the most powerful thing

Mowed the "back 40" again today. Spring has brought wild roses and honeysuckle and hibiscus to full bloom, blackberry vines everywhere, orange day lilies line the road to the mailbox, and strange little yellow flowers peep up among the wind-blew-them-in grasses. Good thing there are no neighbors close-by to see me out there in the still cool morning hours, manicuring around the larkspur and thrift I didn't plant but enjoy so much. They'd think me nuts. Guess I am a little. All this time living alone. Twenty years of penance. Father Behan says I'm harder on myself than God ever would be.

Discovered alcohol was neither the problem nor the solution. And just for today suicide is not a viable alternative. But I'm convinced the scars on my body healed a lot quicker than the scars on my heart. I guess it had a lot to do with living alone and learning to like it.

I never told the children how much I hated it when they left to do their own thing, one taking an apartment, the other joining the Army. I know, they couldn't live with me all their lives, but I felt so abandoned. Everybody I'd ever loved had left me, one way or another, and I didn't like it one bit. I hated living alone. My self-pity grew by leaps and bounds. That's when the drinking really started kicking in. The only comfort I had was with cable TV and a bottle at the end of each working day. I didn't go to bed at night, just passed out in the papa-san chair in the living room, coming to in time to brush my teeth and dress and get to work next morning.

So what do you do when you can’t figure out what else to do? You give it over. Sitting in the bathtub one night, water grown so cold I no longer felt it, I cried out for God to please do something, anything, just please take me out of the pain. And what a change God wrought! With that one sentence, my entire life changed!

I learned to love my life, understanding that I couldn't really love anybody else if I couldn't love myself. Mom had said, in one of our weekly calls, that she didn't see how I could live alone, why didn’t I get married again, yada yada yada. Enjoyed solitude was totally beyond her ken. Rather than embrace hers, she hated it, knowing only that years of living alone had not been her choice. Although she had no one to answer to, she never recognized the joy of doing what you want when you want.

Today, for me, it's all about choices. If I want to eat asparagus cold from the can for dinner, that's my choice. If I want to sit in the sun with a cup of hours-old coffee, that's my choice. If I want to play computer games or write in my cyber-journal, that's my choice. And if I want to be alone, that, too, is my choice. If I don't want to dress, well, then, okay, that's that. Some days I look like something the cats dragged up and the dogs won't eat, but there's nobody here to say it should be otherwise. I bought a sapphire and diamond wedding band a couple of years ago, and wear it proudly. I told Barbara, "I want to be married to myself, find out who I am, without catering to somebody else's whims." I was determined that neither Mom nor anyone else would railroad me into another marriage. Once was quite enough, thank you very much. Alone is not necessarily lonely. Sometimes it’s a blessing. The most powerful thing on earth for me, today, is not rockets, or tornados, or even love - - it’s the right to choose.

it was a dark and stormy night (kinda sorta)

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not really, but that’s how Snoopy says the best novels start. And while this post won’t be quite as long as a novel, it may qualify for novella status before I finish.

It was a dark and stormy dawn. I departed just after 6:30 am, fighting rain from the minute I left my drive. The mall at Town East had opened at 7 am and by the time I got to that section of 635 the backup was already half a mile long.

Now, knowing from past experience that the worst drivers are also the last ones to shop, I had armed myself, both literally and figuratively, with appropriate-to-the-occasion-protection, just in case, along with energy bars and bottles of water. No, I wasn’t expecting any trouble, but ya never know; the last thing I wanted to think about was being stuck somewhere, miles from friends and family and anyone who could help (since Jim was at work and incommunicado).

Somewhere around Dalrock Road, a car behind me began speeding up and dropping back, speeding up almost to my tailgate and then dropping back several car lengths, weaving slightly from middle of the road to right shoulder. I started praying, “Lord, whoever this is behind me, they’re either sleepy or full of holiday cheer, please keep me out of harm’s way.” About a mile later, the car’s right turn signal came on. And stayed on. And, despite the many exit opportunities on that stretch of highway, the turn signal stayed on and the driver continued to follow me.

When I reached my exit, I purposely did NOT give a signal but at the last minute swooped from the highway onto the frontage road.  The car stayed behind me, continuing to repeat the speed-up-slow-down process, right turn signal still blinking merrily all the way. At my street, I had to slow down because it's sharp, and turned right. The car followed.  I'm beginning to remember that 18-wheeler movie with Dennis Weaver.

Traveling down that little narrow avenue, the blankety-blank car got into the left lane, sped up, and pulled even with me; I hit my brakes, hoping they'd just glide on by. But the strategy failed - the driver did not take that opportunity to pass and continue on without me being in front. N-o-o-o-o-o! They stopped, too. And began to back up. I floored the accelerator, shooting rooster tails behind me.

At my left turn I didn’t give a signal, made it a whole lot faster than I’d ever thought possible without two wheels leaving the wet pavement. Color me well and truly frightened. My nemesis TURNED THERE, TOO, and continued to follow.

I finally reached my destination, pulled crossways into Mike’s drive, put my foot on the brake but left my car in gear so the doors stayed locked, looked to my right and saw the car had pulled up RIGHT NEXT TO ME. By now my prayer had changed to “Lord don’t make me use drastic measures to get this person to leave me alone.”

But instead of reaching for my “little friend” I pulled out my phone. A woman got out of the car and wailed pitifully, “I’m lost.” I shook my head no and said, “I can’t help you” and speed-dialed the magic number. Woman said, “I need to find 190.” I yelled, “You need to go away from here!” Rebecca’s phone began to ring. The broad said again, “I’m lost!” I yelled, “I don’t care!” and just then Becca answered.

