Prayers, Please

Could try to be witty, but am too tired. Please pray for my dad who was admitted to the hospital today after a fall on Monday; for Micah, the Marine about whom I've written whose truck ran over an IED yesterday in Afghanistan leaving him with a head injury; and a little girl in San Diego who is having a medical procedure on Friday. More later, but no idea when.

When it rains, it freaking pours!

Hot Off the Presses!

From the first all-MAMAZINA issue ~ launched online 4/11/10

*Women's Voices Unite*

Just Another Manic Momday
Recapturing the flag
by Moi

Brightly colored ribbons tie up my childhood memories; heavy black damask suffocated my morning. It began so innocently. Did I really want to eat oatmeal for the umpteenth day in a row? No, I did not, but I dutifully boiled the gruel in hopes of raising my HDL. Just needed the finishing touches of Splenda® and yummy fat-free milk. (She said dripping with sarcasm.) Not one drop of milk in the house. The thieves drank every bit. It’s bad enough my dear darlings suck down every ounce of liquid within hours of restocking, but milk for my oatmeal is sacrosanct. Or so I thought.

What I want to do is hurl the pan out the window. Instead I storm upstairs to write. Settling in front of my laptop I connect to the Internet. I connect to the Internet. I connect…$@&%!!!!! Oh, this is too much. Is the problem with the desktop? Plod. Plod. Plod. Down the steps. Unplug the modem. Count to the end of my patience. Plug it back in. Nothing. I glance at the clock realizing a group of friends will be gathering for breakfast at a familiar spot. I dash out the door; I throw off the damask.

Visiting my friends brightens my mood, albeit a temporary measure at best, scratching the surface of a deep set desire to be anywhere but here. Here at home? Here at this stage of my life? Yes and yes. But where to go?

“In ’69 I was 21 and I called the road my own. I don’t know when that road turned onto the road I’m on.”

But I want to know. I’m tired of running on empty. So Jackson Browne and I drive – reminded of a time eons ago, pre-GPS, when I chose a road, any road, and cruised my ’63 Chevy Super Sport convertible for hours until I felt like turning around. Doesn’t take a mental giant to realize that if you stay on the same road you never get lost.

Or do you?

I may not be sure where I’m going, but I do know where I’ve been. And that’s where my car steered me – on a trip down memory lane. 45 minutes later I’m driving past abandoned rubber factories. Goodyear, Goodrich, Firestone, Seiberling, General Tire. No production for years. No more flashing “Go Go Goodyear” sign visible from high atop the bridge. Skies clear of the black, billowing smoke. City clear of jobs and people.

This is my exit. This is my street. OK, I’m getting close. Slow down. Almost there. Girard? Girard! My Lord, I missed my own house! I double back down the alley. The alley I’d crossed a million times running to Mrs. Sutherland’s house to water her endless display of dazzling flowers standing proud in their built-up brick flowerbeds. All the lovely flowerbeds are ripped out. Every one. A big brown fence separates her yard from the neighbor’s.

On my left is the ride-your-bike-all-day-long-in-the-churchyard church. Me and my 10-speed cruised every inch of the gargantuan lot. Surely I wasn’t three inches tall as a child, was I? What other explanation could there be to explain this miniscule blacktopped strip? This is not the churchyard of my dreams. But here’s where Mrs. Starcher’s garden bordered the lot. A child took her life in her hands attempting to retrieve a lost bouncy ball clumping through the prized veggies.

I drive all five car lengths into the churchyard. Yep, it’s still standing – the five foot high “thing” I used to be able to jump up on if I tried really hard. And the forbidden steps leading up to the forbidden church. Some grown up must have gotten smart over the years and blocked the clandestine rendezvous spot of curious 10-year-olds. But the big wide steps in front of the church are exactly the same as I recall. Identical. They look just as they looked for all those slides down the banisters. They must be the exact same banisters.

Five houses made up my little block. And not a fence in sight as I was growing up. Sadly, I barely glimpse my backyard for all the fences this day. I drive around to the front. What happened to the beautiful white porch with the porch swing? And the bushes? And how on earth did the front lawn shrink so much? I played statue tag for hours on the sprawling grass in my bare feet. Do my eyes further deceive me? This cannot be Mrs. Reed’s driveway. Or Mrs. Reed’s house or lawn or porch about which I have written so many stories of my youth. One word comes to mind: Travesty!

Undaunted, I drive to my grade school, past the park where the Cinderella coach used to be. A boy carved his and my initials in the paint. How terribly romantic. Long gone. Junk yard scrap. Boo hoo. Here’s the parking lot where I played kickball. I loved kickball. Happily, this looks the same with only the addition of handicapped parking signs. Come to think of it, I had volleyball practice on this very lot in 7th and 8th grades. Go Tigers!

