In this picture, you are pointing out to me, a four-year-old in 1937, the beginning of the Mississippi River--a small trickle of a stream that comes from, or maybe goes to, Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota. We are on vacation there, you from Little Rock, where you lived, and we from Detroit, Michigan, where Momma, Daddy and I lived at that time. My homemade bloomers are showing big time out from under my short, orange-colored Buster Brown dress with the white collar and smocked front. I have never liked this picture because my underwear showed--besides that, I am squinting against the sun glaring in my eyes, and I look tired and worn out. It has been a long day and an even longer drive to get there.
Now, in May 2003, I can appreciate that you came an even longer way to visit us. There must have been some family closeness for you and my daddy, the first-born brother, divided by less than two years, to vacation together, to visit back and forth with each other. In the photo, you are dressed in a suit, tie, and vest, very proper gentlemanly attire for a men's clothing storeowner and soon-to-become popular political person as City Clerk of Little Rock with offices on the second floor of City Hall. Many times early in your lifetime tenure, I climbed those grand, tiled, curving stairs and went into your busy office where Miss Mary was your loveable and capable secretary.
Uncle Henry, not only did you show me the beginning of the Mississippi River, you also showed me, and played with me, the piano, especially Chopsticks with its fifteen variations that were your specialty and showcased your fancy keyboard handwork. How that fun has entertained me, my children, and now, my grandchildren, as I pass along family good times.
Furthermore, by the time I was five-years-old, and we visited you and Aunt Reland in Little Rock, you showed me how to dance, and rolling back the Oriental rug, you danced with me all over your shiny, hardwood living room floor. We twirled before Nanny and the older relatives and my parents seated around the edges of the room. Your jokes, teases, and gleeful joy in being with me and with others comes across loud and clear to me today. I thank you for enjoying your life and enjoying me.
Today, 65 years later, I have come a long way from that photo and those early golden days. This was before I realized as a young teenager that you drank, and drank too much, just like Daddy did. This was before you accused my mother of poisoning Daddy when he actually died in an alcoholic stupor by choking on a piece of meat--a piece of pot roast--in the kitchen in front of the icebox while my mother was in the den on the telephone reading my recent letter from Randolph Macon Woman's College in Virginia to friends Jack and Margaret Holt. This was before you and Aunt Pauline, Daddy's sister, came over that very night and drunkenly ranted and raved to my mother in front of the doctor, the ambulance crew, the neighbors, and the Holts, who had also come quickly.
Thank God Mr. Holt was a lawyer and knew how to handle legally such violent family outbursts. Thank God my mother's two strong Texas brothers and her frontier-minded, fearless mother came to be with her, leaving almost as soon as they heard the news, driving the 650 miles straight through from Uvalde to Little Rock. Thank God you sobered up enough to attend respectfully Daddy's funeral at Griffin and Leggett Funeral Home and burial in Roselawn Cemetary and
agreed to trade the last remaining burial plot so my mother could be buried next to Daddy.
After the funeral in January 1952, I never saw you again, Uncle Henry. I heard you died of a heart attack sometime in the mid-fifties. Soon after Daddy's death, I returned to college, graduated in 1955, and then married in 1956, moving to Jonesboro, Arkansas, where I lived for 25 years.
Mother rented our Little Rock home in the spring of 1952 and moved to Uvalde, Texas, to live for the next 26 years with her parents, and then after their death, she stayed on as a single woman until she died in 1978.
I never saw Aunt Reland again either. I heard she died a few years after Daddy but before you did. I also heard that before she had died, she moved out of your house and went to live with her parents in their Little Rock home.
Your and Aunt Pauline's breach with my mother over Daddy's death was so deep and so hurtful that my mother turned her back on you two and cut all ties. As my mother's child, my loyalty was to her, and I felt it would be a betrayal to ever make contact with you or Aunt Pauline during Mother's lifetime.