At her hello I yelled, “I’m out here in front of your house and there’s some crazy woman next to me” and then screamed, “COME OUTSIDE NOW!”

The obviously-to-me-deranged woman kept repeating, “I’m lost!”

And then things happened very rapidly, but to me it seemed slow motion. On my left I saw Mike come out the front door of the house and head in my direction; on my right the woman got back in her car, slammed the door, put the car in gear, and roared away, turning at the next available intersection. I put the truck in park, and opened my door. Mike asked if I was ok. “Uh, NO!” By then Becca was outside, too, barefoot, as I got out of the car and related the events of the past twenty minutes. (Was it ONLY 20?)

Mike watched in case the car came back around, but evidently seeing someone other than little 'ole gray-haired me was enough to convince the “lady” her presence was required elsewhere - post haste.

So now, Christmas presents delivered, seven hours later, I'm back at the ranch. And my most-often-stolen-make-and-model-vehicle-in-Texas is parked where it belongs.

I had stopped shaking as soon as I went into their lovely home, seeing the beautiful tree, lights shining cheerfully in the corner, feeling with gratitude the warmth of love and the hugs of family. But reliving the events as I started to write this post gave me the heebee jeebees all over again.

And now my prayer is, “Lord if I missed an opportunity to be kind, forgive me; but next time, please don’t make it so scary!”

p.s. I'm glad there are no more presents to buy, no more shopping to do  - - I think I'll just stay home until Christmas Day. When Jim will be with me.

 

Ghost of Christmas Past

Ours was not a “Santa Claus” family. There were always gifts under our Christmas tree in Birmingham, but never more than two per person. Our custom was to open one on Christmas Eve after coming home from the requisite trip to Anniston, and another on Christmas morning, unless it happened to fall on a Sunday, in which case you had to wait until after Church and after dinner and THEN and ONLY THEN could you open that last present.

One year we packed up the relatively new ’53 Plymouth and headed out. Knowing that the weather in North Alabama that time of year could turn vicious in less than a heartbeat, we always traveled with blankets and candles and a thermos of coffee and a jar of peanut butter.

Our arrival was celebrated with hugs and kisses and proffered orange candy slices Granny always kept for us kids. To get away from the grownups, cousins Lynn and Sue and Phyllis and I soon went off to the back bedroom to share girlish giggles in the dark. Phyllis, the youngest of our crowd, was all aglow and began to tell me what she expected to get from Sandy Claus the next day.

“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus!” I informed her. I saw her face crumple. She dissolved into tears and ran from the room.

Cousin Lynn, from her grown-up perspective of two years my senior, shook her head and said darkly, “You’re gonna get it for that one.”

“What did I do?” I was beside myself. I understood that my youngest cousin was upset, but could not understand why. I stood in the doorway between the rooms and saw Phyllis sobbing into Granny’s lap. Granny was smoothing that beautiful long red hair, saying, “There, there! Yes there’s such a thing as Sandy Claus, of COURSE there is. You just pay no mind to what Patsy Lee said, she don’t know no better.”

We left shortly after that, the weather having (fortuitously for me) deteriorated. And good thing, too. The gentle white flakes of the Saks community soon turned to angry gray pellets; coming down the mountain was hairy, the long narrow Coosa bridge treacherous. By the time we got to Woodlawn, Dad was white-knuckled and Mom had bitten through her lip; I was surprised there was no hole in the floorboard under her right foot.

We did not open any presents that night.

Next morning, sitting on the floor in front of the cheerily blazing hot gas space heater, I opened my one present, was appropriately appreciative, then set it aside and asked the meaning of last night’s incident.

Mom got up and went to her domain in the kitchen, leaving Daddy to do the dirty work. He cleared his throat several times, then explained to me, gently, firmly, succinctly, that it was time I understood something very important in life, that not all people believe the same as I. He “suggested” that in the future I withhold my personal beliefs on any subject until I knew the lay of the land upon which I stood.

As far as I was concerned, that was not a suitable explanation. The importance of Phyllis’ tears faded because by then it really was ALL ABOUT ME. In a few short sentences Daddy told me that he and Mom had decided early on not to raise their children with a belief in Santa, and gifts on just one day, but instead practice giving as the need arose, no matter the calendar. And then he got up and left the room, putting a firm end to the conversation.

Flash forward fifteen years, to a Christmas when oldest brother Larry and I sat midst the detritus of ripped paper and shredded ribbon and watched our children play with their new gizmos. I brought up the ghost of Christmas past to him, and without hesitation he gave the real reason.

Growing up, I didn’t know we were poor, but evidently, compared to most in our community, we were. There was always food on our table, even if it was not a lot, and even if it was just fried potatoes and cornbread and beans; my clothes were homemade, but beautiful; and I always had two new pairs of shoes to start the school year (although one pair was only for Sunday). But because of the circumstance of our income being dependent on that of his policy-holders ability to pay the monthly premium, rather than have us suffer disappointment from unrealistic expectations of a myth, our parents chose to minimize the material and maximize the spirit of the day. It made perfect sense. But it did not prevent me from letting my children believe. For as long as they could. For as long as they would.

This Christmas there are no children, no grandchildren, to share the day with us; no presents under my tree, and no stockings hanging on the fireplace. But there's a Santa on the hearth, in all his little stuffed rotund glory. God bless us, every one.