night of the living dead?

Over the course of the last five years we have noticed some changes to the way Halloween is celebrated (?) down here in Suthren Country. Instead of cute kids wearing homemade costumes, carrying kitchey plastic orange pumpkins, toddling along the sidewalk holding hands with each other or with a parent, we now see multitudes of teenagers, some with just a token smear of makeup on their face, but overwhelmingly without costume, who emerge locust-like from the pickup trucks and flatbed trailers that line up from one end of our street to the other, emergency flashers blazing, high-decibel bass notes thumping competitively.

The way-too-old-to-be-out-there-doing-that visitors stampede the porch, pushing roughly and often literally falling all over each other in their zeal to be first. Apparently having never heard much less uttered the phrase ‘trick or treat’ they shove either a ratty pillowcase or a dirty well-used plastic grocery store bag in my face and rudely grunt an unintelligible demand. (I have also noticed their vocabularies are totally bereft of the words ‘thank you.’)

Last year, due to the high number of walking dead, I ran out of candy just shy of the official end time, and so spent the last few minutes dispensing nickels, which by the way some sneeringly declined to accept. (Who in their right mind turns down money?) At the conclusion of the hours posted for this city I gratefully came inside, locked up, set the alarm, and turned off the front porch light. But despite the fact that there were no lamps on anywhere in the house, at ten pm we were still hearing people beating on our door, sometimes with so much force that the windows shook.

I came out the next morning to find all my decorations either broken or missing entirely, a swath of empty candy wrappers adorning the street, sidewalk, and yards, like so much flotsam after a hurricane.

I've had enough. This year I’m skipping it all together. Because the darlings tend to walk between a parked car and the garage as they rush from one residence to the next, I have told Jim to pull up as close to the house as possible when he comes home from work on Thursday. As of noon, my car will be in the garage, all my fall decorations will be down, with all the little pretty chotchkies I normally keep all year on my porch and in the yard stored for safekeeping. Way before the appointed hour we will barricade ourselves in the bedroom, hope for the best, and pray we survive unscathed.

So, my friends, say goodbye to Mister Scarecrow; his days of hanging on my door are numbered. Two, to be exact.

 

limbo

Stephanie and Elizabeth (in Elizabeth’s car) had just driven away from our meeting spot. I, in my car, with thoughts of going to JoAnn’s to try to find sewing machine suitable thread to match the mint green embroidery thread I’d bought there a few weeks ago for my latest crafty project, moved from parking space onto mall perimeter road and turned east. Suddenly, out of nowhere, CRASH!!! BAM!!!!!!! Grinding of metal on metal!!!!! I’ve been tee-boned.

Elizabeth turned her car around and they came back to the scene of the accident. I sat in the car having my first-ever-full-blown-honest-to-gosh panic attack, shaking so badly I couldn’t speak. (I’m surprised I didn’t break teeth from the ferocity of the shivers.) I put on my flashers and opened my door, but did not get out of the car.

The next several minutes are just totally gone from my recollection. But suddenly, almost before I knew it, EMS was there, Cedar Hill police and fire were there, and then three mall cops joined the swarm of red and blue flashing lights.

EMS took my blood pressure. I told him, as he put the cuff on my left arm, “I normally run about 115 over 75.” He laughed and said, “You’re gonna be a little higher than that today.” And he was right, but it was only 140 over 85, which as far as I’m concerned, speaks volumes about my health in general. Cuff off and deemed ok by my gallant first responder, I stepped out of the car. Of course I had bumps and bruises, only one of which was bothering me at the time (ALL of which reared their ugly selves in pure vengeance a long 72 hours later) but nothing that required immediate medical attention, and so I signed the release denying transport. Only then did I walk around and look at the other side of my car.

All in all, it took about 30 minutes to give my statement five times (twice to city police and three separate times to each mall cop). The chief responding city police officer gave me a card containing relevant info about the other driver.  Officer Malone, dear sweet man, even picked up the big piece of my car that was laying on the pavement, and since the passenger side doors won’t open, took it around to the driver’s side and laid it in the back seat. And let me say right here, right now, there are wonderful police all over, but Saturday in Cedar Hill I became a real fan of CHPD. And said so on Mayor Franke’s facebook page.

But back to the other driver. She was an extremely nice youngster, and I credit her not only with keeping her wits about her but also with fearlessly acting in the best interest of everyone. Sure, she caused the accident, but if you live long enough and drive long enough, you’re eventually going to be in a traffic mishap. Hanna’s parents should be proud. If she were my daughter, I certainly would be!!