As I grow older, I think about you more. How quickly and how permanently our once carefree and happy relationship ended. How our estrangement has left gaps and rifts in my life. When Daddy died he was gone from my life. You and Aunt Pauline and many of the Graham family relatives were gone also. I grieve the loss of those of you I loved.
I also grieve my loss of childhood innocence and trust that left when you all did.
Harry Granger knew when he woke up that today was his lucky day. He was excited about work for the first time in a long time. Usually his 12 hour days of cab driving were boring and long. Harry preferred to drive the 4:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. shift because at least in the early hours, fares usually kept their mouths shut. That's the way Harry liked it. He didn't enjoy the mindless chatter from fares, specially the women who often seemed to think that he should be interested in their petty problems. He was hired to pick them up and drop them off; not to listen to their bullshit. But, today he knew would be different.
The day passed quickly and uneventfully. Harry's mind wandered as he headed to the mall with his last fare of the day. He was thinking about his brother, Frank. Harry was hardened many years ago by the brutal abuse his father had inflicted on both Harry and his younger brother, Frank. But, he never forgave himself for not helping Frank. Thank God, his father and Frank were both dead now. Harry was glad that Frank didn't have to suffer any more. Regarding his father, he always hoped there was a hell so that Harry, Sr. could burn there eternally.
Harry was the kind of guy who faded into a crowd. He was a big man with a thick body- not exactly fat but not thin, either. Thick would be the best way to describe him. His thinning hair was mousy brown and parted on one side with a few strands combed all the way over to the other side the way balding men do when they are trying to look younger. His arms were big, very muscular, and covered with the girlie tattoos he got while stationed in Vietnam in the 60's. His most distinguishing feature was a scar on his face in the shape of an "x." His father had cut him with a pocket knife one night when he was 18. Harry was trying to protect his brother Frank from their father's abuse. Harry left home that night and joined the army. He never saw his father or Frank again. They were both killed in a car accident shortly after Harry left home. He was already in Vietnam and only got word from his aunt that they were both dead a week after the double funeral. Harry always thought of his father when he shaved over the scar each morning. He wished he had done more to help protect Frank. At least Frank was safe now.
Harry was dressed in his usual dark brown polyester pants and polyester shirt. A man living alone had to love his polyester clothes. No ironing and no wrinkles. His pants always had that shiny look that cheap polyester gets when it has been washed too many times. But, Harry never worried about his looks.
As Harry dropped off his last fare, he drove to the other side of the mall. He went into the atrium to watch for someone. It wasn't long before he saw them- an angry woman who looked about 30 and down on her luck came in the mall dragging a blonde boy of about 7. The boy neither smiled nor frowned. He just looked hopelessly disinterested in his life and in his surroundings. Harry knew people like this woman felt sorry for themselves. They never paid attention to their kids. He knew this from personal experience.
He fell in step behind them, unnoticed. His step quickened as he followed them past several stores. As they headed toward the restroom, Harry heard the boy whining about not wanting to go in with his mother. Harry felt sorry for the kid; no boy wanted to go into the women's restroom. And the kid was dressed shabby. He needed new clothes that his mother probably couldn't afford. Harry thought that she should have been better off at the Salvation Army instead of this expensive mall. That was where he bought his clothes, and he looked fine.
As the couple approached the door marked Women/Mujeres, the boy started to whine. "No, no, Mama. I don't want to go in there! I'm a boy. I don't want to go in the girl's. I want to go in the boy's!"
That's was Harry's cue. His heart quickened as he walked up to the woman and boy. "Excuse me, mam. Can I be of some assistance?" he asked.
The woman was startled, but when she turned, she saw Harry wearing a big grin, looking so friendly. "My son just doesn't want to go in the women's restroom with me. It's nothing."
"Well, mam, I think your son's right. He is too old to go into the women's toilet. I'll be happy to take him in with me. We'll meet you right back here when you come out. Just take your time."
