'! I have to be careful though, in writing this, heaven only knows just by writing these words, the job Gods will strike me down with an "A Ha!!!!  How dare you write something so self-assured when nothing has been signed yet?!!!"

So i humble myself. Remind myself that nothing is in stone yet so just chill the F out. Let me take a few deep breaths. Ouch, that hurts a little when I do that--like, right when I inhale there is a jabbing sensation in my ribcage. Could it be possible that some of us weren't meant to breathe deeply? The entire breathing phenomenon has really sort of gotten to me as of late. Very much like the candle phenom that's been sweeping the nation since 1990. You hear it every day, "Just breathe".  Doesn't Kaiser have an ad promoting the all allusive breath? Last weekend when I landed in the emergency room this was all I heard,  "Sweetheart, you're not breathing, I need you to be taking some big, deep breaths." I retorted with a smartass, "If my oxygen saturation is 100% doesn't that mean I am, indeed breathing?" She huffed out of the room, extremely pissy--her in her obnoxious garanimal nurses outfit. Excuse me, how am I supposed to take you seriously when you come in here dressed like you work at Chuck E. Cheese? I get it if you work in pediatrics, but come on! It takes everything in me NOT to ask her where I might find a pair of bone-white Birkenstocks and a Dora one-piece. Instead I

Breathe.

Rest

Good news on the job front: 3 call-backs today and an interview tomorrow! I celebrated by purchasing a half-flat of Snapdragons to plant alongside my parents headstone--which is not really a headstone, more like a ground-stone. It always kind of freaks me out when I start looking for their plot--stepping over other ground-stones, keeping my eyes peeled out for theirs. And when I come upon it I am always surprised by how downright simple their plot is. Just their names in very simple script, and underneath "Mom" and "Dad". I feel ripped off by the cemetery sales hawks who descended upon my mother a mere two days after my father passed. I am pretty certain that our family gave that woman an entire list of adjectives that were to be engraved on the stone. No, we didn't? "Why the hell not?" I ask myself. Does "Mom" and "Dad" sum it all up in one, tidy little sales deal? Nothing about "thanks for making your children creep under the Christmas tree after decorating it, making them gaze up at all the beautiful lights and take in that glorious smell of the tree"? Why is there no "Mom and Dad, you made every single one of your grandchildren feel special and loved and part of this glorious, messed-up family"? Or, "Your children can't ever thank you enough for all the sleepless nights you suffered through, awaiting their safe return as each of them, together and on their own, tore the town apart with un-paralleled hell-raising."  My parents were not simple people in life. They were complex in their own way and as a couple. I'm a little pissed that this piece of stone tells none of that.

 I stuffed all the Snapdragons in the oh-so-poor-excuse-for-a-vase at the bottom of the stone and added some soil to it, a little water--perhaps there's a slight chance something miraculous will happen and those Snapdragons will grow tall in that metal canister. I feel sort of like my father; scientifically, with exactness, mixing the soil carefully, adding a bit of manure (always a good time!), and I look at the little makeshift shrine I've created at the base of the stone. Something is missing. Damn! I have forgotten to bring an ACE (yes, the card)...my mother loved playing bridge--oh, and a Starbucks coffee cup, (she was NEVER without her Starbucks coffee). How did I manage to forget all these little objects to place on their tomb?  Better question is, "Why am I spending most of the day flitting around trying to make my parents' resting place look anything BUT restful?" I contemplate what that means..."restful", "resting place". I have no fucking clue. Who is doing the "resting"? If I know my parents, they are definitely NOT resting. My minds eye has them floating around all day long, pulling little pranks on us, slamming doors and misplacing keys and sending little doves to perch around our homes, reminding us...reminding ME, they are still very much a part of this life. This thought soothes me and washes over me like a flood of warm, salty water.

