Have a good Wish!

I stood motionless at the counter as she raced around me, a little tornado, reminding me of someone else… myself.  “Wait, wait, wait!”  she exclaimed as she hurriedly grabbed assorted items and put them in a brown paper bag.  She had discovered the utility of brown paper bags only just yesterday and was thrilled.  She reached up and put two bags in my purse.  “These will help you at work today,” she stated, beaming.  She smiled at me, satisified that she was letting me go in good stead. “Have a good wish!”  she said, giving me her signature send off. 

I went out the door, my heart filled.  It had been a long, trying week, both physically and emotionally, but she was there to take care of me.

We snuggled in bed that night, reading stories, giggling at the silly sayings.  “I want another mother” she said, mimicking the mouse that, upon asking for “another” kiss, had multiple other mothers come to bid him good night.  “You want another mother?”  I said.  “No, just you”, she said, giving me a big kiss.  “I miss Daddy” she said.  “He’s fun” she said.  “me too” I replied.  “I love you too though” she said. 

I left her room warmed by her gentle, honest love.  At the ripe age of two and three quarters, she was already taking care of me. 

I opened the paper bags at work and smiled at what she had given me: half a plastic egg filled with silly putty, a pipe cleaner and foam for a “project”, a plastic giraffe, a heart shaped ring, a plastic bag from the newspaper to “hold my important things in”, and a plastic lynx.  I carefully closed the bags and put them back in my purse, smiling. 

 They did help me at work today, I thought, every single one of them, and so did my “other mother.”

Torrents

As I stood in the sunlight, the rays warming my face, I could sense the winds coming. Their hollow rush rifled through the trees, sending their leaves scattering to the ground. I pulled my sweater tighter around my waist, hugging myself with my arms, but it was no use… they would not stop the winds… they would not comfort me. I turned to head for shelter but the winds howled around me, barring my path. I called out for him, begging for him to bring me inside, to shelter me with an umbrella, but he did not answer. And then it started. The rain spattered slowly at first then poured down around me beating my head and arms with its icy sting. I stood there, head hanging, letting it splash off my neck and run down my back. Thunder rolled and lightening cracked across the sky. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the clouds broke, and was I left, standing there. A large puddle covered my feet, my clothes stuck to my skin revealing my thin hips and chest. The rain had stopped, but no matter, I remained wet and it would take a long time to dry.

Miss Tiger

The sun shone brightly on the greens, a crisp, 80 degree Oregon summer day.  The breeze gently cooling the back of my neck, I squinted as I stood beside him.  His hair had greyed since we met, but his shoulders remained strong and his blue eyes soft.  He was wearing the new golf shirt I purchased, though not in his taste.  Whoosh… the ball rocketed past me on a straight and narrow path, down the fairway 200 yds to land 6 feet from the hole.  He grinned. 

He was not a boisterous man, rather humble, modest; but, I had learned the subtleties of his moods.  Today his lie had been off to the left, to the right, but this, this was good, this was great. 

I smiled and turned to duff yet another ball.  Unlike him, my game had peaked at the second tee and was now barrelling rapidly down hill as fatigue chased me on the back nine.  However, my first private lesson behind me, my drive was definitely on the up swing.  Even I had pounded out a few cruisers today. Though, as always, I made an even trade; distance at the expense of my short game, picking up a putt here a putt there, chipping back and forth across the hole… ever closer, never in. 

Today had been unusual however, not only were we out playing together, the children tucked safely at home for a nap, we were in for a little twist. Having missed our planned playing partners by showing up at the wrong course, we were paired with two, not just one, other women singles.  What were the odds.  Sue, an older asian woman, cheered us on with lofty jeers. “Mr Tiger!” she would call out, as my husband plopped yet another ball easily into the hole for birdie.  Cheryl,  more quiet, was reserved, yet out to play.  “Are you a professional athlete?” she asked me, “no, no” I replied, nearly choking on my water with laughter.  She obviously had not seen me play when she hastily made this conclusion… 

 It must have been my outfit… cute, crisp and confident… great shorts. 

