Writing and time

I write when I get home from work. That is the best time, when I know I won't be disturbed or the phone will ring. But lately, there is so much to do at this time. Running to the store, running to the cleaners. running to get money from the ATM so I can run and do something else. I hardly have time to sit and read let alone write.

My inner editor is telling me that if it was all that important I'd just let the other go and come home and write. But if I die a flabby old lady, it's becuase I didn't go to the gym to try and not become the couch potato I'm so prone to be. And if I get cardiac arrest from eating all the shit left over in the freezer from when the kids were home, because I didn't go to the store and buy more healthful stuff, then I can't write then either.

Prioritize! Yes, that's the word. But the problem is this, writing is not the priority it could be. Oh, I love to sit and tap away. I love to read what others write on their blogs. But have to? Well, not really. I fantasize about what I will write on my short stories, but when I get home I find the trash men have once again sabotaged the trash can and the wheels are broken off again. I find that the plants outside which should be soaked to the skin by now are believe it or not at your own peril--bone dry and wilting. And since the sun made an appearance for the first time in two whole weeks, I sat outside and got some much needed Vitamin D. And read some more of Harry Potter to refresh my memory for the movie coming out.

Was this busy work? Was I ignoring the writing time. Yep. But I've stopped feeling so bad about it. I feel bad about enough things (thank you mother--I learned from the best). I don't need to feel bad about not feeding this particular child. However, I do need to be mindful. Of this particular child. When I let it go too long, I feel bad and moody and unfulfilled. So balance is the key.

Acquaintances and pals

I got an e-mail from church today telling me that Fred had died. I knew Fred for a long time. He was one of the first people I met at the church I attend. He wasn't the loudest, the showiest, the most flamboyant or even stand-out-ish person you ever met. He would say things softly, almost under his breath. They were usually quite witty things and I enjoyed it when I could hear them (which later on wasn't very often). He was devoted to his church and his wife. I admired his devotion to those things. And I genuinely liked him.

When I got the e-mail, I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. He had been sick, really sick for a while. And I knew I would hear about it soon. But it hit me hard. Because I was going to send him a card. Just a note, really. Letting him know I was thinking of him, praying for him, wishing him well. But I never got around to it. I would come home from church after hearing his condition and think, "I'm gonna sit right down and send him a card." But I would forget, get busy, get distracted. And now I can't do it. I can't tell him I thought of him at different times of the day and night. Of how I hoped he was at least comfortable. Of how I missed our sly comments about the service and what went on with people behind the scenes. I missed my chance.

Of course, then I go on to berating myself that this isn't about me! His death will hardly impact me at all in the everyday sense. It isn't like he was my best friend or something and doesn't his family deserve to be considered instead of this pious, why-didn't-I-do-this-thing tirade. But grief is all about personal stuff, so maybe i'm not beyond redemption in this. Grief is all about your own personal reaction to the fact that a person who was living and breathing and walking around and somehow or other was part of your sphere, either in the peripheries or in the center is not going to be there any more. And you can wish that you let them know you cared, but really, if you didn't let them know before this, what's the point now? And sorrow only let's you borrow from it's well for a little while, before, it slaps you on the hand and says, that's enough now, move along (in it's best Obi Wan Kenobe voice).

So I wrote this down for Fred. Because I will miss him during the odd hours of the day and night. I will miss his presence in the back pew on the left.

Friends and Lovers, Barb S

I have this quirky friend. Well, truth be told, I have a bunch of quirky friends being somewhat of that ilk myself. However, this friend is the one I'm focusing on at the moment. She writes her "holiday" letter of family news in June, sometimes July, sometimes May. Whenever I get this letter, I rip it open right away. It is ALWAYS entertaining and informative. Full of introspection and gleeful observations. Full of quotes from some famous (and not so famous) authors. Full of her. During the Christmas holidays when everyone else is penning these litanies of how wonderful their children are and what they have accomplished (going to Harvard on a full scholarship while finding a cure for cancer!), I find myself frequently less than enthused reading about them. It's not that I don't wish them well, or even that I don't appreciate the wonderfulness of their life, those letters always seem more to me like boasting. Or being a show-off. Or mushing your face in their accomplishments. I know in my heart they aren't doing that, it just feels like it.