The windows of the school are boarded up. The little alcove on the playground where Monica, Lorraine and I sought solace from the fast runners, Tom and Jerome, is no more. Enormously tall slide also vanished. I was a chicken, but when I finally got up the nerve it was such fun bulleting down. A two-way street is now one-way, but I persevere to drive the exact route I’d walked home from school every single day for eight years. Like riding a bike, I don’t forget a single turn. Those big condos can’t fool me either. This is really the big vacant lot I cut through to save time. My footprints are imbedded under the foundations. I’m halfway home.

Hoover’s Pharmacy. Did you know that “pharmacy” is a fancy name for candy store? I don’t believe I ever walked past Hoover’s once; I always walked in. Walked in to peruse the cornucopia of penny candy back when a penny bought something. The old man behind the candy counter (He was probably 16 years old!) was incredibly patient with the afterschool crowd of persnickety penny-toting, penny-loafered babies. Sixlets were my favorite.

Past the cleaners was Patterson’s Hardware store. Still selling hardware, but not owned by my dad’s friend, Harvey, any longer. I bought my first bicycle license from Harvey, or more precisely, Mister Patterson. You know, back when being an adult garnered respect from children? Of course, not one establishment remains the same today. Vacant or different enterprises. Asian markets seem to be a big hit. And fences. So many fences.

On I walk…I mean drive…home from school. The special twistyturny bushes are still there. Each day I’d wander off the beaten path, onto the twisty path and back out again. Such fun.

Where is my sister’s handprint illegally squished into the cement sidewalk? I’m close. I know I’m close, but how can I see it from the car? I park and get out searching the small stretch of sidewalk…to no avail. But most of the break-your-mother’s-backs are snow-covered. Another trip for a spring day? I think so. It would mean so much to me to see my sister’s handprint.

Almost home, I pass the Watts’ house. I cannot begin to relate the endless fun enjoyed within those four walls with my best friend, Judy. Here’s the big brick porch we jumped off in the fall – straight down into the soft pile of fallen leaves.

And I am home.

It took forever to walk this mile as a child. As an adult, in a car, I can practically see my house from school. Again I say, I must have been a three inch child.

Two more stops in my looking glass: library and pizza place. The library where I selected my very first library book – Finders Keepers. How I hope the library will be open. I will go in and find the book smudged with my fingerprints. Unfortunately, the library is a daycare center with very high fence all around. Ever the sleuth, I make out the rusty residue from the removed metal letters: James H. Chamberlain Branch. Yep, this is really it; my young mind remembered correctly. How often had I walked through those doors?

Final stop: A Gild Pizza – the best sausage pizza in the entire world – bar none. They haven’t altered their recipe in all these years. My whole life I have been ruined for any other sausage pizza. I make do with pepperoni when I must. You really can’t screw that up. But my first and only pizza love will ever be A Gild Pizza. Today I ordered a medium double sausage pizza, and ate half of it in the car while driving home to my grown up home as overflowing happiness flooded my heart.

I captured the flag! Retrieved my ribbons once more. So what if there are fences everywhere. I’ve been in all those places. Those places belong to me, and I to them. Fences may keep others out, but not me. I’m in every room, all over the churchyard, in the school cafeteria, up in Judy’s attic, and dancing through the puddles in Mrs. Reed’s drive – memories locked in my heart forever and always.

Hey, want to know a secret? Want to know what’s better than a piping hot piece of A Gild sausage pizza? Four pieces of cold sausage pizza for breakfast. LDL be damned!

***Check out the rest of the mag! Many more columns, essays, profiles, poetry, reviews and a special feature on Antigone Rising. www.mamazina.com - formerly Mom Writer's Literary Magazine.

Happy Reading!

Day Three in the Windy City

Day Three in Chicago:

What a lot of food! Last night we had dinner at Ditka’s Steakhouse. When the menu listed “Sides to Share” we should have taken the “to share” part a little more seriously. Very big portions and so tasty! Another bonus was our waiter. Very personable guy who made the experience even more enjoyable.

This morning Mass in the cathedral after another helping of the unsurpassed breakfast buffet at the hotel. Lowkey so far here in Chicago. Hope to actually sight-see later this afternoon and tomorrow. Otherwise I’ll go home, people will ask what I saw, and I’ll have to say, “Not much!” Did see The Bean today – a huge shiny stainless steel structure sculpted by Anish Kapoor. Pretty cool! Odd but cool. PR name is Cloud Gate, but I sure see why it’s nicknamed “The Bean.” Looks just like a huge shiny bean.

