John lies in his bed most of the time. He doesn’t sleep—he just stares out the window lying on his side on the bed. He is tired of life: now he is sick and old. Allison just turned 94 years old. He points to a photo in the room of another man. He says it’s his best friend and that they talk on the phone every week. He is also 94. The two friends have known each other since elementary school.
“Twenty more years and I’ll be knocking on Heaven’s door,” John said.
John always says maybe he’ll check out the activities going on in the main part of the building (Brooke Grove has “life enrichment” activities for the residents every morning and afternoon): but I don’t think he ever does. He just lies back down—he’s experienced it all at 94. He says soon he will talk to his daughter on the phone. He says he walks up and down the hallways of Brooke Grove for exercise.
“Brooke Grove is a nice place,” he says. It’s “not home,” he says but it’s “next to home.”
John has earned his rest at 94. He’s worked hard in his life—now he’s worn out. He served as a liutenant in World War II, he was the first African American male teacher in Montgomery County after the schools were integrated, and he was a community coordinator for suspended and retarded kids. He also served as an assistant principal and taught mathematics, including algebra. During summers off, he traveled a lot.
John played all the sports in school. But baseball and golf remained his favorites. “I was too light for football,” he said.
A photo album on an end table next to John's bed is filled with letters from respectable people bidding him farewell upon his retirement.
Inside the bottom dresser drawer in John's room are special Halloween bags. John made them for his grandchildren. I suppose they are bags for the grandchildren to trick-or-treat with.
After he tells the story of his life, he always ends with: “And that’s about it,” in his sort of raspy voice.
Sarah lies in a wheelchair. Her arms are big and bulky and her legs oversized. That is all she can do now. She moves her arms with effort. She can only push her wheelchair a little with her arms. When she lifts my purse to hold it on her lap while a push her to Brooke Grove’s library, she can barely take hold of the purse. Her hands are open to get the purse, joyful to be able to pick something up. Sarah has no surviving relatives. She’s say she’s the only one of her relatives still alive. She also says sometimes she thinks even she won’t make it. Sarah was the baby of her family. She says she was a surprise baby to her parents.
Sarah has no children. “I’ve always loved children,” she says, but “we” never had any children, she says. She was too busy being a “mom” to her numerous nieces and nephews.
Sarah's husband was killed in WWII. After he died, she had numerous offers of marriage, she said. Luta said men asked if she intended to stay a widow the rest of her life when she refused their offers of marriage. Sarah responded that her husband gave his life for the country, so she would sacrifice her life as well by never remarrying.
Sarah says, “They got me in therapy now.” Apparently, it’s some sort of physical therapy with a light.
Then there is Henry who kisses every woman’s hand. He says to me that he likes to do that for the “ladies.”
Over in the Meadows is Jack. When we were singing a song that had the words “toot toot” he’d say that part with expression. That same man is excellent at making up rhymes! He says he was a research chemist. But he says he started playing with language along the way.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
"A Second Chance"
“A Second Chance”
By Meredith Black
Rebecca Clark watched the rain fall through the cracks of the old tobacco barn on the farm in Southern Maryland where she lived with her Aunt Mary and Uncle John. Then she looked up at the dark clouds that hovered above farmland to the east and the road to the west, and wondered, as she did every time she looked up at the sky, if her mother—w¬¬¬¬¬herever she was—was watching the same clouds. She’d never known her mother. Growing up, Rebecca had always begged Aunt Mary to tell the story of her mother. Now on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, Rebecca recalled fondly those days sitting in Aunt Mary’s kitchen and listening to her tell the story…
“Your mother was very beautiful,” Aunt Mary always began. Then she smiled at Rebecca. “You have much of her in you. Same blue eyes, same shiny golden hair—only hers was longer.”
At this point in the story, Rebecca would demand, “And tell me where she is now!” Her tone was half despairing over the undeniable truth of the absence of her mother, but it was also half-filled with excitement because she knew that what Aunt Mary was about to say would fill her with a pride in her mother.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s in New York, the land where all is a stage.”
“The land where all is a stage,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked out the window at the cornfields golden in the sun, and the little girl tried to imagine a wooden platform covering them all the way to where they met the sky. “And what is she doing in New York?” Rebecca asked.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s Penelope, the great actress. And the president sometimes comes to see her plays. And she has a butler who puts a velvet cushion under her feet whenever she sits down, and she lives in a great house with windows framed with the finest diamonds.”
Rebecca’s face first registered awe, then her expression darkened and she asked in a fearful whisper, “Will she ever want to come back here?”
Aunt Mary turned and seeing the child’s fearful eyes, smiled compassionately at her. Rebecca sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a shawl that guarded against the bitter autumn breeze. The breeze came into the kitchen through the partially-opened sliding glass door, and mixed with the fresh aroma of Aunt Mary’s famous blueberry muffins wafting through the oven door.
“Oh, yes she will be back,” Aunt Mary said confidently. “Your mother had to go to New York of course,” she continued. “There were no jobs here. And it was always her dream to be an actress. But I tell you Becky (her nickname for the little girl) as sure as the nightingale sings your mother will be back here with us one day. She said so when she left.” Shaking the mixing spoon for emphasis she added, “You’ll see. You, Uncle John, and I will see her coming through those cornfields like the Prodigal Son one day soon.” Then Aunt Mary took her rosary and made the sign of the cross with it in her hand, with a reverence that she believed would bring Penelope home more quickly…
Rebecca was brought back to reality by the sound of her Aunt Mary calling her to dinner. She and the family were having a special birthday dinner for her fifteenth birthday. After the dinner was finished, Rebecca went up to her room to be alone. She began to think about her mother again. Having recently remembered the story Aunt Mary told about her mother when she was a little girl, Rebecca felt overcome by a sudden feeling of impatience and irritation. Would her mother ever come? She felt stirred with passion then. Maybe her mother would never come and she’d be waiting here forever. Rebecca suddenly made up her mind. If she won’t come to me, then I’ll go to her, she thought.
The next day Rebecca told Aunt Mary and Uncle John about her plans to go to New York. “Sweetheart, that’s far to go,” Aunt Mary said. “Why don’t you just write her a letter? I’m sure we could find her address.”
Rebecca said stubbornly, “I’ve made up my mind.” Her blue eyes were resolute. “Because if I wait here I’ll never see her. And a letter wouldn’t be the same as seeing her in person. And what if she never answers the letter?” The sun glinted off Rebecca’s hair and for a moment Aunt Mary had a vision of her sister with the same blond hair and blue eyes. Rebecca was beginning to resemble her more every day. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but inside of her, she felt uneasy. She knew that it was possible now that she would lose Rebecca too, who it many ways was like her own daughter.
***
Rebecca was in her room packing for New York. Aunt Mary called up the stairs. “Rebecca! Will you bring me a flashlight from the attic?” Rebecca went up to the attic to fetch the flashlight. There slipping through the rafters and covered in dust was a pink leather-bound book. Impulsively, Rebecca picked it up. Turning to the first page, she read: How come I never have any choices in life? I never asked to be a mother. This thing inside me is like a parasite, sucking the life-blood out of me. What shall I do?
Intrigued, Rebecca searched the inside cover of the diary, looking for its owner. When she saw the name, her heart stopped: Penelope Clark. She couldn’t read any more and she flung the diary down. Of course she knew her mother was talking about her in the diary entry. Rebecca knew that her mother had had her when she was eighteen. Now she was filled with anger. She was sure now that her mother had abandoned her and that she had never promised to come back at all. No, Rebecca thought. I will not go to New York now. She wouldn’t chase after a mother who’d never wanted her. When she stood up, the rosary that she always carried in her pocket fell out onto the rafters. Rebecca reached down to pick it up then flung it angrily across the attic. She felt like it would be too hard to pray anymore anyway. Maybe God would abandon her too.
***
Ten years later…
The book was very good—she knew it in her heart and recently others had also confirmed it. The sky was dawning a pale pink as Rebecca got up and put on her woolen stockings and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee.
***
The outside of the bookstore was painted in neon colors, and it shone brightly, situated along the pebbled road in the small town of Wasilla in Southern California. Rebecca was setting up her table around lunchtime inside the small bookstore, called “Hook-it-up Books.” Today she would be reading a passage from her new book. It was a work of fiction and the critics loved it. But only Rebecca and her closest family members and friends knew that it was really the story of her own life, with names and places changed and improvisations in the plotline. The story was dear to Rebecca because it was her own, more real to her than the stars in the night sky, which in their stationary places illuminate parts of the world below with their brightness. It was Rebecca’s greatest desire that somehow her story would shed some light into someone else’s life, move them in such a way that she herself had never had the opportunity to be changed and moved.