But this friend, well her letters are full of her joy and her news. and I cherish them. I don't see her very much anymore. She doesn't live that far away. In fact, she works right across the school lot from my office. But our lives don't intersect like they once did. At least twice a week.

She is the director of a Nursery School. Not the more prestigious (snooty) one, the fun, full, wonderfully joyous one my kids attended. I loved her conversations caught in the hallways. I loved spending time with her in the classroom while she talked to the kids. I loved her presentations to the parents. And I adore her ability to listen to anything you might blurt out. She listens to kids like that too. She is funny. And so empathic she takes it to a new level. And wise.

When my children were preschool aged, we would sit and talk while they were attending school. I knew she had work to do, but she never rushed me, never made me feel like what I had to say was trivial. She'd look you right in the eye, too. None of that looking at your feet stuff or checking out the wall hangings. Uh-uh. She is intent in hearing you and listens for the nuances you didn't even know you were making. Some of the parents didn't like her presentations...thought they were too rambling or full of idealized scenarios--but they were magic to me and my soul. They made me feel like parenting wasn't as scary as it sometimes felt. She made me a better mom. She wasn't trying to, she was a signpost, a marker. She had problems with her own kids, but she never made you think you're neurosis was trivial compared to hers. It's weird when I see her now, in passing. We never seem to have time to share. But when my husband was out of work for a while, I found my way to her office at the pre-school and she listened once again as if we hadn't parted company so many years ago.

One of the ways I keep in touch with people is with e-mail. It's easy and I'm usually at the computer, so it's convenient too. I had her e-mail address, but I lost it. I saw her about a year ago and she gave it to me again, but again, I can't find it. Maybe my communication with her can't be quick or uncomplicated. Maybe we were meant to share letters like those long ago pen-pal days of my youth.

Whatever. I will always love her dearly and cherish her "Holiday" Greetings received in June, July or whenever the spirit hits her. And I hope she keeps sending them.

Nature's sense of humor

The place I live is surrounded with large, old trees. But it's not just the fact that the trees are large and old, they are sycamores. If you know anything of this deciduous tree's habits, you will know that these trees are well, full of debris. Constantly. They have bark which flakes off in huge sheets, usually when the weather is particularly hot (not encouraging you to go and pick up after them in this kind of weather). They have little brittle branches throughout the systems which constantly litter the lawn, like little bones. They have seed balls which are about 2 inches in diameter that when the seeds are finally done flying around, the little core ball is hard as a rock and is excellent for throwing by mean little boys. But the more difficult thing to gauge about these trees are the huge limbs which have no rhyme or reason for suddenly breaking off. I understand the dead branches. I'm not surprised by them. But the seemingly healthy ones that crack loud as a gunshot and are full of beautiful green leaves. (The better to catch the breeze my dear) They suddenly just, well fall off. Almost always landing in the middle of the street, close to some poor little kid who just rounded second base and was sprinting to third when it seems that half a tree leaps out to grab him lest he head for home in the impromptu game of kickball. I keep trying to figure out of the "founding fathers" of our hometown had a sense of humor, knowing the nature of these trees or they had no idea and it was just a surprise to be savored by the poor schmucks living 200 years later.

When one of these is outside your house and you witness the limb being held by the wires which lead to your house, you can't help but be a little concerned. Will the electricity go out? Will the phones be dead? Will it satrt a fire? Whose idea were these damn trees anyway? And the list goes on.

We pay pretty hefty taxes in this little hub or a hometown, so I called the Public Works department. The lady who answered, didn't seem concerned. "What was your address again?" she asked, twice between the smack of chewing gum. I can see her now, after hanging up the phone and writing the numbers backwards. But that's probably okay. There's probably a dead limb outside of that house too!