I keep taking my life in my hands each time I hail a cab. And I thought I was a city girl! Ha! Not a “big” city girl, that’s for sure. My husband thinks that maybe when we arrive back home I won’t complain so much about leaping up into his truck anymore. I hate to admit it but he is right. His truck is just too darn high, but I will definitely be happier and feel safer behind the wheels of our familiar vehicles on our safe roads without crazy drivers who seem to love to take chances with other people’s lives. Perhaps I have some of the Cowardly Lion in me as well as Dorothy! But better a live chicken than a dead duck!

What will this afternoon and tomorrow bring? Only time will tell.

Windy City - Day Two

Day Two in Chicago began with the most delicious breakfast buffet. Individual ready-to-serve Eggs Benedict huddled to keep warm beneath silver domed serving trays, as well as a chef at-the-ready to concoct any omelet my little heart desired. Smoked salmon, brie, salami with more actual meat than fat, every breakfast mainstay imaginable, as well as fruits and danishes. I had to remind myself that I can return tomorrow to prevent gastric overload today. Mmm…so good.

And now what? A leisurely day ahead. I could read, write, watch TV, people-watch. I could do anything I “wanted” to do as there’s nothing I “have” to do. I’m not used to such leisure. I’m usually doing or going. This empty expanse of time seems foreign. When I left for breakfast the marvelous maid sneaked in, made my bed and cleaned my room. Fresh towels, empty wastebaskets. That doesn’t happen at home.

I can only imagine the hours it would have taken to prepare a fraction of the foods on the breakfast buffet. And the clean up? I am further in awe that all these many buildings with sky-touching floors are filled with people. I’m looking out as I sit on the 11th floor to see three more buildings reaching ever higher. And I see directly into their curtain-less windows. I’m fascinated. Must have a bit of Hitchcock/Jimmy Stewart in me. Rear Window, remember? Voyeur, but in the more cleaned up sense!

This world is so different from mine. As delectable as breakfast was I was not impressed by the surroundings. Too big, too open and too noisy. Every time someone moved their chair in toward the table or pushed themselves back, squeeeeak. Every single time. I was reminded of similar stools in high school. The smart teachers asked the children to bring in tennis balls. Cut the tennis balls in half, secure one on each leg and – voila – no more squeaking. Chicago could learn a thing or two.

I am staying in a ritzy hotel; it’s no Red Roof Inn. But the room, like the restaurant this morning, is cold and stark. Too much chrome, glass and black for my liking. But that’s me. I’m sure others find it chic. I guess I’m more old-fashioned. Which leads me to believe that while taking everything good into consideration so far – buffets, maid service, leisure – I’m with Dorothy: There’s no place like home. And I’ll be happy to return, but, while here in the Windy City I will enjoy all it has to offer such as museums, the aquarium and restaurants to name just a few. More tomorrow…

Must-a Got Lost!

Don't know what happened to yesterday's post. I posted it. Oh well. So I'll post two new ones for you to read today.

Yesterday's:

I’m in Oprah’s backyard tonight. Flew into Chicago this afternoon. I positively love flying on airplanes. Haven’t done it very often which is why it hasn’t lost its appeal, I suppose. How can men shut their eyes, put in earphones and go to sleep? Don’t they realize what they’re missing?

The greens and tans and browns of the earth below. The skinny winding roads. All those boxes of varying sizes called houses and businesses so far away. And the clouds! I can’t decide if they look more like marshmallow or snow. I think this may be why I am not afraid of flying. It’s surreal; Take your pick: either fluffy mounds of marshmallow crème or mountain after snow-covered mountain. What’s to spook?

And I trust the pilot – you know, the total stranger I’ve never met before in my life. I trust him. I place my safety in his hands without worry.

The cabbies, however, are a different story. So far, three rides today, and tomorrow I think I shall do much more walking. Yikes! It’s a free-for-all. Whose got the biggest, shall we say, nerve, wins the road. Now this is spooky.

As I was gazing out the airplane window incredulous at the sleeping beauties I realized that in my everyday life I take just as much, if not more, for granted. The sky at home is no less awesome; I’m just looking up instead of down. The birds that fly by don’t usually get but a passing glance from me. Why don’t I feed them? Why don’t I welcome them into my yard?

And what about the wonder that is found in my children’s eyes? So what if they’re 19-24 years old now? Does that matter at all? Why aren’t they still the daily miracles they were when they were younger…and I was younger? One of my sons has a fleck of gold in his right eye. When was the last time I searched for it? This particular dear child is also the exact height to make it possible to hear his heart beat perfectly when I lay my head against his chest as I hug him. Why don’t I hug him every day come rain or come shine? Why do I let stupid stuff get in the way? Why do I let days pass without experiencing the wonder that is motherhood?

I made these kids (with a little help from their dad) and I know them better than anyone. When and why did I allow the magic to fade away? Much to think about.

How To Find God 101

Psalm 102: 1-3

“The prayer of one afflicted and wasting away whose anguish is poured out before the Lord.