A look of fear flashed across the women's face, and a chill ran down Harry's spine. Before she could say no, Harry had the child by the hand. " Go on , now. We'll be fine. We'll meet you right back here." These idiots always do what I tell them, he thought. If they were any smarter, I wouldn't stand chance.
"OK, if you're sure," she said. "I want be long. Do like the nice man says, Jimmy."
As soon as the door closed behind her, Harry grabbed the boy by the hand. "Let's go over here. I want to show you a new toy in the toy department that you'll love. Hurry so we can be back before your mom comes out. We don't want to worry her, do we?"
The boy forgot all about the bathroom and quickly fell in step with Harry who was lost in his own thoughts. Harry was surprised when a familiar looking woman grabbed his arm. Before he couldn't place her, she screamed, "You sorry bastard!"
"You're crazy, lady. I've never seen you in my life!" he yelled.
Then, it came to him in a flash who she was. She was the mother of that beautiful boy who had been taken over a year ago from this same mall. Harry's heart skipped a beat. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and Harry was scared.
This woman was not going to shut up. She grabbed him again and started screaming, "Help, help; this man is a monster." People started to stare. Harry told her again in a low voice that she had made a mistake. He was getting ready to walk off and leave the boy just so that he could get away from this crazy woman when a mall security guard came up. Too late to leave now. He'd just have to explain to the guard that this woman was crazy. It would be OK. After all, today was his lucky day.
The guard was looking at Harry as he asked the excited woman what was going on here. "This is the man who stole my son from this mall and raped him just over a year ago. I caught him trying to take this child. Ask him, just ask him who the boy is. I'll be you he's not related to the boy and the mother doesn't know where the child is."
"What do you have to say to that, mister?" he asked Harry. "Who is this kid and who are you?"
"Sir, ask the boy who I am. Ask him if I tried to hurt him. See, here comes his mother. I was keeping him for his mother to go into the women's room. Just ask her." Harry remained perfectly calm. The guard was watching him closely for clues, but Harry looked him straight in the eye and smiled. Harry didn't look guilty because he didn't feel guilty.
As the boy's mother walked up, she asked, " What's wrong, Jimmy? What happened?"
"Nothing, Mom. This lady is crazy. She just jumped on us out of nowhere and started screaming. Make her leave us alone!"
"Mam, is every thing OK here? Are you OK and is the boy OK?" asked the guard.
"Yes, we're fine. Just make that woman take her hands off my son. Is she crazy? What's wrong with her? Can't you people keep the crazies out of the malls these days?"
That's when Harry saw his chance to get away. He would leave town; go visit an old buddy in Mexico until this thing blew over. It may take a while, but someday he would be able to come home, if nothing came of all this. "That's all right, officer," he said. Harry had learned in the military that you can get away with a lot more if you're respectful, especially with the lower level guys. They don't ever feel like they get the respect they deserve.
"I'll just walk Jimmy and his mom to their car. This lady has just made a mistake. No problem. OK?" he asked as he looked the guard in the eye and smiled.
"OK," the guard said. He turned to the hysterical woman who had grabbed Jimmy's arm and said, "Lady, let the boy go. You need to come with me to the office. I'll need some identification and the name of someone to call. Let's go. Sorry for the inconvenience, guys," he called back to Harry, Jimmy and his mom.
That's when it happened. The guard had the woman loosely by the arm. He had not expected her to be so strong or so sure of herself. He didn't know that she had waited almost every day since her son died in this spot in the mall, looking for Harry. She would never forget Harry's face.
Her son never got over the things Harry did to him. He had hanged himself only two months after the incident. There had been almost no publicity because the family was prominent and the boy was so young, only 10. She had intended to make Harry pay, no matter what.
The shot rang out loudly. Jimmy's mother screamed as the guard wrestled the gun from the female shooter. Jimmy stood, looking down at the man who he had hoped would buy him a new toy. There was a hole in Harry's chest, and he had a strange look on his face.