The story was about her childhood, growing up without a father and a mother. How hard it was on Father’s Days and Mother’s Days and days when her classmates brought their fathers to school to talk about their jobs, or their mothers were “classroom moms,” helping out in the classrooms, bringing in cupcakes and other desserts that only moms can make. Or how hard it was to never have a mother’s comforting hug or time together having “girl talk” and looking at family photo albums. Or to never have a chance at being “daddy’s little girl.” To have to dodge the questions from her friends: “where is your mother?” “Does your dad work late every night?” Because those were the stories she made up for her friends to hide the truth that she had no parents.
Rebecca loved her Aunt Mary and Uncle John. They had been there for her all her life. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to her, but knowing that her real mother was still out there, Rebecca could never really see Aunt Mary as her mother. The story Rebecca had been told as a child—that her mother had left for New York to earn money as an actress—had always been the lifeblood that had moved her and kept her going. And the promise that her mother would return to her. Until she was 15, she had believed in that promise. Then she had discovered the diary in her aunt and uncle’s attic and she learned the truth that her mother had never wanted her at all.
The anger and the bitterness over that discovery had stuck with Rebecca all these years. That same bitterness shone through in almost every line of Rebecca’s new book. In the book, Rebecca’s imagined mother is unsympathetic and self-absorbed. She leaves Rebecca in the hands of her unfortunate and financially-strapped aunt and uncle without the promise of return in order to pursue a glamorous life on the New York stage. The mother dumps Rebecca’s father in a scene of absolute cruelty, telling him that he will never measure up to her standards. He dies soon after from a broken heart.
This book of course was fiction. But over the years Rebecca’s bitterness towards her mother had grown to the point that the story seemed plausible. She really believed the book to be the story of her mother and of Rebecca’s life. However, deep in her heart, Rebecca knew that she was probably being harsh on her mother. Rebecca did not know what kind of pressures her mother faced when she chose to abandon her. The thought had occasionally crossed her mind that maybe her mother had something else going on when she left Rebecca with her aunt and uncle and went to New York. The part in the book where she says that her mother dumped her father and he soon after died from a broken heart was a lie. The story Aunt Mary had always told her was that her father had died from a rare disease soon after she was born. But Rebecca wanted to believe that her mother was cruel and heartless, so she changed the story in her book.
***
The clouds were little puffs in the California sky on the day the letter came. The back of the envelope had little black stationary hearts. “Sealed with love,” a perfectly manicured stamp said on the back part of the envelope. When she broke the seal, the smell of fresh lilacs filled the air close to her lips, and the scent was curiously like the lilacs for sale in the flower shop across the street from where Rebecca lived.
“Dear Rebecca,” the letter began.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years. You’re probably wondering, where have I been all this time? Well let me explain. By the way, I’ve heard you’ve had a book published. That’s wonderful hunny! I am so very proud of you.”
At this point, Rebecca immediately knew that the letter was from her mother.
The letter continued: “Now back to my story. It was so very difficult to leave you when you were so small. I remember the little gold curl on the top of your head, how your eyes were such a clear blue that I thought how you could shed a million tears and they’d still be as faultless as the perfect blue sky—In fact, I remember everything about the way you looked when I last saw you. I can only imagine how you are now.
I left because I had to. You see, Rebecca, your father was a very sick man. And I don’t mean sick in the way your Aunt Mary has probably told you he was. What did she tell you, Rebecca? That he died of a rare disease soon after you were born? Well, the truth is Rebecca, that that is a lie. Your father’s sickness was more of an abstract kind, a sickness underneath the skin: a sickness of the mind.
I tried to live with him as best I could, but in the end things did not work out.
Do you know what one of our favorite things to do was before he got sick? We’d always watch the sunset together. It was very beautiful, sitting on the veranda watching the sun set over the cornfields. There is something wonderful about being in the moment—I hope you get the chance to understand that one day.
Anyway, your father’s sickness came on slowly. Before I knew what was happening, his illness was full-blown. He started to do things that weren’t right. He started to abuse me. One day I knew things would never again be the same between us. It was the day I told him I was pregnant with you. I think he got scared, afraid he couldn’t be a good father.
Your father seethed at me, in a voice angry and full of resentment, “Do you know how it feels…” he said. “Do you know how it feels to live each day knowing that the sky will always be gray?”
I pitied him them—his depression had obviously become so deep that he could see nothing but gray skies. But what he said next scared the living daylights out of me.
“If you have this child,” he said. “I will make sure your skies are always gray too.”
So you see, Rebecca, I had no choice. I left him. I could stand if he did something to hurt me, but the thought that he might hurt you I could not stand. So I hid you from your father by giving you away to your Aunt Mary and Uncle John. And we told you your father had died. But the truth is Rebecca, your father only died a month ago. That is why I am contacting you. He had been in a mental institution all this time.
I hope the things in this letter have not upset you. I want you to know that I love you very much. I hope we can get in touch soon.”
Sincerely,
Your loving mother, Penelope H. Clark.
When Rebecca had finished the letter, it slipped out of her hand. The contents had been that overwhelming and she was in disbelief. That her mother loved her after all was a novel thought. Rebecca couldn’t quite absorb everything in the letter—not yet. The image in her mind of a cold, unsympathetic and unacceptable mother was so ingrained in her that she couldn’t reverse that image in an instant.
Rebecca debated whether to see her mother.
***
The sky was gray when Rebecca finally, at age 25, met her mother. The tulips near Rebecca’s apartment were drooping in the rain. Few clouds blocked the long stretch of gray in the sky overhead.
Her mother looked to Rebecca older than her age. The truth was that years of hard work had worn the woman down. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but she also had a bout with cancer not too many years back. The battle with the illness had left small craters under her eyes, leftover from when lack of sleep from chemotherapy had caused dark circles under her eyes.
Her hair, thin from the cancer treatments—and just starting to bear streaks of gray—was pulled back into a tight ponytail behind her head.
She looked as if she didn’t know how to react when she first saw Rebecca. She lifted her tired hands to her face, as if she was catching her breath. Then her arms fell to her sides and she smiled tentatively, like she was trying to show her joy at seeing Rebecca and to lighten the mood.
Rebecca stood there and stared at her mother. For years she had imagined this moment and built it up in her mind until she no longer knew whether the woman standing before her was really her mother, or only one from her imagination.
Rebecca’s mother spoke. “How was your day?” she asked, the inviting smile still on her face, as if cemented there. Around them the rain had started to fall.
Then the strange impulse to hug her mother suddenly overwhelmed Rebecca. She took a step forward and hugged her. Rebecca didn’t know what to say—but then, she didn’t have to think about it, because then the words came naturally. “Mom,” she whispered, and tears were rolling down her face. “You deserve a second chance.”
The mother, worn and frail, pulled her daughter close to her.
By Meredith Black
Rebecca Clark watched the rain fall through the cracks of the old tobacco barn on the farm in Southern Maryland where she lived with her Aunt Mary and Uncle John. Then she looked up at the dark clouds that hovered above farmland to the east and the road to the west, and wondered, as she did every time she looked up at the sky, if her mother—w¬¬¬¬¬herever she was—was watching the same clouds. She’d never known her mother. Growing up, Rebecca had always begged Aunt Mary to tell the story of her mother. Now on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, Rebecca recalled fondly those days sitting in Aunt Mary’s kitchen and listening to her tell the story…
“Your mother was very beautiful,” Aunt Mary always began. Then she smiled at Rebecca. “You have much of her in you. Same blue eyes, same shiny golden hair—only hers was longer.”
At this point in the story, Rebecca would demand, “And tell me where she is now!” Her tone was half despairing over the undeniable truth of the absence of her mother, but it was also half-filled with excitement because she knew that what Aunt Mary was about to say would fill her with a pride in her mother.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s in New York, the land where all is a stage.”
“The land where all is a stage,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked out the window at the cornfields golden in the sun, and the little girl tried to imagine a wooden platform covering them all the way to where they met the sky. “And what is she doing in New York?” Rebecca asked.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s Penelope, the great actress. And the president sometimes comes to see her plays. And she has a butler who puts a velvet cushion under her feet whenever she sits down, and she lives in a great house with windows framed with the finest diamonds.”
Rebecca’s face first registered awe, then her expression darkened and she asked in a fearful whisper, “Will she ever want to come back here?”
Aunt Mary turned and seeing the child’s fearful eyes, smiled compassionately at her. Rebecca sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a shawl that guarded against the bitter autumn breeze. The breeze came into the kitchen through the partially-opened sliding glass door, and mixed with the fresh aroma of Aunt Mary’s famous blueberry muffins wafting through the oven door.