June 4, 1988

Of course I would write about today. It has been a very long time and yet I remember snatches of the day very clearly. Was the really the first time we were all together without our spouses in one place as adults? It seems to me it was. I remember the false alarm...do you remember that? When he began the morphine and was hallucinating and waving his arms, mom was really freaked out and called Pastor Immendorf. Dad woke up with Pastor standing over him and asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

The actual day was sunny and warm. I remember Stevie was sitting on top of the picnic table when Mike came around the corner of the house. I knew it wasn't good, but OH, I was so glad it was Mike that came. I think he came because I was out at the store and he probably called and he didn't want to leave a message, so he just came and got me. I remember arguing around the dinner table about whether to have a viewing or not as Dad didn't like them. But he was first, last and always a Mason, and they did a service at the funeral home, so that answered that question pretty quick. I didn't watch Steve Lankanau take Dad away,did any of us? But the night of the viewing there were so many people! Even Cotter the old "hell raiser". I remember reading at the funeral service. And the reception afterwards in the parish hall of the church where we sat and talked and laughed with the Pennells! Talk about bizarre!

And a week after he died, I came in the backdoor of my house and his smell was there....the smell of him after coming home from work. I was bewildered and sort of creeped out for a minute. But then, I thought he had stopped by to see the kids one last time and how could that bother me?

John's right. I don't think of him every day. Many days go by with nary a thought of him. But just now at the end of May, beginning of June which has always heralded much fun and laughter for our family (due to birthdays by the hundreds and anniversaries and even Memorial Day)it's like we all turn and look towards our old homestead and think and remember. We stop for just a few minutes maybe more often than before and our hearts thud a little harder in our chests and our throats get a little tight and we even sometimes still weep on June 4. But it's okay, because we are doing this together even though we aren't standing right next to each other. And I know in one way or another I will hear from all of you and that will make it all right.

the phone

For reasons too numerous and somewhat bizarre to mention the phones in our house are a unique group. They are all interconnected somehow or other with each other, except for the lone ranger on the porch. This phone is a throw back. Back to the time when you could pick up any extension in the house and listen in to a conversation, or could pick up the phone from upstairs and the person downstairs could hang up and you could still talk to the person who called. But in another way entirely, it's this really up to date phone too. Okay up to date by my standards anyway. Because you can see who is calling or even who called that day. And if you answered the other elitist phones, the lone ranger doesn't know that and records their number as well. It's nifty. I may not remember so and so's phone number, they didn't leave a message but they told me they called. I just go to the porch and scan through all the recent numbers and viola or however that French phrase is spelled--there it is! I can also find out those pesky charities that aren't really charities phone numbers. I've been tempted to call the number back, but then I don't like confrontation really, so never mind.

The other thing about the phone on the porch is that the poor thing has no place to hang its--well--self. The cord doesn't quite stretch to the little tables near the couch. So it sits, slumps actually, on the radiator next to the window. It can look out, a perk none of the other phones can do. And on a nice day, when the window is open a breeze ruffles through and caresses it's handset. But some days I think it looks somehow forlorn, sitting all askew on the radiator.

And another thing about this phone is the ability to hear on it better than any of the other pieces of plastic in the house. HA! You thought I was going to curse, didn't you? Well, I almost did. But this rebel without a seat is handy for listening to my son far away, my sister not as far away and alas, those pesky not quite for real charities I mentioned before. I like this phone's rugged individuality. I wish the rest of the phones in the house would take it's example. But they are hopelessly enslaved by the master of the house, who has tinkered with their wires.

Most days I sit on the porch at the end of the day either reading, writing or watching TV waiting for my husband to call and let me know he would like a ride home from the train station. I try to answer on this phone as much as possible. Who wouldn't like to hear better? And knowing the physical impossibility of that idea, who wouldn't want to be on the one piece of equipment that makes you feel like it really is a possibility?

So I write about the phone on the radiator today as I wait for the master of the phones to call. Ring on oh faithful servant, ring on!