An off-duty cop ran over and quickly subdued the shooter. The security guard looked as if he was in shock. He had never seen the gun that the shooter had in her hand. She had pulled it when she recognized Harry, just in case he tried to get away from her. She had promised herself that he would never hurt another child, no matter what she had to do.
The security guard was holding Harry's head as the off-duty cop took the woman toward the elevator. The woman was smiling and looking back at Harry while the guard held his head. The guard never understood Harry's final words as he smiled at the woman who had shot him and called to her just before he stopped breathing, "I knew this was my lucky day."
It was the last day of creative writing class already; five Saturday mornings had gone by way too fast. What exciting writing exercise would our teacher Paula have for us today? For every single one of the exercises had opened up my mind to incredible thoughts, flashbacks, and creativity, in order to write them down on paper.
Now it was time to create a character for a future story. To help us focus, we were given a few pictures in which to select one, and we were also given some questions to answer according to what we saw in the photograph. As the pictures were handed over to me, soon my eyes spotted one that instantly captured my heart.
Struck with emotions I held the picture in my hand. While waiting for more instructions, tears welled up in my eyes, getting lost in my thoughts. Here I was holding a picture of a hero in front of me. Just last night, as I had done plenty of times before, I spent time in prayers with my dear friend Dottie, for a few soldiers that we know personally and for the other ones serving the country stationed all over the world.
Staring at this face representing all the soldiers, my heart went out to him with compassion and sadness, wanting to go and give him some hugs and kind words, wishing he could be back home with the ones he loves so much.
God let me know that prayers had been heard, giving me a touch in my heart, making it all so powerful. I couldn't help to think about the love and protection that had gone out to the ones we prayed for; I found it incredible that now this particular picture showed up in front of me. As if saying, "Thank you for taking the time to pray; your support is very much appreciated."
I was instantly invited to be a part of this unknown, undisclosed location, a part of the world seemingly so far away. Yet with a very inviting smile and attitude of thankfulness, there didn't seem to be a distance of any kind. Happy to see me, a tap on his helmet, giving me a salute, saying, "Hi, good to see you, glad that you could make it, make yourself comfortable and stay awhile. I will show you around and will even capture it on film.
See, I have a camera all ready to go. Who could say "no" to an invitation like that? So I took him up on the offer. Soon I could feel the heat of the sun hitting me with a gentle breeze flowing through the air, making it for a somewhat pleasant time to be out there together. As I was shown the grounds around me, I came to know a valuable attribute, a sincerity coming from within this person who's willing to do all that was needed while showing honor and integrity.
A duty and commitment that was made with no backing out of it, the compassion in his heart of what he believed in and was standing for was an unspoken love for all humanity. Having been trained in his field of expertise, makes it possible for him to be all that he can be. He's taking it all very serious and in stride while being a part of this intricate phenomenal operation.
As I am observing what all was going on during this time of taking a walk and sharing session, I couldn't help to think of what might be hidden behind the sunglasses that were covering his eyes, protecting them from the midmorning sunlight. The pathway to the soul; what had they seen, what had they encountered that would be hidden secrets for only him to know, would he be free to share his concerns and worries?
What was on his mind and heart - of the days past, as he had traveled so far from home, leaving all the familiar places? What had he left behind so many miles and months ago? A home, a comfortable bed, a car to go places with, a sport. What was he thinking under that helmet covering up his head, another protection, from unknown dangers? What was going on? I wondered.
He sounded confident and full of spark. Was it because I was there and he had to uphold himself, or was he truly in control and knew how to release the stress that surely must have been building?
The uniform, a token of honor and integrity, he wore proudly, making him stand tall in what he believed, with the sleeves rolled up to get some relief from the heat on his body. What was he carrying in his pocket? Could it be a picture so worn because he had held it so many times, getting a touch of home of his loved ones, whom he cherished so much. Or were they cultivated in his heart and memory so they would never leave him, always being so close with him, no matter where he was assigned to go?