“Oh, yes she will be back,” Aunt Mary said confidently. “Your mother had to go to New York of course,” she continued. “There were no jobs here. And it was always her dream to be an actress. But I tell you Becky (her nickname for the little girl) as sure as the nightingale sings your mother will be back here with us one day. She said so when she left.” Shaking the mixing spoon for emphasis she added, “You’ll see. You, Uncle John, and I will see her coming through those cornfields like the Prodigal Son one day soon.” Then Aunt Mary took her rosary and made the sign of the cross with it in her hand, with a reverence that she believed would bring Penelope home more quickly…
Rebecca was brought back to reality by the sound of her Aunt Mary calling her to dinner. She and the family were having a special birthday dinner for her fifteenth birthday. After the dinner was finished, Rebecca went up to her room to be alone. She began to think about her mother again. Having recently remembered the story Aunt Mary told about her mother when she was a little girl, Rebecca felt overcome by a sudden feeling of impatience and irritation. Would her mother ever come? She felt stirred with passion then. Maybe her mother would never come and she’d be waiting here forever. Rebecca suddenly made up her mind. If she won’t come to me, then I’ll go to her, she thought.
The next day Rebecca told Aunt Mary and Uncle John about her plans to go to New York. “Sweetheart, that’s far to go,” Aunt Mary said. “Why don’t you just write her a letter? I’m sure we could find her address.”
Rebecca said stubbornly, “I’ve made up my mind.” Her blue eyes were resolute. “Because if I wait here I’ll never see her. And a letter wouldn’t be the same as seeing her in person. And what if she never answers the letter?” The sun glinted off Rebecca’s hair and for a moment Aunt Mary had a vision of her sister with the same blond hair and blue eyes. Rebecca was beginning to resemble her more every day. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but inside of her, she felt uneasy. She knew that it was possible now that she would lose Rebecca too, who it many ways was like her own daughter.
***
Rebecca was in her room packing for New York. Aunt Mary called up the stairs. “Rebecca! Will you bring me a flashlight from the attic?” Rebecca went up to the attic to fetch the flashlight. There slipping through the rafters and covered in dust was a pink leather-bound book. Impulsively, Rebecca picked it up. Turning to the first page, she read: How come I never have any choices in life? I never asked to be a mother. This thing inside me is like a parasite, sucking the life-blood out of me. What shall I do?
Intrigued, Rebecca searched the inside cover of the diary, looking for its owner. When she saw the name, her heart stopped: Penelope Clark. She couldn’t read any more and she flung the diary down. Of course she knew her mother was talking about her in the diary entry. Rebecca knew that her mother had had her when she was eighteen. Now she was filled with anger. She was sure now that her mother had abandoned her and that she had never promised to come back at all. No, Rebecca thought. I will not go to New York now. She wouldn’t chase after a mother who’d never wanted her. When she stood up, the rosary that she always carried in her pocket fell out onto the rafters. Rebecca reached down to pick it up then flung it angrily across the attic. She felt like it would be too hard to pray anymore anyway. Maybe God would abandon her too.
***
Ten years later…
The book was very good—she knew it in her heart and recently others had also confirmed it. The sky was dawning a pale pink as Rebecca got up and put on her woolen stockings and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee.
***
The outside of the bookstore was painted in neon colors, and it shone brightly, situated along the pebbled road in the small town of Wasilla in Southern California. Rebecca was setting up her table around lunchtime inside the small bookstore, called “Hook-it-up Books.” Today she would be reading a passage from her new book. It was a work of fiction and the critics loved it. But only Rebecca and her closest family members and friends knew that it was really the story of her own life, with names and places changed and improvisations in the plotline. The story was dear to Rebecca because it was her own, more real to her than the stars in the night sky, which in their stationary places illuminate parts of the world below with their brightness. It was Rebecca’s greatest desire that somehow her story would shed some light into someone else’s life, move them in such a way that she herself had never had the opportunity to be changed and moved.
The story was about her childhood, growing up without a father and a mother. How hard it was on Father’s Days and Mother’s Days and days when her classmates brought their fathers to school to talk about their jobs, or their mothers were “classroom moms,” helping out in the classrooms, bringing in cupcakes and other desserts that only moms can make. Or how hard it was to never have a mother’s comforting hug or time together having “girl talk” and looking at family photo albums. Or to never have a chance at being “daddy’s little girl.” To have to dodge the questions from her friends: “where is your mother?” “Does your dad work late every night?” Because those were the stories she made up for her friends to hide the truth that she had no parents.
Rebecca loved her Aunt Mary and Uncle John. They had been there for her all her life. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to her, but knowing that her real mother was still out there, Rebecca could never really see Aunt Mary as her mother. The story Rebecca had been told as a child—that her mother had left for New York to earn money as an actress—had always been the lifeblood that had moved her and kept her going. And the promise that her mother would return to her. Until she was 15, she had believed in that promise. Then she had discovered the diary in her aunt and uncle’s attic and she learned the truth that her mother had never wanted her at all.
The anger and the bitterness over that discovery had stuck with Rebecca all these years. That same bitterness shone through in almost every line of Rebecca’s new book. In the book, Rebecca’s imagined mother is unsympathetic and self-absorbed. She leaves Rebecca in the hands of her unfortunate and financially-strapped aunt and uncle without the promise of return in order to pursue a glamorous life on the New York stage. The mother dumps Rebecca’s father in a scene of absolute cruelty, telling him that he will never measure up to her standards. He dies soon after from a broken heart.
This book of course was fiction. But over the years Rebecca’s bitterness towards her mother had grown to the point that the story seemed plausible. She really believed the book to be the story of her mother and of Rebecca’s life. However, deep in her heart, Rebecca knew that she was probably being harsh on her mother. Rebecca did not know what kind of pressures her mother faced when she chose to abandon her. The thought had occasionally crossed her mind that maybe her mother had something else going on when she left Rebecca with her aunt and uncle and went to New York. The part in the book where she says that her mother dumped her father and he soon after died from a broken heart was a lie. The story Aunt Mary had always told her was that her father had died from a rare disease soon after she was born. But Rebecca wanted to believe that her mother was cruel and heartless, so she changed the story in her book.
***
The clouds were little puffs in the California sky on the day the letter came. The back of the envelope had little black stationary hearts. “Sealed with love,” a perfectly manicured stamp said on the back part of the envelope. When she broke the seal, the smell of fresh lilacs filled the air close to her lips, and the scent was curiously like the lilacs for sale in the flower shop across the street from where Rebecca lived.
“Dear Rebecca,” the letter began.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m writing to you after all these years. You’re probably wondering, where have I been all this time? Well let me explain. By the way, I’ve heard you’ve had a book published. That’s wonderful hunny! I am so very proud of you.”
At this point, Rebecca immediately knew that the letter was from her mother.
The letter continued: “Now back to my story. It was so very difficult to leave you when you were so small. I remember the little gold curl on the top of your head, how your eyes were such a clear blue that I thought how you could shed a million tears and they’d still be as faultless as the perfect blue sky—In fact, I remember everything about the way you looked when I last saw you. I can only imagine how you are now.
I left because I had to. You see, Rebecca, your father was a very sick man. And I don’t mean sick in the way your Aunt Mary has probably told you he was. What did she tell you, Rebecca? That he died of a rare disease soon after you were born? Well, the truth is Rebecca, that that is a lie. Your father’s sickness was more of an abstract kind, a sickness underneath the skin: a sickness of the mind.
I tried to live with him as best I could, but in the end things did not work out.
Do you know what one of our favorite things to do was before he got sick? We’d always watch the sunset together. It was very beautiful, sitting on the veranda watching the sun set over the cornfields. There is something wonderful about being in the moment—I hope you get the chance to understand that one day.
Anyway, your father’s sickness came on slowly. Before I knew what was happening, his illness was full-blown. He started to do things that weren’t right. He started to abuse me. One day I knew things would never again be the same between us. It was the day I told him I was pregnant with you. I think he got scared, afraid he couldn’t be a good father.
Your father seethed at me, in a voice angry and full of resentment, “Do you know how it feels…” he said. “Do you know how it feels to live each day knowing that the sky will always be gray?”
I pitied him them—his depression had obviously become so deep that he could see nothing but gray skies. But what he said next scared the living daylights out of me.
“If you have this child,” he said. “I will make sure your skies are always gray too.”
So you see, Rebecca, I had no choice. I left him. I could stand if he did something to hurt me, but the thought that he might hurt you I could not stand. So I hid you from your father by giving you away to your Aunt Mary and Uncle John. And we told you your father had died. But the truth is Rebecca, your father only died a month ago. That is why I am contacting you. He had been in a mental institution all this time.
I hope the things in this letter have not upset you. I want you to know that I love you very much. I hope we can get in touch soon.”
Sincerely,
Your loving mother, Penelope H. Clark.
When Rebecca had finished the letter, it slipped out of her hand. The contents had been that overwhelming and she was in disbelief. That her mother loved her after all was a novel thought. Rebecca couldn’t quite absorb everything in the letter—not yet. The image in her mind of a cold, unsympathetic and unacceptable mother was so ingrained in her that she couldn’t reverse that image in an instant.
