APRIL 29, 2011

As we were coming home from the gym at 1 PM,

the temp was 42 degrees;

snow flurries.

5 PM

Snow on the rooftops;

snow on the mountains;

snow on the valleys;

snow on the garden;

snow on the deck;

snow on the table on the deck;

snow on the van top;

snow on the tulips.

Snow coming down like crazy.

Gather in the tomatoes, the peppers, and the broccoli.

Close the windows.

Light a fire in the fireplace.

Hunker down.

Watch a good movie.

Watch the Royal Wedding.

Drats; the Endeavors’ launch was scrubbed

because of a faulty heater part

until at least Monday.

Am I complaining?

No tornadoes here.

Bless Alabama.

DIRTY TOWELS

I get dang sick

of DeRay complaining

when I asked the “boys”

to throw their towels

down the dirty clothes chute

so I can wash them.

(As if it’s my privilege.)

“Again?  You just washed them yesterday.”

Or

“It hasn’t even been a week.”

Weary of the denigration,

I vowed I would never wash their towels again.

 I don’t think I was imagining that

The bathroom began to stink.

Going on two months.

Is it fair to Ed?

He didn’t complain.

“What color is Ed’s towel?

I want to wash his.”

I submit.

“Already?"
my husband asks in astonishment,

"It hasn’t even been a week.”

Sometimes time stands still.

In his mind, not mine.

A gender differential?

THE LAW OF COMPENSATION

Out to lunch with old friends,

LaRene who is in the middle of chemotherapy,

still facing radiation,

expressed her concern for her husband of

less than two years

who nursed his first wife

in the last years of her illness;

and for 55 years has taken care

of their

Special Needs restless autistic son

who has never talked;

is gradually getting so he can’t walk.

Several times a night

he’s up with him to go to the bathroom;

changing clothes and bedding

when necessary.

“If he would just show any love,

any appreciation,

any emotion.

Does Eddy express gratitude?

Show feelings?”

Yes.

Beautifully.

And it makes all the difference.

“It’s sure good, Mom.”

“You sure look nice, Mom.”

“Do you love me, Mom?”

“That’s a kiss for you, Mom.”

“Who do you love?”

“I sure enjoyed the dinner I had last night.”

“It’s good, Mom.”

“I love this Ward, Mom.”

“I love the Shepherds, Mom.”

“Thank you for the dinner, Mom.”

“I love this planet, Mom.”

“Thank you for taking me to the play.”

“Hi gorgeous.”
"Did you have a good time last night?"

“Thanks for lunch,

even thought it was last night’s dinner.”

“Thank you for the breakfast, Mom,

and for last night’s nasty dinner.”

When his dad teasingly said “Credit Onion”

Instead of “Credit Union”,

He warns,

“Somebody sure can’t enunciate.”

And my personal favorite,

“Don’t upset your wife.”

he cautions his dad.

Each night the last thing he says

as he turns out the light is,

“I’m enjoying the earth ride, Mom.”

Everything he says thrills me.

First three years,

he didn’t talk.

“I want him to talk,” I wail to my mother

as I drive her to her radiation treatments.

“It’s okay,” Mama comforts,

“He’ll be just fine in the next life.”

“NO!

I want to get to know him NOW.

I don’t want him to be a stranger

in our home.

I want to know what he’s thinking,

feeling, needing, hoping,

dreaming.

I don’t want his soul to be forever

locked in a silent hurt body.”

My prayers were answered.

 To this day

we spend mornings together,

playing educational games,

singing hymns,

reading,

triking,

swimming.

From 1:30 on, he entertains himself.

Selective TV watching,

music, DVD’s.

How I cherish his expressions

of love and appreciation

daily.

My heart aches for my friend LaRene,

her husband and his son.

And to paraphrase Lance Armstrong*,

“It’s not About the Cancer.”

When Ed was 7 years old,

I wrote in my journal:

I wish he were “normal”,

with good vision and coordination

and strength and confidence.

But he isn't.