Who was he taking the pictures for? Capturing the moment in time to share with others, to reminisce on the times past, letting others be a part of his life, to identify, to respect, to love, to celebrate what he believed in, for they had not been able to be there with him. Or were they just going to be for him, bringing this tour of duty to a closure within himself?
I was filled with an overwhelming compassion for that moment in time, having been touched by an inviting picture that captured so much in unspoken, unspeakable words. For how can you express and show gratitude for someone so loving, caring, walking in excellence, respect, distinguished in all that they set out to do!
Saying good-bye and getting back to what was happening in class took a few minutes, for this had been a very special moment in time. So many unspeakable words had been exchanged so early in the morning during creative writing class, a picture becoming like a thousand unspeakable words for our admired and loved heroes.
I have driven by the old house several times before finally pulling to the curb a half block away. A sidewalk, broken in sections by years of settling, divides the front yard as it guides visitors to the porch steps. A huge pin oak stretches its branches across the left half of the yard; spring buds are just beginning to show. To the right of the sidewalk an unkempt lawn is green with weeds, and brown with bare spots of dirt. An antique drive way, two concrete strips along the right edge of the yard, parallels the sidewalk but extends to the back where a detached garage once sheltered a car. The house has a decent paint job, classic white, and real wooden shutters painted in green. Sheer drapes hang at each window, allowing passers-by to glimpse into the building. Childhood memories flash into my head; Aunt Alma lived in just such an old home.
From my vantage point I cannot see into the windows but I can watch the front door without the building's occupants seeing me. I am not sure I want to go inside the early American structure, the last of its kind on a block long ago cleared for development, but then abandoned to the homeless.
I watch a woman drive up in a gray Dodge Caravan, park across the street from the house, and quickly disappear through the front entrance. It is 10:05 AM. I crack my window for air, turn up the radio talk show, and keep watch in my mirrors for pan handlers. I counted four as I circled the block and I am pretty sure they will come. I lock my door and watch the minutes creep by as I think about the irony. I say that I want to help the homeless, but don't ask me to have contact with them.
At 10:13 a red Honda Civic appears in my mirror, hesitates for an instant, then pulls around and parks directly in front of my pickup. The driver, again a woman, emerges from her vehicle, and without looking back at me enters the old house. I try to imagine the crisis that brings each of them to Sophia's Center.
At 10:25 AM I see a ragged man walking along the curb towards my truck. I roll up the window, turn off the ignition switch, slide out of my seat, and lock the door all in one fluid motion. I walk swiftly to the front sidewalk and then take the porch steps two at a time. I hesitate a moment. Do I knock? I open the door and walk in.
"Please don't let that be the writing class." I glance into a sitting room on the left where the two women in crises form an encounter circle with two other women I had not seen enter the building; perhaps they are the resident counselors. I hope I haven't startled them.
On my right, just across from the circle, is the receptionist's office. I step into that room, clear my throat to get the attention of a lady who has her back to me, and declare loud enough for the crises circle to hear that I have arrived for the writing workshop. The receptionist, barely turning around, nods her head towards the sitting room.
"That's your group in there. Enjoy!"
Oh.My.God. I cross the hall as quickly as I can and slip into a chair by the door without looking at the faces of the four women sitting around the room. The leader of the Creative Writing Workshop, to my right, welcomes me and tells me that I am late. I look at her to protest (her email clearly said to be here at 10:30), but no words come out of my mouth. My eyes have locked onto a strange bundle across her abdomen. Suddenly realizing that she is nursing a baby, I avert my eyes and suppress my urge to leave immediately. I stare hard at my yellow note pad as if there are instructions for this situation written on the page. The other three women in the circle sit quietly, looking alternately at the floor and at the nursing mother while we wait for two more members to arrive. Only the sound of the apparent baby thoroughly enjoying its breakfast breaks our silence. I contemplate a discussion on the radio earlier this morning about an organization against mothers breast feeding in public. The group's spokesman maintained that the practice turns people into alcoholics, and gives them mother issues. Our workshop leader obviously missed that segment.