Front Porch Blues

Sitting on my front porch in my new Adirondack, a gift from my wonderful, but former, mother-in-law. Doodlebug is tucked deep beneath a mound of blankets on the couch,  sore throat and achey, watching an entire season of The Office. Honestly, not once have I been able to sit down today and look for jobs online, peruse Craigslist, go through the newspaper, CareerBuilder--nothing. Every time I try and do so it's "Mom, can you get me a bobby pin?" or "Mom, would you pleaaaaaaase pour me another glass of water?" And, of course, I think nothing of this at all and run around the house, fetching hair ties and glasses of water, juice, a bowl of ice cream and some soup--I do these little things lovingly and almost always with a twist...like, I write on her water glass in washable marker, "feel better angel-head!".  And even sick and achey-breaky she manages to roll her pre-teen eyes at me and say, "Oh, now it's "Angel-head?"  I wonder, if washable markers had made their debut in the early 70's,  would my own mother do the same kind of thing? Oh wait, no....no she wouldn't. She did not have an only child, like I do. She didn't have the time to think of little crafty things to put on kitchenware so that we, too, could roll our eyes all the way to the back of our head at her.  I, on the other hand, helicopter around my kid constantly...still writing little notes to put in her lunch bag, making her kiss me goodbye at drop-off.  Ugh. I am making myself sick. Her eleven and-a-half year old self is crying out for a little separation, some identity of her own, something that is totally UNRELATED to me and my crazy family.  Her father is much better at this "letting go" stuff than I. He has two other children by wife #2 and lets our daughter do things like take the dog and her two half-siblings to the park--by themselves!!!  Even typing those words sends me into a mini panic attack. Lately I have taken to sort of stalking her when she is at her dad's house. Ok, not really stalking, but like, you know, parking a good ways down the street when I know she is walking a few blocks to the park to meet her friends. Oh, and it just so happens I have taken up bird-watching (the doves) so I, conveniently, had a pair of cheapo binoculars at the ready.  Cars drove passed me that day (this is the suburbs) and slowed to nearly a full stop to gaze into my car window..."what in holy hell is this woman doing?" My daughter  would be so annoyed with me if she knew.  I picture her busting me do a drive-by the park. And the worst thing: the ex and I live nowhere near one another...so the old, "Oh, I was in the neighborhood" thing is OUT. I imagine her annoyed and embarrassed and disappointed in me. I am disappointed in myself. Years ago, sipping beers on a front porch in New Orleans. someone said, "raising children should be an exercise in letting them go." It now dawns on me that this person, a trumpet player at the time, WAS then and is NOW child-LESS! But I have thought about that almost every day since. And I get it. I do.  Every day it gets a little harder. But isn't that our job as parents? To give them the tools to deal with things like hurt, rejection, anger, LOSING A JOB? Then we can send them out on their own to make their way--to make their own life? Question then: Am I hurting my Doodlebug by doing these things? Or, am I only hurting myself? We want to protect our babies, these creatures that took up residence in our bodies for nearly a year....isn't that just instinct to want to keep doing that FOREVER? Why is it that dads are so much more laid, layed (there's that word again) back? Why are they willing to let their kids go right out the door (granted she did have the dog and her cell phone with her), with nary a care?  Oh, there we go, another command from within...gotta go. But let me know what you think about this, please.