Regardless, I think our trio threw my “tiger” for a little loop.  I don’t think he had been heckled by three women on the course before.  In the end, he pulled through in his usual fashion, the sleeper, the ace in the hole. Showing up with beat up clubs, old shorts and socks pulled to the mid calf, he could wrangle a few bucks off most smug players.  Course, he had cleaned up his act a bit, sporting new Mizunos, shorter socks, and his new shirt; still, as he pulled out his 1980′s driver, so small it looked like a fairway wood, a hush would fall over, maybe even a snicker would trickle out,  followed hastily by a “wow!”  from the women as he sent his ball soaring. 

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of watching him play… or of trying to play like him, so even keeled, so consistent, so humble.  Hopefully, he won’t tire of watching my attempts, so flustered, so annoyed, so vocal.  It was fun though, seeing his face when the women stepped up, having the tables turned for once.  I don’t think we really ever made him nervous, none of us being very good, but it’s kind of fun to pretend.  Grrrr.

Peach Berry Skies

I looked out at the grey skies hanging over our house, the air cool on my face as I stood in the doorway.  It was a pie day.  I closed the door and sulked back to the kitchen, the warmth of the oven pulling me in.  Sweet fruit aromas wafted from the oven, the sticky juice bubbling over, sizzling as it dripped down.  The crust was taking on a beautiful golden hue as it basked in the oven’s rays. 

I pulled the pie from the oven watching the steam rise from the center poke holes. 

I sat next to my dull day prize, lazily reading quips from the paper. 

I tapped my fingers impatiently as I sipped my afternoon tea. 

I could wait no longer. 

I cut a huge swath from the pie, holding my breath to see if it was too dry or too runny.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I carefully placed the soft centered piece, still intact, on my plate, the berries just barely oozing out the sides.  Spoon in hand, I gouged a huge divet from the “hogs and dogs” vanilla and watched it slide to the side of the plate as it melted.  Nervous about the peach berry combo, I took a small lick of the filling…juicy, tart and sweet.  The buttery crust held up to the juice but melted in my mouth at the end of the bite…mmmmmmmmmm.

What are you humming about? my husband asked.  I snapped to and looked at the three hungry faces staring at  me.   I looked outside, still grey.    Freshly picked raspberries, blue berries and black berries were tumbling out of a large bowl; fragrant peaches were stacked high on the counter.  It would be a scrumptious pie day.

Remains of the Day

Life at the zoo

We trudged back to the car, one asleep in the bjorn, one dragging her feet, two whining for snacks, and three perturbed by the others.  It had been a long, though entertaining, morning at the zoo.  I, like many other fortunate individuals, did not have to work today.  It always surprises me how many people do not have to work, moms, dads and grandparents included.  Regardless, we arrived at the zoo shortly after the gates opened, along with the herds of others, eager to catch a glimpse of the wolves, the cougars or the sun bear.  We had to settle, as usual, for the reliables: the wart hogs, the bald eagles, the bats.  I am coming to find that my favorite animals are not necessarily the ones I find most interesting, but the ones that are always available.  Like many aspects of society, we want to be able to have or get or see what we want when we have the time.  This sent my brain on a path of unpleasant thoughts about my experience at the zoo.  I was saddened by the pathological dance of the polar bears and the greenish discoloration of their fur, which my 8 year old niece reported was a fungus.  I was disheartened by the mottled appearance of the penguins and disgruntled by the ever under construction monkey exhibit.  It seemed all ever more apparent through the eyes of my sister, here from New York to visit.  I had always thought our zoo to be well layed out, in tune with the surroundings, friendly to it’s inhabitants, but today, it seemed, well, like most zoos, sad. 

I thought what it would be like to live in a cage, unclothed, and have people gawk and hoot and holler at me, watch me copulate, clean my self, and defecate.  I wondered if this was what prison felt like, a place for “animals” injured, damaged, unable to survive amicably and safely among their own kind.

We decided to board the train.  We took the pleasant journey to the rose gardens and playground and back.  Picnic in the park, cool breeze, warm sunshine.  I forgot about the incarcerated.