After what seemed to be an hour, but was likely only minutes, the late arrivals walk through the door, and just as I suspect, I see that they are also female. I am obviously out of place. What was I thinking when I registered for a writing class at a home for troubled women? The environment, the gender of the participants, and the circle all point to one obvious fact: this is an encounter group. The only thing missing is a box of Kleenex.
I don't do encounter groups. This is going to be a by-god.
The leader of the workshop starts talking as soon as the women sit down but I am not listening to her. I need an excuse to drop this class. I have started building my case.
The scripture study was humiliating. Sitting knee to knee in a circle of children's chairs, talking about how we were moved by the words in Mark's gospel. "I wasn't moved, sorry; can we talk about why the church casts people out after divorce? Yes, I read what Mark said about it. I guess we've 'moved' on to the next chapter, huh?" Don't bother calling me for the spring session because I won't be back. But thank the third graders for the use of their classroom.
The leader of the creative writing workshop has given us our first exercise. We are to write an introduction of ourselves. I suppose we'll have to read it out loud, too.
Compassionate Friends for Bereaved Parents was a life altering experience. Another church, another children's classroom. Donita drug me kicking and screaming to the first meeting. I had imagined it to be a twelve-step program. I lost a kid, for God's sake, I wasn't addicted to anything. If you have never been to one of these meetings, you cannot imagine the agony of listening to twenty couples talk about their dead children or the paradox of socializing over coffee and cookies afterwards. Some of the people at the meetings appeared to benefit from the group work, but so many just seemed to find more pain. They came in tears, carrying photos and poems, and they left in tears. Remembering is hell. I prefer to forget.
Now the leader of the creative writing workshop has us drawing our favorite place as a child. I've used similar exercises in training workshops. It's a great way to open up the creative mind. Ok, so she knows a trick or two.
Then there was Marriage Encounter. Ha! Divorce preparation would be a better title. Ok, so sometimes couples need to be pushed a little to talk about things. But, how could anyone believe that talking about your problems in front of others helps a marriage? If anything, it helped me get out of that marriage. I learned that every married couple has problems, but I also discovered that abusive relationships aren't normal. After a year of recounting our most secret thoughts for others, I found the exit door open and became a statistic.
The leader gives us our writing assignment for the week. Ninety minutes have flown by and the workshop has ended. I managed to hang on, and even participated in the exercises. There was no self-disclosure, and the box of Kleenex never appeared. I am impressed with the workshop leader's ability to listen intently to each word we read, and respond to the emotions we try to communicate. The women in the circle don't seem to care one way or another that I'm here. Each one is focused on her writing, and there is some real talent in the room. I could learn from these writers.
Considering my options, I walk through the door and down the broken sidewalk. I came here, against all inhibitions, because I really want to write. I don't want to give up so easily. I look at the house through my rear-view mirror as I drive away, and make myself promise to come back again next week.
The dead possum had been lying on the shoulder of Robins Street for over a month and had gradually flattened out to a gray, greasy oval a foot and a half wide and about an inch thick. Its texture was like thick jelly and you could almost feel the odor shimmering off of it in waves in the summer heat. The smell of decayed flesh was noticeable half a block away and was pretty much overwhelming when one drew up even with it. If you looked closely it seemed to slowly pulsate as the maggots moved about inside its perimeter. I had been wanting to investigate it more closely but Jess would keep a tight hold on my leash and rush me past it each time we came that way so I didn't get much of a chance.
But then early one morning, about 5 am, he let me out without my leash. He only does this when everyone's still asleep and the traffic hasn't started up because he's afraid I might get run over. He gave me my usual instructions, "Dolly, stay in the yard. Don't go out of the yard." As usual, I ignored this order and immediately took off to enjoy the freedom of being on my own. I explored the 2 yards to our left, and then I explored the 3 that lie to the right of our property. Then I crossed the street and explored the whole block.