Once cleared to leave the scene, Elizabeth followed me home, fearing to let me make the trip totally alone. I staved off the tears by telling myself to just keep it together, keep it together, just a few more minutes, just keep it together, repeating the mantra over and over. Wouldn’t you know, every traffic light from Uptown Village to my house was red, and Saturday afternoon traffic at its peak. The trip here seemed interminable. But we finally pulled up in the drive. After reassuring Elizabeth I did NOT want to go to a hospital, we hugged, and she was on her way. And I was into my house, strangely quiet with the television off, only the sounds of Jim snoring in the bedroom.

Called my insurance company. Of course, it being a weekend afternoon, no one was there, so left a message. And then changed my clothes. No, I did not need to put on clean underwear. Mother was wrong.

And then I just collapsed on the sofa, and sat listening to the rain, realizing how much worse things could have been, and considering the possible scenarios for my future, all of them appearing as bleak as the weather.

Monday morning made an appointment with my insurance company; two hours later all the paperwork was done as far as the State is concerned, and I had an estimate from a local body shop. Monday afternoon gave a recorded statement to the other insurance company. Tuesday morning went to the other company’s adjuster. Yep, everybody agreed, my car is totaled. Wednesday passed with no word from anyone. Ditto Thursday. Friday morning I called the other company, but of course the lady assigned to my claim was not there, and I had to leave a message. She called me three hours later and informed me that someone else was now handling the case, it’s still a matter of whether or not they want to accept liability, yada yada yada, and nothing else can be done until we get to that point. But, oh by the way, they have no idea when that might be.

It really doesn't look all that bad, and it's drivable, but the wind whistles through the cracks so loud it's hard to hear the radio unless I turn the volume up enough that I become a noise nuisance to the neighborhood, so I just don't turn it on anymore. As Jim is so fond of saying, you're not paranoid when they really are out to get you. I'm not paranoid. I'm not. But any trip I have to make now in the car is done with constant prayer that I'll get wherever I have to go safely and back home again without incident, and my nerves are shot by the time I return. I am slowly losing the soreness in my left shoulder caused by the seat belt, the bruises on my wrist and knee have turned an ugly healing brown, and the back ache can be mitigated by Aleve. But sudden noises are my undoing; a ringing phone sends me to the ceiling.

I feel victimized. Not by the other driver, but by the insurance companies. No one speaks for me. No one is my advocate. All these years paying all that money for premiums only to find out my company won’t do anything for me unless I’m willing to pay out more cash; and of course the other company’s job is to make sure they delay delay delay anything and everything for as long as possible. Maybe they all hope I’ll just go away? Or better yet, die? I’m retired and have plenty of time to take care of what I must do, but I can only imagine what a nightmare it would be if I had to go to work each day and at the same time still try to take care of a situation like this. I guess it’s my job to just sit and bide; for the rest of my life, if necessary. I am in limbo, waiting for someone, anyone, to do the right thing, and make a decision. Somebody just please tell me SOMETHING!!!!!

In light of this past week, I now understand the reasons behind the latest government shutdown. When nobody will do the right thing and everybody wants only their way and each side refuses to even talk to the other, it's the citizen in the middle who gets stuck with the pain and the suffering and the economic loss. This week I'm the guy in the middle. Today's limbo is not a good place to be. Last night I finally cried.

two seconds

Received another thank you note from Precious Granddaughter. I laughed when I read her words that she bets I’m tired of getting them. Au contraire, mon coeur. Just knowing that she felt thanks was marvelous. That she actually wrote a note by hand and put a stamp on the envelope and then got it to the post office speaks more than volumes about her caring nature.

Don’t misunderstand, I love when a thank you comes by text message, or email, but there’s something so ultra special about real mail, snail mail, call it what you will, the physical tangible kind of mail, the kind you can hold to your cheek, and smile, and say a prayer for the sender, put in a memory book, and years from now take it out and still feel the love that went into the sending.
Which is why I buy and send birthday cards. Unfortunately I learned many years ago that sending a birthday card to grandchildren means I better put a check in the envelope. At least when it’s cashed I’ll know they got it; otherwise I’ll wonder if it was received, or lays mouldering in some letter carrier’s garage.

And am I a caring person who realizes the power of those two little words? Not nearly often enough. Case in point. Was in DeSoto last week, to retrieve the Constitution Week poster at the library. Walking back to my car, remembered a July conversation at City Hall reception desk, and so dropped in just to say howdy to the wonderful woman who works at that post. Nope, no other reason, it’s just simply I know that sometimes even a job you love can be thankless, especially when it seems nobody realizes, much less cares, what you do.