Rebecca debated whether to see her mother.
***
The sky was gray when Rebecca finally, at age 25, met her mother. The tulips near Rebecca’s apartment were drooping in the rain. Few clouds blocked the long stretch of gray in the sky overhead.
Her mother looked to Rebecca older than her age. The truth was that years of hard work had worn the woman down. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but she also had a bout with cancer not too many years back. The battle with the illness had left small craters under her eyes, leftover from when lack of sleep from chemotherapy had caused dark circles under her eyes.
Her hair, thin from the cancer treatments—and just starting to bear streaks of gray—was pulled back into a tight ponytail behind her head.
She looked as if she didn’t know how to react when she first saw Rebecca. She lifted her tired hands to her face, as if she was catching her breath. Then her arms fell to her sides and she smiled tentatively, like she was trying to show her joy at seeing Rebecca and to lighten the mood.
Rebecca stood there and stared at her mother. For years she had imagined this moment and built it up in her mind until she no longer knew whether the woman standing before her was really her mother, or only one from her imagination.
Rebecca’s mother spoke. “How was your day?” she asked, the inviting smile still on her face, as if cemented there. Around them the rain had started to fall.
Then the strange impulse to hug her mother suddenly overwhelmed Rebecca. She took a step forward and hugged her. Rebecca didn’t know what to say—but then, she didn’t have to think about it, because then the words came naturally. “Mom,” she whispered, and tears were rolling down her face. “You deserve a second chance.”
The mother, worn and frail, pulled her daughter close to her.
Monday, September 13, 2010
short story
Rebecca Clark watched the rain fall through the cracks of the old tobacco barn on the farm in Southern Maryland where she lived with her Aunt Mary and Uncle John. Then she looked up at the dark clouds that hovered above farmland to the east and the road to the west, and wondered, as she did every time she looked up at the sky, if her mother—w¬¬¬¬¬herever she was—was watching the same clouds. She’d never known her mother. Growing up, Rebecca had always begged Aunt Mary to tell the story of her mother. Now on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, Rebecca recalled fondly those days sitting in Aunt Mary’s kitchen and listening to her tell the story…
“Your mother was very beautiful,” Aunt Mary always began. Then she smiled at Rebecca. “You have much of her in you. Same blue eyes, same shiny golden hair—only hers was longer.”
At this point in the story, Rebecca would demand, “And tell me where she is now!” Her tone was half despairing over the undeniable truth of the absence of her mother, but it was also half-filled with excitement because she knew that what Aunt Mary was about to say would fill her with a pride in her mother.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s in New York, the land where all is a stage.”
“The land where all is a stage,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked out the window at the cornfields golden in the sun, and the little girl tried to imagine a wooden platform covering them all the way to where they met the sky. “And what is she doing in New York?” Rebecca asked.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s Penelope, the great actress. And the president sometimes comes to see her plays. And she has a butler who puts a velvet cushion under her feet whenever she sits down, and she lives in a great house with windows framed with the finest diamonds.”
Rebecca’s face first registered awe, then her expression darkened and she asked in a fearful whisper, “Will she ever want to come back here?”
Aunt Mary turned and seeing the child’s fearful eyes, smiled compassionately at her. Rebecca sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a shawl that guarded against the bitter autumn breeze. The breeze came into the kitchen through the partially-opened sliding glass door, and mixed with the fresh aroma of Aunt Mary’s famous blueberry muffins wafting through the oven door.
“Oh, yes she will be back,” Aunt Mary said confidently. “Your mother had to go to New York of course,” she continued. “There were no jobs here. And it was always her dream to be an actress. But I tell you Becky (her nickname for the little girl) as sure as the nightingale sings your mother will be back here with us one day. She said so when she left.” Shaking the mixing spoon for emphasis she added, “You’ll see. You, Uncle John, and I will see her coming through those cornfields like the Prodigal Son one day soon.” Then Aunt Mary took her rosary and made the sign of the cross with it in her hand, with a reverence that she believed would bring Penelope home more quickly…
Rebecca was brought back to reality by the sound of her Aunt Mary calling her to dinner. She and the family were having a special birthday dinner for her fifteenth birthday. After the dinner was finished, Rebecca went up to her room to be alone. She began to think about her mother again. Having recently remembered the story Aunt Mary told about her mother when she was a little girl, Rebecca felt overcome by a sudden feeling of impatience and irritation. Would her mother ever come? She felt stirred with passion then. Maybe her mother would never come and she’d be waiting here forever. Rebecca suddenly made up her mind. If she won’t come to me, then I’ll go to her, she thought.
The next day Rebecca told Aunt Mary and Uncle John about her plans to go to New York. “Sweetheart, that’s far to go,” Aunt Mary said. “Why don’t you just write her a letter? I’m sure we could find her address.”
Rebecca said stubbornly, “I’ve made up my mind.” Her blue eyes were resolute. “Because if I wait here I’ll never see her. And a letter wouldn’t be the same as seeing her in person. And what if she never answers the letter?” The sun glinted off Rebecca’s hair and for a moment Aunt Mary had a vision of her sister with the same blond hair and blue eyes. Rebecca was beginning to resemble her more every day. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but inside of her, she felt uneasy. She knew that it was possible now that she would lose Rebecca too, who it many ways was like her own daughter.
***
Rebecca was in her room packing for New York. Aunt Mary called up the stairs. “Rebecca! Will you bring me a flashlight from the attic?” Rebecca went up to the attic to fetch the flashlight. There slipping through the rafters and covered in dust was a pink leather-bound book. Impulsively, Rebecca picked it up. Turning to the first page, she read: How come I never have any choices in life? I never asked to be a mother. This thing inside me is like a parasite, sucking the life-blood out of me. What shall I do?
Intrigued, Rebecca searched the inside of cover of the diary, looking for its owner. When she saw the name, her heart stopped: Penelope Clark. She couldn’t read any more and she flung the diary down. Of course she knew her mother was talking about her in the diary entry. Rebecca knew that her mother had had her when she was eighteen. Now she was filled with anger. She was sure now that her mother had abandoned her and that she had never promised to come back at all. No, Rebecca thought. I will not go to New York now. She wouldn’t chase after a mother who’d never wanted her. When she stood up, the rosary that she always carried in her pocket fell out onto the rafters. Rebecca reached down to pick it up then flung it angrily across the attic. She felt like it would be too hard to pray anymore anyway. Maybe God would abandon her too.
***
Ten years later…
The book was very good—she knew it in her heart and recently others had also confirmed it. The sky was dawning a pale pink as Rebecca got up and put on her woolen stockings and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee.
“Your mother was very beautiful,” Aunt Mary always began. Then she smiled at Rebecca. “You have much of her in you. Same blue eyes, same shiny golden hair—only hers was longer.”
At this point in the story, Rebecca would demand, “And tell me where she is now!” Her tone was half despairing over the undeniable truth of the absence of her mother, but it was also half-filled with excitement because she knew that what Aunt Mary was about to say would fill her with a pride in her mother.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s in New York, the land where all is a stage.”
“The land where all is a stage,” Rebecca repeated, her eyes wide with wonder. She looked out the window at the cornfields golden in the sun, and the little girl tried to imagine a wooden platform covering them all the way to where they met the sky. “And what is she doing in New York?” Rebecca asked.
Aunt Mary said, “She’s Penelope, the great actress. And the president sometimes comes to see her plays. And she has a butler who puts a velvet cushion under her feet whenever she sits down, and she lives in a great house with windows framed with the finest diamonds.”
Rebecca’s face first registered awe, then her expression darkened and she asked in a fearful whisper, “Will she ever want to come back here?”
Aunt Mary turned and seeing the child’s fearful eyes, smiled compassionately at her. Rebecca sat at the kitchen table wrapped in a shawl that guarded against the bitter autumn breeze. The breeze came into the kitchen through the partially-opened sliding glass door, and mixed with the fresh aroma of Aunt Mary’s famous blueberry muffins wafting through the oven door.
“Oh, yes she will be back,” Aunt Mary said confidently. “Your mother had to go to New York of course,” she continued. “There were no jobs here. And it was always her dream to be an actress. But I tell you Becky (her nickname for the little girl) as sure as the nightingale sings your mother will be back here with us one day. She said so when she left.” Shaking the mixing spoon for emphasis she added, “You’ll see. You, Uncle John, and I will see her coming through those cornfields like the Prodigal Son one day soon.” Then Aunt Mary took her rosary and made the sign of the cross with it in her hand, with a reverence that she believed would bring Penelope home more quickly…
Rebecca was brought back to reality by the sound of her Aunt Mary calling her to dinner. She and the family were having a special birthday dinner for her fifteenth birthday. After the dinner was finished, Rebecca went up to her room to be alone. She began to think about her mother again. Having recently remembered the story Aunt Mary told about her mother when she was a little girl, Rebecca felt overcome by a sudden feeling of impatience and irritation. Would her mother ever come? She felt stirred with passion then. Maybe her mother would never come and she’d be waiting here forever. Rebecca suddenly made up her mind. If she won’t come to me, then I’ll go to her, she thought.