And deep down

beneath all the hurt

and prayers and wishing

and even guilt,

I feel the most precious,

peaceful bond of love,

appreciation,

and admiration

for our little seven-year-old son;

. . .sometimes in my mind,

the tables are turned,

and I feel sorry

for all the mothers

who never experience that deep repose

which transcends all other feelings.

I am sure LaRene and Gary feel

this compensation towards Jeffrey also.

*It’s Not About the Bike;

My Journey Back to Life.”  By Lance Armstrong, winner of the Tour de France a record seven consecutive times, after having survived testicular cancer.

  

Spring Snow

     Falling

Falling

Where does it all go?

Spring snow

Spring snow

Three days now in a row.

None on the sidewalk;

Not even a speck;

Little on our lawn;

Little on our deck.

Drip

Drip

Drip

Drip

Melts fast as falls

It is much too late,

Doesn't Mother Nature know

For a severe spring snow?

April 9, 2011

SLEEPING WITH A MOOSE

I like summer and I like my brother and his wife to come out from Missouri but I do not like them to take me on a backpacking overnight trip.  Every year they say, “Where do you want to go this year?”  I don’t want to go at all.  My feet hurt.  I hate the uneven terrain.  I only like to walk on sidewalks.  Do they listen to me?  No.  They go right ahead and start gathering food and tents and sleeping bags.  Why don’t they pay attention?  I don’t want to go.

We are driving clear to Logan and hiking up Green Canyon.  I like the ride up.  I enjoy the scenery but I do not want to hike in.  No way.

We unload the cars and put on our backpacks.  “You can make it,” my brother says as he pats me on the back, “it’s only a mile or so.”

I think Mom is in cahoots with them because she helps load me up.

I do not want to do this.

I want to be in my own room listening to my music.

I’m sure it’s more than a mile.  “Are we there yet?”  I’m tired.

We finally came to a meadow by a stream.  “A perfect camping spot,” my brother says. 

We pitch three tents.  My mom and I are in one tent; Brent, my brother, and his wife Jan in one tent; and my sister Amy and her two friends, Bonnie and Becky, in another tent.

They cook a Dutch Oven dinner.  I’m always hungry but I don’t want to help.  I’m tired from that long hike.

I like to visit around the campfire.

We all go to bed.

During the night, we wake up scared.  We hear heavy breathing and something is pawing our tent.  I hear my mom pound on the tent and yell “Git!”  “Git!”

Is it a bear?

A mean guy?

What?

It gits.  

Clappidy, clappidy, clomp, clomp!

It seems like a long, long time but I finally fall back to sleep.

Oh no.

Heave – snort – heave – snort.

When Mom yells “Git” and pounds on the tent again, Brent calls from his tent.  “Mom!  Are you OK?  STAY IN YOUR TENT!  I THINK IT’S A MOOSE.”

“No,” Mom calls back, “it’s bigger than a mouse.  It’s at least a badger!”

Mom peeks out the window and sees Brent’s flashlight shining around.

It’s too dangerous to go out.  Even Brent says he is petrified; not knowing if it’s an animal with respiratory problems or a derelict human.

"I SEE IT.”  Brent is excited.  “IT’S A BIG ONE.  A THOUSAND-POUND MOOSE,”

“A MOOSE?” Mom yells. “He’ll eat us alive.”

“Moose are vegetarian,” Amy calls from her tent.

“Does it have to eat the grass right under my tent?” Mom asks.

By now, everyone is awake and chattering about the big moose.  More than one.  Two or three.  Did we camp by their waterhole and on their dinner?

When daylight finally came, Mom asked how I liked sleeping with a moose.

“I don’t,” I told her. “I’m glad you were here to tell him.  Of course, you treated him like a dog, telling him to ‘git’ three times.”

After breakfast as we were taking down the tents, I decided it was a rather exciting night, so I bragged, “I slept with a moose last night.  Not you, Mom.  I mean the animal.  You’re OK.  I sure enjoyed that moose last night.”

We had so much fun talking about sleeping with a moose all the way back to the car that I forgot my feet hurt and that I hate overnight backpacking hikes.  I can’t wait until Brent and Jan come out next summer.

For my writing class.  From Ed’s point of view, present tense.  It happened in 1995.