Lord, hear my prayer; let my cry come to you.
Do not hide Your face from me now that I am in distress.
Turn Your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly.”

I love the last few words of this excerpt: “Answer me quickly.” How true is that? That’s what we want. We want our answers given quickly, painlessly and usually in the affirmative. But that isn’t always the case, now, is it? Sometimes our answers are years in the making, and when we finally get the answer it is a big resounding, “No!” And then we must rely on the belief that God knows best. He must, in His all-knowing, all-seeing manner, know that a “yes” would hurt us, would not be right for us.

Hard to believe at times, but true. So on we plod along the path of our journey…toward Him. And as we move forward in this life our eyes mustn’t be focused on God to the exclusion of those around us, or we miss the God in everyone we see, everyone we hear. And we lose the opportunities to touch, to reach out to those in need. We become loners neither helping nor receiving. No man or woman is an island. Those who try to be are the saddest of sad. Miserable and lonely.

The fastest cure if we feel ourselves slipping to the dark side is to help another person in need. Find someone to raise up, to hold up, to praise, to love. Find another person who needs God and you will find God.

Let Go and Let God

Sometimes as moms we just have to let go. And trust God.

We used to think sleepless nights with newborns were hard. How did we survive the sleep deprivation? And juggling two kids, then three or more every waking moment. How hard was that? Going to the grocery store week after week keeping track of them all. Being on pins and needles quieting children during Mass. Visiting everywhere on holidays. Scheduling, ferrying them all here and there. Attempting to be in two places at once when children had special, yet conflicting, events.

How did we survive the school years? All those rules. Then the older years when rules seemed to fly out the window. I don't remember opening the window, but away they flew. We take so much from our children all in the name of love. Yet they take more from us. Just when we think we have a good handle on this thing called motherhood, we are thrown for a loop.

We can't do a thing...and we know it. For the first time in our lives, The Supreme Mom Authority, can do nothing to alleviate our child's pain. We have to sit back and watch. We have to let go. How do we survive it?

Do we survive it?

Quick Hi

Time only for a very quick hi. Hi! I hope all is well with you. More tomorrow.

Happy Days Make Happy Lives

And how was your Easter? I had a great one! Sadly, I am not a person who usually happily anticipates holidays. A bit of a skeptic. Many tiring, long holidays under my belt in the past 20 some years. But from morning Mass, through three house visits to the leftovers before bed, all went well. Unexpected pleasures. Start of a good week I hope!

Happy Easter

Easter Blessings to all!

Food for Thought

Why is it that the dinner we work so hard to make takes our family only minutes to consume? My family and I just finished our Easter meal a day early. And it was good if I do say so myself! With a goodly amount of leftovers. Yum!

Gearing up for the Easter Vigil - all two hours plus of it. Although this Mass is mighty long it tells our story - a story we need to hear every year. I am looking forward to it. Ritual is important. Helps us remember who we are. Just as it was important for me to have my family around our dinner table, it is even more important to sit around God's table and partake of the Food He offers - the Food which took a lifetime to create. And at such a high price! I'll think of that tonight as I receive Commnunion.

Don't work too hard tonight, Easter Bunnies!

Triduum Thoughts

Oh my goodness – not many winks of sleep last night at all. And you know why? Because I’m torqued about the Triduum. Of all things! What is happening to me? It’s become so special. One long Church feast. I like thinking of it in that way. Sadly, I am the only one in my house who feels this way, but one is better than none, right?

Last night’s Mass was lovely. Growing up I never had experienced the washing of the feet, so it’s extra special to me now. I will always remember who washed my feet and whose feet I washed last night. There is a closeness among friends who choose to be at Mass – who don’t feel like they have to be there, but want to be there.

Today is much of the same. I’m watching a Passion mime this afternoon put on by 8th graders that is special beyond words, and then, of course, The Passion is this evening which is probably the most moving thing I have ever witnessed. So I am accomplishing all the many Easter chores today – cookies, pies, salads and more to come – all on way too little sleep. Maybe I can catch a cat nap somewhere in this busy day.

But as I experience the dragging feeling that always comes with diminished sleep, as well as the dull headache which attaches itself to my brain, I gladly accept these tiny inconveniences – especially on this day – this day when Jesus suffered and died for me…and for you. My aches aren’t from nails, and my headache’s not from thorns.

May God bless you today.

Happy Holy Fooling Day!

Happy April! Happy Holy Thursday! And Happy April Fool's day! Am I missing anything? I wish you a Happy Holy Fooling Day! :)

My posts may be short for the next several days. Much to do and many meaningful events at church. I hope you get all your preparations for Easter finished and stay sane in the process. That's always a prayer of mine.

'Til tomorrow...