The next day Rebecca told Aunt Mary and Uncle John about her plans to go to New York. “Sweetheart, that’s far to go,” Aunt Mary said. “Why don’t you just write her a letter? I’m sure we could find her address.”
Rebecca said stubbornly, “I’ve made up my mind.” Her blue eyes were resolute. “Because if I wait here I’ll never see her. And a letter wouldn’t be the same as seeing her in person. And what if she never answers the letter?” The sun glinted off Rebecca’s hair and for a moment Aunt Mary had a vision of her sister with the same blond hair and blue eyes. Rebecca was beginning to resemble her more every day. She didn’t tell Rebecca, but inside of her, she felt uneasy. She knew that it was possible now that she would lose Rebecca too, who it many ways was like her own daughter.
***
Rebecca was in her room packing for New York. Aunt Mary called up the stairs. “Rebecca! Will you bring me a flashlight from the attic?” Rebecca went up to the attic to fetch the flashlight. There slipping through the rafters and covered in dust was a pink leather-bound book. Impulsively, Rebecca picked it up. Turning to the first page, she read: How come I never have any choices in life? I never asked to be a mother. This thing inside me is like a parasite, sucking the life-blood out of me. What shall I do?
Intrigued, Rebecca searched the inside of cover of the diary, looking for its owner. When she saw the name, her heart stopped: Penelope Clark. She couldn’t read any more and she flung the diary down. Of course she knew her mother was talking about her in the diary entry. Rebecca knew that her mother had had her when she was eighteen. Now she was filled with anger. She was sure now that her mother had abandoned her and that she had never promised to come back at all. No, Rebecca thought. I will not go to New York now. She wouldn’t chase after a mother who’d never wanted her. When she stood up, the rosary that she always carried in her pocket fell out onto the rafters. Rebecca reached down to pick it up then flung it angrily across the attic. She felt like it would be too hard to pray anymore anyway. Maybe God would abandon her too.
***
Ten years later…
The book was very good—she knew it in her heart and recently others had also confirmed it. The sky was dawning a pale pink as Rebecca got up and put on her woolen stockings and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Beginning of a short story
The rain fell lightly on the driveway. The steam coming off the pavement looked magical--and she half expected a witch to appear. Her thoughts drifted to her mother who abandoned her as a child--there was nothing magical about that. It was the clearest truth of her life, yet some part of her still couldn't grasp it. She imagined her mother coming towards her through the steam. Suddenly, the rain began to fall harder in torrents. The dream disappeared, and she felt angry at the rain for ruining her dream.
"Probably it's an acid rain," she thought bitterly, and she watched how quickly it filled all the holes in the pavement. Nothing survives an acid rain. She knew this well, for her life was drenched by it. No flaw, not one little crevice in her heart had escaped the acid rain that began to fall when her mother abandoned her ten years ago.
"Probably it's an acid rain," she thought bitterly, and she watched how quickly it filled all the holes in the pavement. Nothing survives an acid rain. She knew this well, for her life was drenched by it. No flaw, not one little crevice in her heart had escaped the acid rain that began to fall when her mother abandoned her ten years ago.
Monday, June 21, 2010
"Two Sisters' Journey"
Near the tip of Southern Maryland, or in "Little America" as it is called, two sisters lived together. Their home was in Hollywood (no not the one with the movie stars). One day they decided it would be best for them to go on a journey. They decided to tour the great western United States. One sister had recently been diagnosed with a rare cancer, so they decided the trip might be theraputic.
On the first day they crossed West Virginia. The river had flooded and in some places ran parallel to the road. The great mountains rose up in the distance. West Virginia was filled with mountains and passes. Crossing over a bridge where the river crashed over the rocks, one sister (Aurora) remarked, "My how the river flows. It is just like life you know. Always changing."
Her sister Jessica agreed. Then they passed through where the houses were all in a row. In the yards lay scattered play toys. It almost looked as if the river could come up and sweep those houses away. Jessica thought what it might be like to live there--right on the river. It reminded her of the Mississippi in Huckleberry Finn. "Let's go dip our feet in the water," she suggested to Aurora.
But Aurora disagreed. "Look how dirty it is," she said. "There's no telling what could be in that water." Just as she said so, a large animal--what looked like could be the Loch Ness Monster--rose a tail out of the water.
"Ahhh!" Jessica screamed. The two sisters decided to journey elsewhere. So they crossed back to the east coast and went up there towards Maine. In New England the houses were more stately and square. They were all painted in red and blue colors, like patchwork. Jessica said "Let's go inside that craft store and buy something." So they went in. The cashier was a young woman with a huge cast over her leg. Aurora wondered how her smile could be so bright. The store was filled with all kinds of things--delicious candies, purses of bright colors made from fabric, and yarns of every color you could dream of. Aurora decided to buy some yarn. When she put the yarn down on the cashier's desk, the young woman with the cast suddenly burst into tears. Jessica asked what was wrong and the woman said her dog had died that morning. It reminded Jessica of her own dog----a mutt that the family had to put to sleep a year ago.
As they walked out of the store, a cool breeze blew over their faces. It reminded Aurora of the ocean breeze. Then the two sisters decided to head up to Acadia National Park, where the trees were in full bloom, bursting colors of red and orange and yellow. A placid lake lay outstretched in the middle of the Park. Jessica decided that the sisters should put a raft down on that lake and just relax. In the distance the mountains rose up behind them like great giants crouching. Aurora thought how nice it would be to lay back and feel the sun soaking through her, red hot on her temples.
But the sun didn't come out that day. Or the next or the next. There was nothing but dreary days once after the other.
Then the sisters headed down to New Mexico, where the plateaus spread one to another in a great expanse. They also saw the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon looks borne of an earthquake, where the tectonic plates below the earth's surface shifted, and left behind a huge crack. At the bottom is a sparkling blue line, stretched and winding like a piece of yarn. But the Grand Canyon is not just one crack in the earth. If you were to stand on the edge of the North Rim, you would see a maze of plateaus like checker boards--land and empty air and then more land and empty air. The canyons look painted, standing on the precipice, you get the feeling that something this massive cannot be touched or even felt. It's true that the Grand Canyon really is "grand." Jessica reached out her fingers a little, and they barely scraped the air that held the Grand Canyon's picture. Aurora noticed the sun dancing in irregular-shaped blotches on the canyon's red-rock walls.
The sisters were overwhelmed by all they had seen. A week had passed since they had left home. So they decided to go back home.
On the way, they stopped at a party for their whole family back in West Virginia. Now it was summer, and the sun beat down on them, making them itch in their starched clothes. At the party, a sudden rainstorm came up. The rain was thick and fell steady, not straight down, but in a sort of concave arc. But it was a warm sweet rain, and the two women were eager to bathe their faces in it.
Suddenly loud music from a neighbor interrupted the quiet scene. One of the uncles came out of the house and went next door to tell the neighbor to turn his music down.
But the neighbor would have none of it. Before anyone could blink an eye or shout "Got ya!," a fight had started. The two men were rolling around the grass which had turned to thick mud.
On the first day they crossed West Virginia. The river had flooded and in some places ran parallel to the road. The great mountains rose up in the distance. West Virginia was filled with mountains and passes. Crossing over a bridge where the river crashed over the rocks, one sister (Aurora) remarked, "My how the river flows. It is just like life you know. Always changing."
Her sister Jessica agreed. Then they passed through where the houses were all in a row. In the yards lay scattered play toys. It almost looked as if the river could come up and sweep those houses away. Jessica thought what it might be like to live there--right on the river. It reminded her of the Mississippi in Huckleberry Finn. "Let's go dip our feet in the water," she suggested to Aurora.
But Aurora disagreed. "Look how dirty it is," she said. "There's no telling what could be in that water." Just as she said so, a large animal--what looked like could be the Loch Ness Monster--rose a tail out of the water.
"Ahhh!" Jessica screamed. The two sisters decided to journey elsewhere. So they crossed back to the east coast and went up there towards Maine. In New England the houses were more stately and square. They were all painted in red and blue colors, like patchwork. Jessica said "Let's go inside that craft store and buy something." So they went in. The cashier was a young woman with a huge cast over her leg. Aurora wondered how her smile could be so bright. The store was filled with all kinds of things--delicious candies, purses of bright colors made from fabric, and yarns of every color you could dream of. Aurora decided to buy some yarn. When she put the yarn down on the cashier's desk, the young woman with the cast suddenly burst into tears. Jessica asked what was wrong and the woman said her dog had died that morning. It reminded Jessica of her own dog----a mutt that the family had to put to sleep a year ago.