With her smile in my mind, followed an elderly gentleman accompanied by a young woman (well, to me she was young) out the door. Realizing they were taking up the whole sidewalk, and that perhaps I might be in a hurry, the young woman said something like, “Daddy, let the lady by.” But I did not rush along. Instead, I walked next to them, and, seeing the logo on the ball cap he wore, asked the man, “Are you a Vet?” “Yes, ma’am!” he loudly proudly declared. And then he stopped and dug into his pocket, came out with his wallet, and showed me his VA card. “Thank you for your service!” I said. His answering smile was brilliant, but the look in his daughter’s eyes was priceless.
So how long does it take to say “thank you”? Maybe a second? If you’re Southern and drawl “thank y’all” then make it three. But no matter how long it takes, it’s worth the doing. It's the little things that count.

Of course, saying thank you isn’t the whole story. There’s a “you’re welcome” somewhere in the mix, an acknowledgement of something done and well received.

And so, to make a long story even longer, here’s the real reason for this discourse on what’s wrong (or right) with the world.

Dear sweet neighbor, whose grass I’ve been cutting every week for two months, you’re welcome. Even though you’ve never actually thanked me, you’re welcome. (Of course I realize that saying ”thank you” would mean you’d have to remove that cellular growth from your ear for two seconds. I wonder that your children ever get your attention.) But perhaps the reason you don’t say thank you is that you are not actually grateful for my service? Perhaps you look at the weed-less expanse of freshly clipped lawn and think to yourself, “damn that busybody neighbor, wish she’d just leave it, I need an excuse to get outside and away from the kids and work on my tan.” Call it second guessing, but, with that in mind, dear sweet neighbor, I will not be cutting your grass anymore.

And now, before the opportunity passes by, I'll take two seconds to go to facebook and post a big thank you to hubby for doing his own dishes two nights this week. Because it's the little things that count.

we don't always get what we want

It was summer. The one time we were all together in Birmingham. Denise and Hayes had flown in from Fort Worth, Jim and I had driven in from Wilmington. Mom suggested Jim take some photos of the four generations together. Such a good idea. We posed for a few inside, with Mom sitting in her chair in the den, but then Jim said the light would be better outside, so we all trooped out to the front porch swing.

Before we left Mom handed me an old packing box. Inside were some of her handcrafted items. Foot warmers and lap robes and baby blankets, enough for each grandchild. And a peach and ecru bookmark for me. She said I should put it in my Bible and every time I looked at it, say a prayer for her.

Also in the big box was a shoe box. Inside it was a blue plastic bag, containing more items but these she specifically said I was to hold onto until the day Haysie Daisy got married. A heavy crocheted white purse, a delicate white hand-made-lace bouquet holder, and another crocheted bookmark, but this one in white with a pale blue ribbon. She said the purse and flower holder would be the something old, and the bookmark was for Hayes’ something blue.

I took it home. And for the next twenty plus years each time we moved, from house to house, and state to state, that old shoebox was one of the things I always packed first; the last time, I put it for safekeeping in Mom’s white luggage hat box. And that’s where it stayed after we moved here from Allen, next month will be thirteen years.

Since the time she gave it to me, I added only two items to the Hayes collection: Mom’s pearl collar, and a small gold and white bride’s Bible.

Several years ago, Hayes introduced us to Alex. After we got home that same day, I took out the shoebox and showed it to Jim. I told him that if anything happened that I should not be around for the wedding (because we KNEW this was the real thing and only a matter of time) he should make sure the shoebox got to Hayes. He agreed. I wondered if he’d remember.

Earlier this year Denise and Hayes came here for a short visit. Hayes told me she and Alex had set the date. I brought down the shoebox and gave her all the things in it, still nestled in the same white tissue paper and blue plastic bag. (Mom said it had to be blue so the white things would stay white. And she was right; remarkably, all these years, they did.)

Last Friday at the wedding, I thought briefly about THE BOX, but didn't see any of the items. Oh, well. The most important thing was that I had handed them over, and it was of course Bride's choice what she did with them.

But in the middle of the reception festivities, darling granddaughter took me aside, and pulled the bookmark from inside her gorgeous wedding gown. She had worn it all night. And of course, after I’d seen it, I cried. She cried, too, and then put it back, next to her heart. 

We don’t always get what we want, but with Providence, we always get what we need.