And then I caught a whiff of the possum. And less that 20 seconds later I was lying on my back in the big middle of it, rolling from side to side, arching my spine, stretching back and forth, and doing my very best to soak up every drop of that rancid juice with my fur. I really don't know why I feel compelled to do things like that, but this had to be the most satisfying roll in a dead animal I had ever had.
After a while I heard Jess calling my name and decided it was time to go home. I figured he probably had breakfast waiting for me. His initial delight at seeing me lope into the yard was short-lived. He took one whiff as I came in the sliding glass door and immediately threw my breakfast outside. Naturally I followed the food. He came out a minute later with my leash and fastened me to a tree. Then he sprayed me with a bottle labeled Fabreeze. Then he went back inside. An hour later he came out again and brushed my fur thoroughly with a wire hairbrush. Then he sprayed me with Fabreeze again and went back inside. I could see him sitting at his computer and I whined and cried but he ignored me.
After a couple of hours he brushed me again. By this time my skin was becoming a little tender. He had a bottle of something called Lysol with him that smelled very strong and medicinal. He sprayed me with that and left again. I was getting hoarse from whining and my eyes watered from the Lysol smell. A day that had begun just splendidly was going very badly indeed by now. After a while he came back and sprayed me with a water hose. Then he dried me off with a towel and brushed me again.
I didn't see him again until almost dusk. He sniffed at me gingerly and told his brother that he thought it would be ok to let me back in the house. I was very happy to hear that but within a few minutes he had changed his mind and decided I needed more deodorizing. He tried to coax me into the shower but I wasn't the least bit comfortable with the idea of climbing over into the bathtub. He and I had quite a struggle there in that little room. After one of the sliding shower doors fell off he started yellin' and cussin', and he hollered for his brother to come help him. But he was so out of sorts by that time that he was talking ugly to everybody and his brother wouldn't come near him. When he accidently stepped in the commode and twisted his ankle trying to outwrestle me he gave up on the shower idea and decided to take me for a walk.
The first mile was familar territory and we made good time in spite of his limp. But then he turned left and started down a street we had not been on before. After another mile we came to something called a carwash. This was apparently our destination as he took me into one of the stalls and tied me to a metal post. Then he took a bunch of quarters out of his pocket and put several of them in a slot on the wall. I heard a thumping noise start up. He picked up some sort of metal pipe that had water coming out of it and started spraying me with it........hard. I dodged from side to side and tried to pull free but before I knew it I was completely soaked. My skin was tingling like crazy by the time he stopped. He reached over and turned a dial on the machine. The thumping stopped and he put the metal tube back in its holder. But then he picked up a blue-handled brush that had foam sputtering out of the end of it and started toward me with that. He looked very determined and really scary holding that contraption. I tried again to escape, but it weren't no use. He scrubbed me from head to toe with that brush and before you knew it I was covered with bluish-white foam. Backing away, he hung the brush back on its hanger and turned the dial on the machine again. I could hear the thumping noise start up as he grabbed the metal tube and pointed it at me. He sprayed me over and over until all the foam had been washed completely off . And then he bent over and sniffed my fur. Then he repeated the whole ordeal. After the second rinse he sniffed me again. He finally seemed satisfied with the result.
We walked back the same direction we had come. He stopped several times to sit down on the pavement and massage his ankle, which was about twice as big as it usually is. I took advantage of those pauses to shake my body vigorously and throw water all over him while he sat there on the curb, and I was pretty dry by the time we got home. He sniffed me one more time before he let me in the front door. I guess I finally passed inspection because he did go ahead and feed me some supper.
I can tell you right out that I was one tired dog that nite. I sure did enjoy rolling around in that dead possum but I can honestly say it wasn't worth all the trouble it brought me.
Jess kept ice on his ankle most of the evening and it looked almost normal the next morning. And he was walking a lot better than he had been the night before. He scratched me behind my ears and told me that I was still his best friend and that he understood about my compulsion to roll around in the dead possum. He said that he had felt compelled to roll around in a few rotten possums himself, metaphorically speaking, and that sometimes you didn't really anticipate the amount of stink you were creating until it was all over with. I didn't understand exactly what he meant but figured he was probably talking about some of his relationships with women that had ended badly.