As they walked out of the store, a cool breeze blew over their faces. It reminded Aurora of the ocean breeze. Then the two sisters decided to head up to Acadia National Park, where the trees were in full bloom, bursting colors of red and orange and yellow. A placid lake lay outstretched in the middle of the Park. Jessica decided that the sisters should put a raft down on that lake and just relax. In the distance the mountains rose up behind them like great giants crouching. Aurora thought how nice it would be to lay back and feel the sun soaking through her, red hot on her temples.
But the sun didn't come out that day. Or the next or the next. There was nothing but dreary days once after the other.
Then the sisters headed down to New Mexico, where the plateaus spread one to another in a great expanse. They also saw the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon looks borne of an earthquake, where the tectonic plates below the earth's surface shifted, and left behind a huge crack. At the bottom is a sparkling blue line, stretched and winding like a piece of yarn. But the Grand Canyon is not just one crack in the earth. If you were to stand on the edge of the North Rim, you would see a maze of plateaus like checker boards--land and empty air and then more land and empty air. The canyons look painted, standing on the precipice, you get the feeling that something this massive cannot be touched or even felt. It's true that the Grand Canyon really is "grand." Jessica reached out her fingers a little, and they barely scraped the air that held the Grand Canyon's picture. Aurora noticed the sun dancing in irregular-shaped blotches on the canyon's red-rock walls.
The sisters were overwhelmed by all they had seen. A week had passed since they had left home. So they decided to go back home.
On the way, they stopped at a party for their whole family back in West Virginia. Now it was summer, and the sun beat down on them, making them itch in their starched clothes. At the party, a sudden rainstorm came up. The rain was thick and fell steady, not straight down, but in a sort of concave arc. But it was a warm sweet rain, and the two women were eager to bathe their faces in it.
Suddenly loud music from a neighbor interrupted the quiet scene. One of the uncles came out of the house and went next door to tell the neighbor to turn his music down.
But the neighbor would have none of it. Before anyone could blink an eye or shout "Got ya!," a fight had started. The two men were rolling around the grass which had turned to thick mud.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"The Yellow Butterfly"
When I watch the yellow butterfly’s wings move back and forth rapidly,
I think about the dependability of life,
like a heart steadily beating.
When I see the yellow butterfly land lightly and be still
I think of the brevity of life,
how we live only for a moment.
When I watch the yellow butterfly dip and dive through the air—
Cushioned by gravity—
I think life is like a thrill ride:
Making surprise turns but
held secure by the peaceful waters
in the butterfly’s background.
I think about the dependability of life,
like a heart steadily beating.
When I see the yellow butterfly land lightly and be still
I think of the brevity of life,
how we live only for a moment.
When I watch the yellow butterfly dip and dive through the air—
Cushioned by gravity—
I think life is like a thrill ride:
Making surprise turns but
held secure by the peaceful waters
in the butterfly’s background.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
facebook quiz
Facebook quiz: are you a self-starter?
When I wake up in the morning I:
a. Smell the beautiful aroma of flowers drifting through my window
b. Think of all the things I have to do that day
c. Too bored to think of anything
During the day I:
a. Daydream mostly
b. Exercise, work, eat…stay active all day long
c. Procrastinate most of the time
At night I:
a. Read and relax
b. Talk to friends, tie up loose ends from the day
c. Try to make myself fall asleep as soon as possible
How would you describe yourself?
a. A happy-go-lucky-person
b. Way too involved in other people’s lives
c. Pretty awesome
Interpretation: a= one point
B=two points
C=three points
Score: four to five points: You are a calm person. You don’t start things necessarily all the time but you don’t avoid them either. You are a “Take life as it comes kind of person.”
Six to nine points: Congratulations. You are definitely a self-starter. You are the kind of person that likes to be in charge. Nothing scares you. You make each day count!
Ten to twelve points: You are a lazy person. You tend to procrastinate. You could benefit from a little more ambition.
When I wake up in the morning I:
a. Smell the beautiful aroma of flowers drifting through my window
b. Think of all the things I have to do that day
c. Too bored to think of anything
During the day I:
a. Daydream mostly
b. Exercise, work, eat…stay active all day long
c. Procrastinate most of the time
At night I:
a. Read and relax
b. Talk to friends, tie up loose ends from the day
c. Try to make myself fall asleep as soon as possible
How would you describe yourself?
a. A happy-go-lucky-person
b. Way too involved in other people’s lives
c. Pretty awesome
Interpretation: a= one point
B=two points
C=three points
Score: four to five points: You are a calm person. You don’t start things necessarily all the time but you don’t avoid them either. You are a “Take life as it comes kind of person.”
Six to nine points: Congratulations. You are definitely a self-starter. You are the kind of person that likes to be in charge. Nothing scares you. You make each day count!
Ten to twelve points: You are a lazy person. You tend to procrastinate. You could benefit from a little more ambition.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The prolife movement is really booming. The column in the post was about the great number of young people at the March for Life. WOW! If this keeps up, I think Roe v. Wade may be overturned. Lots of people understand the hurt that abortion causes--I think prochoicers dance around the issue.
Then there is the ad that will be aired during the superbowel. It's a Florida quarterback whose mom chose life when doctors advised her to abort. Prochoicers are peeved, but there is no reason for them to be angry. The message is positive and doesn't attack women's right to choose.
I love the way O'Reilly out it! (to prochoicer): So what exactly are you offended by? Are you offended that this mother gave birth to her baby who is now alive and doing well?
Then there is the ad that will be aired during the superbowel. It's a Florida quarterback whose mom chose life when doctors advised her to abort. Prochoicers are peeved, but there is no reason for them to be angry. The message is positive and doesn't attack women's right to choose.
I love the way O'Reilly out it! (to prochoicer): So what exactly are you offended by? Are you offended that this mother gave birth to her baby who is now alive and doing well?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
On Friday, I volunteered in my mom's classroom. The classroom is pretty--decorated like an average classroom. On a little whitboard, my mom wrote "Today we will..."
Then in trotted her first graders. The kids are all different cultures, and looking at them is like going on an imaginary trip around the world. It speaks to the unity of people, at the very least.
K. has learning problems, and by the way he rocks his head and his eyes dart around the classroom, you can tell. I sat in a seat near the sink. The children could immediately guess I was the teacher's daughter--ha, ha, maybe if my mom hadn't posted a large photo of my sister and I near the workstation it wouldn't have been so easy to guess!
The children came to me to look through the ads and pick a toy they wanted. The girls all picked barbies and the boys play stations.
In the third grade, S. was afraid of me and wouldn't come over for help with her story. Sh. I can tell is my mom's favorite child. She's imaginative, and her hair is like in a poof on top of her head. I don't know what nationality she is. I thought that she'll probably be an English major when she grows up. She had a cold and was blowing her nose and kept getting up to walk around the classroom until my mom called her back.
***
I also hiked part of the Appalachian Trail--two miles of it! I wondered what it would be like to hike the whole thing. My dad said about 20 to 30 people do it every year. It would be a cool undertaking. Maybe you'd get eaten by a bear. When you hike the trail, you have to stay in little shelters along the way. At the beginning of the trail there are the railroad tracks. I bet those tracks go all the way to Georgia.
Then in trotted her first graders. The kids are all different cultures, and looking at them is like going on an imaginary trip around the world. It speaks to the unity of people, at the very least.
K. has learning problems, and by the way he rocks his head and his eyes dart around the classroom, you can tell. I sat in a seat near the sink. The children could immediately guess I was the teacher's daughter--ha, ha, maybe if my mom hadn't posted a large photo of my sister and I near the workstation it wouldn't have been so easy to guess!
The children came to me to look through the ads and pick a toy they wanted. The girls all picked barbies and the boys play stations.
In the third grade, S. was afraid of me and wouldn't come over for help with her story. Sh. I can tell is my mom's favorite child. She's imaginative, and her hair is like in a poof on top of her head. I don't know what nationality she is. I thought that she'll probably be an English major when she grows up. She had a cold and was blowing her nose and kept getting up to walk around the classroom until my mom called her back.