“Help, help, Mommy! I’m in a cage” my daughter was exclaiming from behind the jungle gym rail.  “Oh, may I help you out?”  “No, I like it in here” she said matter of factly.  Could that be, I thought?  Did the animals appreciate the chance to survive that they were given, did they enjoy their surroundings, enjoy the attention?  I looked at the bear walking back and forth in front of the window, over and over and over.  Impossible.  They knew they were trapped.

It’s almost time to renew my zoo membership, and I’m sure I will.  Sometimes, I feel like my house is a “zoo”, so why do I come?  My kids love the zoo and it is important from an educational standpoint.  Or is it?

Voice lessons

I looked over at my husband happily chewing his food.  He had his protective ear muffs on, the ones I had bought him for hunting to block out deafening levels of noise.  In my professional opinion as an otolaryngologist, I had to agree, this could certainly be ear damaging, short in duration, but piercing. 

I winced as he repeated the note, a high pitched shrill that turned heads where ever we went.  I looked over at my little squealer, arms out, fists shaking, his soft, chubby cheeks reddened with frustration.  We plainly did not understand his lingo, we were remedial learners.  He glared at us with his beautiful big, baby, blue eyes, tears welling.  I could see that he was perplexed.  How could two people, both well educated, not be able to comprehend… and were we deaf?  Could we not hear him screeching?  It was right there, in front of our eyes, yet somehow, we were too thick to figure out what “it” was. 

Idiots he thought.

Exasperated, I quickly picked up every item on the table until he exclaimed, “dis dis dis”.   His fists loosened as he turned to me and gave me his best cheeky front tooth grin.   

Melting, I rubbed my ears, now sore from the shrills.  If anyone could prevent a third, it was this one.  Maybe that was his goal I thought, show us what he was really made of, make us suffer so much we would never desire, or have the energy to produce, another child, then the attention would be all his.  Why didn’t more kids abuse this tactic I thought, I mean, isn’t that what we all want, more attention.  I apparently telepathed this idea to my daughter, brighter than most, who instantly started shrieking.  

My Chorus

I looked at my husband, now relaxed, happily listening to only the sound of his own chewing.  I smiled as the screaming escalated, tomorrow I would wear ear plugs.

White Haired Wonder meets Big Bad Brown

The wiley veteran and his two young padres stood on the bank surveying the terrain.  Twenty steps out, across three strong currents, down 32 degrees and behind the large rock, he was there, a well fed, 25 inch brown waiting to play.  They spoke in hushed tones formulating the best strategy.  Much to there chagrin, a young novice, unskilled in the art of crossing, hurriedly rushed out mid stream, poorly suited, and splashed in the hole.  They grimaced and chuckled, huddled,  reformulated.  Then, he stepped forward.  Armed with a 9 foot 4 weight Sage, shin guards in place, sun protective, mosquito repellant shirt tucked neatly at the waist, wading staff in hand, he went in.  Wading cautiously at first, then proceeding with deft speed down river, he took aim.  He cast, then cast again, and again, and again.  With the skill of a seasoned angler, he touched the fly to the waters edge, twitching it gently, baiting his prey.  The veteran brown could not resist the sight of the well placed treat.  He streaked to the surface, retrieving the snack. 

To the bold brown’s dismay, he had been tricked by the wits of a fellow veteran.  His speed and agility would save him he thought.  He raced down stream, pulling his captor along with him, knee deep, waist deep, chest deep then fully under.  He would bring the wiley veteran down he thought, a win for all future fish on the West fork of Kelly Creek. 

Then, just when he thought he had drown the old man, he felt a strong tug on his upper lip.  The trusty wading staff had lodged deep in the crevice between two boulders.  With the strength of just his finger tips, the white haired wonder turned back the tide.  A strong grip now round the middle, he pulled himself to his feet and began to reel in his bounty.  After much struggle, the old brown agreed to submit, proud to have been wrangled by such a worthy opponent.  On the banks, the crowds were a light, fretting at first at the veteran’s disappearance under the water’s ripples, then cheering with delight as he surfaced, fish in hand.  He trudged back to the banks, across the slippery rocks, to be embraced by his two young, proud padres.  They beamed as they helped their teacher, their hero to a grassy seat.  The wiley old veteran would live to fish another day.