Usually if I don't exactly understand what he is talking about it involves women. We heard on the TV that women are from Venus and men are from Mars. He says that might be true but one thing he knows for sure is that a bad relationship can knock you down on Uranus. I'm not sure I understand that statement either but I'm gonna' think about it a while longer.
I sink into the comfortable lounge chair on the open air porch of the rustic conference lodge. Mesmerized by the gray lens of the late April raindrops gently falling and rippling the surface of the small lake, the perimeter of the carefully manicured lawn stretches out in front of me and the lodge. My gaze quickly rests on a solitary duck swimming gracefully but with purpose and determination across the wide expanse of the lake. To my uneducated eyes, the species and gender of the duck are unknown and equally unimportant. I do make note that this unidentified duck is behaving in stark contrast to the flock of ducks which call Ferncliff their home. The stay at home bodies have deserted the water and moved onto the dry shore in the foreground of the veranda. This feathery gathering appears to be scrutinizing the grassy shoreline in search of edibles, mostly in the form of man-made bread crumbs strewn by their human visitors. However, the distant vision of the stray duck now in the middle of the lake in the midst of a cool, hazy, rainy springtime afternoon becomes the object of my intense scrutiny. I project a female identify upon her drab-colored, but powerfully streamlined and beautifully buoyant body. She continues paddling with her perfectly webbed feet until she appears to reach the innermost circle and deepest part of the camp lake. I am convinced that this is the place where the ducks now feeding on the familiar and safe shore do not have the vision or courage to go. In contrast, my bold and maverick female reminds me of a woman who is willing to make herself vulnerable to the elements of life, to take the risks necessary to explore the awesome wonder and the dazzling beauty of a new and uncharted waterscape. Gazing with envy at this nonconforming waterfowl, I catch a glimpse of myself moving with grace and decisiveness into the second half of my life while pondering how and where to find nourishment for the journey. Will I be as she, preparing to dive deep within the recesses of this unfamiliar territory in search of sustenance to propel her forward into a future full of hope, or will I cower in the safety of the shoreline living on the leftovers of what is now? I choose to forge ahead, committing myself to go deeper within to discover what will nourish me and give the second half of my life meaning and purpose. I resolve not to remain stuck as the ducks upon the dry shore feeding off the stale bread crumbs. As this lone and solitary duck has bravely chosen to strike out on her own, so too I desire and resolve to draw on my own inner resources to find my life-work in the second half of life and know that it is from God.
Now that I have Grandma merely in my memory, I visualize her only occasionally now. But I remember all the times we laughed together. Our sense of humors complemented each other perfectly, and we were always giggling about something.
I can still picture her steel gray hair which she had poofed and sprayed weekly at the beauty shop. Her favorite food was peanut butter and she often had a spoonful of it in her hand. She had a peculiar habit of taking out her false teeth occasionally just to look at them. Her favorite nickname for me was "Happy."
Every Sunday night, my young son Alex and I went to her tiny apartment for a visit. My Grandma would always be watching "Murder She Wrote" on the tv. One night, we decided to watch something different. We turned the channel to a beauty pageant and proceeded to do something I had never dared to do: We made fun of the contestants. We snickered at their hair-do's and their accents. We snorted at their outfits. We hooted at some of the talent performances---fiery batons and such. One girl even tripped on stage, propelling us into another fit of giggles. Alex lay asleep on the couch as we roared with laughter. He was accustomed to the sound of our mirth.
My Grandma was special that way----always doing things you didn't expect. This is probably what drew me to her.
The day she had a heart attack, she called me at work and whispered weakly, "Happy---help me---I don't know what to do." My heart was breaking as I called the ambulance and directed them to go and get my Grandma.
She didn't die that day, but about a year later passed away peacefully in her sleep at the age of 87.