***
I also hiked part of the Appalachian Trail--two miles of it! I wondered what it would be like to hike the whole thing. My dad said about 20 to 30 people do it every year. It would be a cool undertaking. Maybe you'd get eaten by a bear. When you hike the trail, you have to stay in little shelters along the way. At the beginning of the trail there are the railroad tracks. I bet those tracks go all the way to Georgia.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Today I went to McDonald's for breakfast. The oatmeal is pretty good, but I wonder if they put some spices in it? I wish everything wasn't such a pain! Starbucks has no free wireless internet and all of the stupid computers at the library aren't functioning. I have to get these work applications done. I want to go to Catholic U. tonight for one of the campus activies, but I'm worried they'll kick me out since I'm not a student.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
So today I got locked out of the house. I hung out at the library for three hours. I didnt have money so I couldnt buy any food. I felt really hungry. Then I watched Leap Year at the movie theatre. My mom and I were supposed to bake tonight but I got home too late. Oh, well, maybe I didn't want to anyway. But I was still disappointed, because we were supposed to do this on Sunday.
The pool where I swam felt good. But why are there always so many people in the locker room?
The pool where I swam felt good. But why are there always so many people in the locker room?
So this morning I woke up and realized that I needed a better facebook pic. I haven't worn my retainer in awhile, but I dont give a damn. I love my new curtains...who-hoo! Maybe I'll eat something for breakfast, but I never feel stupid hungry anyways. La-la-la today is going to be a great day.
This IS BORING ME!
This IS BORING ME!
Friday, January 15, 2010
Ocean City the conclusion
We drove down the long road out of Ocean City. We passed by the hotel and other abandoned buildings. Over the bridge with the bluish-green water below. The bridge is just a slab of concrete over the ocean.
One night we had also driven through town, past the pond where a Christmas tree floated in the middle. The tree was small, and lonely perhaps isolated out on those waters.
I asked my father if we could come again. “Come again?” he repeated, for that could mean many things.
“To this place,” I said. “I know we really can’t. Even if we did come back, it wouldn’t be the same.” I will have grown and changed by then. And even now the beach is eroding. A recent hurricane swept the sands up along the street near the parked cars. Every year the sand is piled a little higher around the dunes.
It’s funny how I’ll never get this moment back, and maybe I won’t even remember it right. That’s because I won’t see things the same, so maybe it will be like the fading sand---a slight memory that I can barely remember at all.
“Goodbye beach,” I whispered as we drove away. The last few flecks of sand flew out of my hair in the highway breeze, but I didn’t mind. I was sad but I was content.
One night we had also driven through town, past the pond where a Christmas tree floated in the middle. The tree was small, and lonely perhaps isolated out on those waters.
I asked my father if we could come again. “Come again?” he repeated, for that could mean many things.
“To this place,” I said. “I know we really can’t. Even if we did come back, it wouldn’t be the same.” I will have grown and changed by then. And even now the beach is eroding. A recent hurricane swept the sands up along the street near the parked cars. Every year the sand is piled a little higher around the dunes.
It’s funny how I’ll never get this moment back, and maybe I won’t even remember it right. That’s because I won’t see things the same, so maybe it will be like the fading sand---a slight memory that I can barely remember at all.
“Goodbye beach,” I whispered as we drove away. The last few flecks of sand flew out of my hair in the highway breeze, but I didn’t mind. I was sad but I was content.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Rio's pond
This pond is great. On it are the swans. Walking around and around, I am basking in the serenity. Part of the pathway around the other side is partially obscured by a thicket. There is a playground nearby. I walk around and around the pond to make the time pass.
I love looking out at the water, life seems more beautiful with that kind of view. It’s as if looking at it turns on a switch, and I can feel at peace.
As I walk around the path, I gradually become more and more worried. The other side is a little dark. There are no other walkers that I see. As I walk around the other side, I swing my arms and pick up the pace. I look up the grassy medium and see a house and some workers. Maybe they are watching me. How can I escape? I am confident that I can swim strongly. I could make it across that pond and leave my pursuer behind.
Going near the thicket the other way around the pond, I hesitate before I reach the bushes. Right next to me is a playground where a mother sits watching her child play. I wonder if she thinks she is safe. If she disappeared, who would know? Would anyone miss her? What if I am witnessing her last joy? I just saw someone else pass through the thicket, so it must be safe to go that way.
So I walk right through, but my fear isn’t totally obliterated. I walk with trepidation, uncertainty. When I make it through, I think how silly I must have been. Why did I worry? It seems unimportant now.
I pass certain people on the path, but they seem not to see me. I wonder if my reflection is in this pond, leaving something important for the world to see. The joggers may see me as they charge over the bridge on the pond.
I love looking out at the water, life seems more beautiful with that kind of view. It’s as if looking at it turns on a switch, and I can feel at peace.
As I walk around the path, I gradually become more and more worried. The other side is a little dark. There are no other walkers that I see. As I walk around the other side, I swing my arms and pick up the pace. I look up the grassy medium and see a house and some workers. Maybe they are watching me. How can I escape? I am confident that I can swim strongly. I could make it across that pond and leave my pursuer behind.
Going near the thicket the other way around the pond, I hesitate before I reach the bushes. Right next to me is a playground where a mother sits watching her child play. I wonder if she thinks she is safe. If she disappeared, who would know? Would anyone miss her? What if I am witnessing her last joy? I just saw someone else pass through the thicket, so it must be safe to go that way.
So I walk right through, but my fear isn’t totally obliterated. I walk with trepidation, uncertainty. When I make it through, I think how silly I must have been. Why did I worry? It seems unimportant now.
I pass certain people on the path, but they seem not to see me. I wonder if my reflection is in this pond, leaving something important for the world to see. The joggers may see me as they charge over the bridge on the pond.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
"Ocean City" Part 2
With my head on the pillow, I can build castles in the sky. Anxiety disappears and my mind wanders, undisturbed. I wonder how long I can stay this way: between worlds, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Outside, the lights are still blinking from the Christmas light show. It makes me feel alive because here in this room, everything is dull. The room is decorated in such lifeless colors that I feel like I am stuck in a classroom where the professor is talking in drab monotones.
The pool is located in what looks like a former greenhouse. The sliding glass door across the front is partway open and covered in steam. Through it I can see the blinking headlights of cars outside as they make their way through the festival of lights set up for the residents in winter. I wonder what kind of person would live in Ocean City in the wintertime. Bustling in the summer, the town is nearly dead in the winter.
Although there is no definite reason to be afraid, standing alone on the cool concrete on the pool deck, I have an apprehensive feeling like when you know that something potentially ominous could happen. Of course I know that it would be easy for someone to come through that sliding glass door.
So then getting into the pool I make up my mind that I will get in quickly. I won’t prolong it like I normally do. The water is warm, and I realize this with some surprise. I wonder why this should come as a surprise, since I had felt the water before and already knew that it was warm. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t realized how much warmer the water is compared to the air. So then I think how getting in should be no problem. I submerge myself, and then I suddenly feel that sense of satisfaction that comes from reaching some personal goal.
Once in the water, I swim laps back and forth. The pool is small in diameter, making me have to turn around frequently. It feels nice, and in its pleasure, my fear that an intruder may come to hurt me is sort of on hold. It is there, but somehow not urgent enough to compel me to find safety. I tell myself, just a few more, and then I need to get out and get out of here. I go through in my head how I will take one towel from the supply provided in a basket on the pool deck to dry myself. But I will also need another one since those towels are so small. I think how I will do it very fast. I will not go slow because the air will feel so cold. It will be like ripping off a band-aid.
In winter in Ocean City, the boardwalk is a pleasant place. Mostly empty of people, one can enjoy the broad expanse of its wooden path and an uninterrupted view of the ocean. The air is chilly, but the slight coolness adds to the atmosphere. Here a certain weight—perhaps the cares of day to day life—is lifted. It’s almost as if, in the dark blue mass of the ocean, a new breath of life is found.
The comforting thing about the ocean is that it never changes. The waves will come in and out, guided by the steady hand of time.
Outside, the lights are still blinking from the Christmas light show. It makes me feel alive because here in this room, everything is dull. The room is decorated in such lifeless colors that I feel like I am stuck in a classroom where the professor is talking in drab monotones.
The pool is located in what looks like a former greenhouse. The sliding glass door across the front is partway open and covered in steam. Through it I can see the blinking headlights of cars outside as they make their way through the festival of lights set up for the residents in winter. I wonder what kind of person would live in Ocean City in the wintertime. Bustling in the summer, the town is nearly dead in the winter.
Although there is no definite reason to be afraid, standing alone on the cool concrete on the pool deck, I have an apprehensive feeling like when you know that something potentially ominous could happen. Of course I know that it would be easy for someone to come through that sliding glass door.
So then getting into the pool I make up my mind that I will get in quickly. I won’t prolong it like I normally do. The water is warm, and I realize this with some surprise. I wonder why this should come as a surprise, since I had felt the water before and already knew that it was warm. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t realized how much warmer the water is compared to the air. So then I think how getting in should be no problem. I submerge myself, and then I suddenly feel that sense of satisfaction that comes from reaching some personal goal.