When Doves Cry

NOT the Prince song...but I do love Prince (like how I love Stevie Wonder--they PLAY all instruments, you gotta respect that-oh, and if you've never heard Prince's song "The Pope" you are hurting deeply and not aware of it yet. It is the most bootyshakin' song EVER.)  Back to doves crying, mourning actually. Today was the first day in what seems like forever that it didn't rain.  The sun peeked out about noon while I was at my sisters' house, listening to her bitch someone out on the phone for SERIOUSLY the entire time I was there. Glad I stopped by. I left there and sort of had this lump in my chest about going home and sitting at the computer again, sending out my resume exactly 62 times and checking my emails for some kind of response, something, throw me a bone for fucks sake.....Nada.  I decide to forego another day of looking up long, cool adjectives to explain to my future employer just why he/she should hire me---and instead I go in the backyard to discover the flat of Impatiens I'd bought several weeks ago, when there was  just a hint of sun. PERFECT! I can spend my afternoon planting those 2 flats--which I believe is like 60 or 70 individual flowers. I get on my gardening gear--which is similar to my workout clothes...I even use my new Nike's to tramp around in the dirt. No kneeling pad (smile), no good gardening tools, just a pair of gloves and a beat up trowel.  I'm a rogue gardener! And listen people, I am also a single woman....who knows when someone might "pop by", some old boyfriend or something, the contractor a few doors down I have been flirting with--HE will not find me in some lame floppy hat with like, a faded pair of overalls on that make my ass look square and really, really unattractive on every level. Nope, I stick with gardening in yoga pants. Does anyone ever come by though? Really, come on? Hell no...nobody but the neighbor who, go figure, happens to double as my landlord. Ugh!
Didn't I bring up doves.....? Yes. "Stay on track" my inner voice gripes at me. I am practicing being really mindful of the fact that I start writing and then spin all the fuck around so that nothing at all, in a creative sense, flows. I am jotting down this fact on a 3x5 card and sticking it to the computer screen. Okay, the doves.  In mid-bend-over-to-dig-a-hole-for-a-flower, I hear the mourning of a few doves that seem to follow me at every home I've had since 2003,  just before my father died. You might ask, "Shit woman, why do you move around so Goddamn much?" Well, see, all that moving around is (was?) tied up with my dad being ill and my mother, having always had her children near her, asking me to "please move in with me, you and the Doodlebug" a few days after my dad died. We did. And doves began to build nests on and around the patio area of our family home. My mother is mourning my dad and doesn't notice them. The last thing on her mind are birds.  But I am convinced my father has sent these creatures to us, a reminder, a nudge maybe..."I am right here". I recall my childhood and how he spoke of "mourning doves" and their incessant lament, "wooo....woooo....wooooo" the human version of "Where are you my dear lover?" Needless to say, now with my mother gone too, I am positively sure that the doves today, on the phone lines above my garden were little guides from both of them. And I just so happen to be planting my mom's flower-bed fave: the Impatien. Here I am, digging holes like I'm a miner, building up a nice little sweat, intermittently chatting with Mr. Landlord about what a good tenant I am (I'll fool him when I break the news that I am OUT OF WORK!) and it all kinda comes together....the doves, the flowers, the fact that exactly a year ago today I had a conversation with my mother about her coming to us, when she passed on, and I asked her to talk to Dad up there about the doves...and to please, promise to come to me through those birds. She sort of laughed it off but somewhere between 2003-and that moment, she had started to believe in the doves, maybe they were a little sign from her husband of 54 years. What was the harm in believing that? Since she converted to Catholicism for my father back when she married him at 16, she had believed in the Church, the absolute infallibility of the Pope, the Transubstantiation of the Eucharist. Why not throw in the magic of a few birds, for crying outloud? Later on in the year, April.... she was lying in bed, confined, she had made her peace with everyone she loved, had Confession, Communion and her Rosary constantly dangled from her wrist; my father's wedding band safety-pinned to EVERY blouse she wore, pajamas included. The house FULL TO OVERFLOWING with friends of hers, friends of ours, her 12 children around her, our children...and our children's children... I look back and I was so....proud? Not sure if that is the right word.....but I was so overcome at the fact that someone could be dying a completely natural death, in the comfort of her own home, with not a doctor around--just her kids, all of us finding a spot on her twin-sized hospital bed right next to her, literally in bed with her, breathing her breath, finding a place on her body that wasn't being touched by another family member. My niece singing "Over the Rainbow". I noticed that the eldest of the family suddenly seemed to me like my mothers' keeper, her bodyguard in a way, as he stroked her golden hair and kissed her closed eyes.
When she passed I walked outside to get some air, and wouldn't you fucking believe it...two doves right there in front of me, on a tree branch, together, singing their song.
Let's see if I can get these damned Impatiens to grow like my mom could. Keep your eyes open...Always.

My two beautiful nieces are here to spend the night with me and kiddo. They are 5 and 3 and theeee most adorable little bugs ever. The littlest is allergic to gluten and knows EACH and EVERY single thing she cannot eat.....at 3! I am amazed. She just informed me that Cheerios are "not on my diet, ever!" Oh, excuse me Miss Thing.  I must admit, she devoured that cornbread I made to accompany the chili. Now I'm frantically searching the internet for gluten products making sure I didn't just feed her what I was explicitly told not to. What if she breaks out in some horrifying rash or worse, God forbid, stops breathing on account of me and my utter scorn at us obnoxious gluten-fearing Westerners. I guess I thought, somehow, that smothering the bread with organic honey would cancel out the evil of the gluten. No go? Well, only time will tell. It's been 1 hour since dinner. I am watching her like a hawk. Should I call her mother?