Once in the water, I swim laps back and forth. The pool is small in diameter, making me have to turn around frequently. It feels nice, and in its pleasure, my fear that an intruder may come to hurt me is sort of on hold. It is there, but somehow not urgent enough to compel me to find safety. I tell myself, just a few more, and then I need to get out and get out of here. I go through in my head how I will take one towel from the supply provided in a basket on the pool deck to dry myself. But I will also need another one since those towels are so small. I think how I will do it very fast. I will not go slow because the air will feel so cold. It will be like ripping off a band-aid.
In winter in Ocean City, the boardwalk is a pleasant place. Mostly empty of people, one can enjoy the broad expanse of its wooden path and an uninterrupted view of the ocean. The air is chilly, but the slight coolness adds to the atmosphere. Here a certain weight—perhaps the cares of day to day life—is lifted. It’s almost as if, in the dark blue mass of the ocean, a new breath of life is found.
The comforting thing about the ocean is that it never changes. The waves will come in and out, guided by the steady hand of time.
"Impressions from Ocean City"
At night the beach is quiet and the moon is full. I am sitting on the sand. I imagine that this beach is a stage. The yellow moon shines a spotlight on me. In its gentle glow, my soul becomes fluid. Now it is free to rise and fall in the rythmn of the waves.
Here I don’t feel imprisoned by the things in my life I cannot change. This beach is a place for the imagination and my soul is free riding the waves.
My father is far off down the beach walking towards me. I cannot decide whether to meet him halfway. The decision feels larger than the ocean before me. My soul is being pulled from the water and I am sad, as if something has been lost forever.
I walk to meet him. This way I have a little control. I won’t allow him to come to me. It’s as if I’m saying, “I see you coming to me. But I won’t sit back and let the events around me determine my fate. I can take charge.”
When my father is five feet from me, I again have another decision to make. I feel annoyed by this indecision. If I had more confidence, I would blurt things out, embraced by my surroundings like a pebble pulled by the current in a clear stream. But I don’t have that ability, and right now I am stuck, no more able to avoid this decision than a fly caught in a spider’s web can wring himself free.
I say “hi” first. My father asks if I’ve noticed the sailboats coming closer on the water like small birds riding the crest of a wave. I say that I saw them and I ask him what it means.
“Why are they sailing so close here?” he asks. His brow is wrinkled. He is confused. He has misinterpreted my meaning. I only wanted to know how this image of white sailboats on the rough bluish waters strikes him.
“I’ve never seen sailboats in Ocean City,” he says.
He couldn’t answer my question, and I am tired like a pianist whose hit the wrong key again and again. I close my eyes and feel the cool breeze on my cheek and the wind tossing my hair. I can hear the sound of the water rushing and seagulls in the distance, and although my eyes are closed, I can see perfectly how the driftwood beaten by the water must look as it floats close to the shore.
The water comes rushing in, and at its edge is a white foam. Then it retreats back to its source and the foam remains in the shape of an arc on the sand. Watching this scene, I realize how true is the old saying that most things in life prefer to go home.
But the white foam is like a rebel. It is a part of the water, and then it disengages itself and stays behind making an imprint in the sand.
My father is waiting to go. I am sad to leave, and I try to figure out why this experience feels so beautiful.
Maybe I love the way the yellow moon in the night sky is reflecting light on the water. Or do I enjoy sharing this moment with my father? I wonder why the two are separate things. I long for my father to be like the light coming from the moon, soft and gentle, yet strong and trustworthy and knowing the way things are supposed to be.
But maybe that is not doable. He has his opinion, and I am alone in this moment, letting the view melt into me like chocolate over a warm yellow cake.
Inside of me, if I reach far enough, I can find strength. Although I walk alone, I believe that I am being moved along by the hands of people holding up my body. It is perhaps the way a caterpillar moves along the ground, inch by inch.
My father is standing there, and the moon is shining on him, making his features stand out. I see the stubble of his unshaved face and the small band-aid on his temple where he had a recent procedure to remove skin cancer.
I wish I had mind-reading powers and could know how he feels in this moment, what he sees when he looks at that moon. Nonetheless I know it is beautiful anyway, father and daughter watching the moon together. Maybe when he dies or even just when I move away, moments like this will comfort me.
Memories change with the passage of time, which makes little rivulets in the mind like the little rivulets the water makes in a well-traveled stream.
If I could paint, I would put this image on paper and then I’d always have a picture of the way I see it now.
Here I don’t feel imprisoned by the things in my life I cannot change. This beach is a place for the imagination and my soul is free riding the waves.
My father is far off down the beach walking towards me. I cannot decide whether to meet him halfway. The decision feels larger than the ocean before me. My soul is being pulled from the water and I am sad, as if something has been lost forever.
I walk to meet him. This way I have a little control. I won’t allow him to come to me. It’s as if I’m saying, “I see you coming to me. But I won’t sit back and let the events around me determine my fate. I can take charge.”
When my father is five feet from me, I again have another decision to make. I feel annoyed by this indecision. If I had more confidence, I would blurt things out, embraced by my surroundings like a pebble pulled by the current in a clear stream. But I don’t have that ability, and right now I am stuck, no more able to avoid this decision than a fly caught in a spider’s web can wring himself free.
I say “hi” first. My father asks if I’ve noticed the sailboats coming closer on the water like small birds riding the crest of a wave. I say that I saw them and I ask him what it means.
“Why are they sailing so close here?” he asks. His brow is wrinkled. He is confused. He has misinterpreted my meaning. I only wanted to know how this image of white sailboats on the rough bluish waters strikes him.
“I’ve never seen sailboats in Ocean City,” he says.
He couldn’t answer my question, and I am tired like a pianist whose hit the wrong key again and again. I close my eyes and feel the cool breeze on my cheek and the wind tossing my hair. I can hear the sound of the water rushing and seagulls in the distance, and although my eyes are closed, I can see perfectly how the driftwood beaten by the water must look as it floats close to the shore.
The water comes rushing in, and at its edge is a white foam. Then it retreats back to its source and the foam remains in the shape of an arc on the sand. Watching this scene, I realize how true is the old saying that most things in life prefer to go home.
But the white foam is like a rebel. It is a part of the water, and then it disengages itself and stays behind making an imprint in the sand.
My father is waiting to go. I am sad to leave, and I try to figure out why this experience feels so beautiful.
Maybe I love the way the yellow moon in the night sky is reflecting light on the water. Or do I enjoy sharing this moment with my father? I wonder why the two are separate things. I long for my father to be like the light coming from the moon, soft and gentle, yet strong and trustworthy and knowing the way things are supposed to be.
But maybe that is not doable. He has his opinion, and I am alone in this moment, letting the view melt into me like chocolate over a warm yellow cake.
Inside of me, if I reach far enough, I can find strength. Although I walk alone, I believe that I am being moved along by the hands of people holding up my body. It is perhaps the way a caterpillar moves along the ground, inch by inch.
My father is standing there, and the moon is shining on him, making his features stand out. I see the stubble of his unshaved face and the small band-aid on his temple where he had a recent procedure to remove skin cancer.
I wish I had mind-reading powers and could know how he feels in this moment, what he sees when he looks at that moon. Nonetheless I know it is beautiful anyway, father and daughter watching the moon together. Maybe when he dies or even just when I move away, moments like this will comfort me.
Memories change with the passage of time, which makes little rivulets in the mind like the little rivulets the water makes in a well-traveled stream.
If I could paint, I would put this image on paper and then I’d always have a picture of the way I see it now.
Friday, January 1, 2010
So I heard that Harris Teeter is coming to my hometown. For those who are not familiar with Harris Teeter, it is a grocery store--pretty cool. I recently went to the one in Rockville with my family. We ate lunch in the cafeteria upstairs. Mmmm...tomato bisquette soup. I can still taste the spices and the wonderfulness of it in my mouth.
I wonder if I could move to Rockville, live in some of those sweet apartments. So I went to a movie the other day with my sister in Bethesda. So depressing..."Up in the air."
For New Year's my friend Nancy from the pool invited me to a party hosted by a friend from her church, St. Rose of Lima in Gaithersburg. I'd forgotten how much I liked dancing. Those hispanics really like to dance (Nancy is from Columbia). Everyone there was spanish but me and they kept forgetting to talk to me in English. For some reason they liked me, and when Nancy had to go to pick up her daughter, they told her, "Leave the American girl."
I wonder if I could move to Rockville, live in some of those sweet apartments. So I went to a movie the other day with my sister in Bethesda. So depressing..."Up in the air."
For New Year's my friend Nancy from the pool invited me to a party hosted by a friend from her church, St. Rose of Lima in Gaithersburg. I'd forgotten how much I liked dancing. Those hispanics really like to dance (Nancy is from Columbia). Everyone there was spanish but me and they kept forgetting to talk to me in English. For some reason they liked me, and when Nancy had to go to pick up her daughter, they told her, "Leave the American girl."
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