WHEN I GET TO HEAVEN

Martin Luther King, Jr., radical prophet and preacher, is one of the first people I want to meet. I will probably have to stand in line. He dared to have a dream for change in a never-ending storm. His God-given hope and direction called people to stand for right. 

In my earliest years, I do remember watching riots on the television and seeing dogs attacking people and water being used to subdue and disperse crowds.  These images were disturbing for a child.  One of the best gifts my parents gave me was a love for all people and a living example of The Golden Rule.

When Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot, I asked my mother what a negro was.  She told me that M. was a negro.  M. worked for my grandparents and I had known her all of my life.  “Oh, her skin is just  a different color.”  I was already being raised to judge a person by the content of their character.

Although it was not for good, I have been judged by the color of my skin.  Neither were pleasant experiences and both were desperate attempts to gain power.  One was to make sure I was white and the other was because I wasn’t black.  This was at a time of great racial tension in the education system, when integration and busing were struggles in every community.  I was living in a different state each time.

In this day and time, I think most people have been judged by the color of their skin.  Our country has a rainbow of colors.  A few years ago, my family toured The King Center in Atlanta.  For me, it was a reverent time, reminding me again of the importance of Dr. King’s message. 

I stood in line that day in Atlanta, waiting to sign a book of reflection.  A young African-American woman was in front of me, writing a few sentences.  She stepped away from the book. Imagine my shock when I looked down and read her racist comments.  I wrote a few words and came away, amazed that she didn’t get the message which was all around her.

But now, thinking about it, I should not be surprised.  So many things have not changed, especially in the South. 

Every Sunday morning, good Christian men tuck their shirts into their pants, held up by the Bible Belt of the South.  I have heard their ugly whisperings, directing their hate at an image on the television, judging a man by the color of his skin.  However, their judgments are made impotent by the lack of content in their character.  These same men and women lifting their praises to God on Sunday and  whispering their racist bitterness at lunch the next day.

Many years ago, a senator from Illinois came to town, stumping for a fellow politician.  My Daddy had been following the politics of this young man.  We sat on the steps of the Capital, at the foot of the casual podium, listening to this brief speech.  When you are close enough to hold eye contact with a man, in that brief second there is a bond of relationship.  My Daddy began the last year of his life watching this Barack Hussein Obama take the oath of office as President of the United States.  My father cried tears of joy.  He carried a New Testament in his briefcase and The Prayer of St. Francis in his wallet.  And Jesus in his heart.

Despite the progress made, the sky has never cleared completely, clouds linger low on the horizon. But hope is born everyday. The children are the answer. They do not describe or define a friend, teacher or a man walking down the street as black, white, Mexican. 

Love is the answer today just as it was fifty years ago.   And every day is an opportunity to act on the dream where all are created equal.

Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen

CHRISTMAS BREAK: MEMORY OF A DAN FAN

Daniel Grayling Fogelberg    August 13, 1951 - December 16, 2007

After taking off from ATL, I waited until the okay was issued for electronic devices. I have my doubts as to why an IPOD would be detrimental to the computers flying the plane, but since my flying faith rests in the computer systems and the hands of the pilots, I would stand on my head the entire flight if such a request were made to ensure safety 37,000 feet up into the heavens. And I do get by with a little help from my flying angels.

Adjusting my ear buds, I pulled the shade down and settled off to sleep listening to a classical piano track. When I pulled up the shade, I found I had dozed all the way to NYC. I am simple. Seeing the city always excites me. Or just seeing a sign on the highway pointing to the city. I've only visited once, too long ago, but it was love at first sight. 

The autumn sun was shining on Manhattan and Central Park.  I smiled to think of all the lives being lived as I flew over, reminding me of my post. The plane's route hugged the eastern seaboard until about Boston. It looked as if a narrow white pencil had been used to outline where the sea touched the land. We were still too high to distinguish more than what was already perceived as a building or small blips in the water that had to be ships. 

The plane edged out over the Atlantic, heading towards Maine but still in easy sight of the coastline. As the plane descended, the faint white lines begin to show movement. A few scattered islands begin to appear out from the land as if rocks had been skipped out from the beach, glancing the water eight or nine times before sinking into the water, done over and over by a meticulous hand in another time  In descent, lighthouses began to be visible on top of the tiny islands and the white wash of waves grew broader against the gray stones.

Sun on the water revealed the rhythm of uncapped waves floating at the surface, rolling slowly towards the land like a blue lined page of paper but with broken places. A darker, silvery blue color of water, currents, skimmed below in a second layer, in various widths like veins traveling across the first legs of the seafaring journey, rivulets of rain following a random path down a cobalt mirror or tatted threads being pulled out to sea while the currents shuttle weave in pattern.
The gold of the sun.  The silvery blue.  The shimmer of the shine.   

My music man had already captured the moment. The line came to mind. From the air or from his sailboat, he had seen the magic in this water. Now the wonder of those same Maine waters had caught my breath and my vision blurred. For a few seconds, everything in my being rejoiced and worshipped, perfectly.

"On a high and windy island I was gazing out to sea
When a long forgotten feeling came and took control of me
It was then the clouds burst open and the sun came pouring through
When it hit those dancing waters in an instant all eternity I knew ."
Dan Fogelberg, Magic Every Moment from River of Souls  1993
****
All those years ago, the very first notes of his music captured my heart.  For something different, check out his Christmas Album on YouTube, The First Christmas Morning. 
          

This is my Dan Fogelberg homage on the bulletin board by my desk.  That is me on a long ago Christmas morning, holding my first album, his second release, Souvenirs.  I'm listening on my new Sony headphones.

TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY

A highchair. Boxes for wrapping. Marshmallows and crushed pineapple. Wheat, rice, corn cereal. A special Santa box for someone special. Cranberries. Tylenol. Chocolate bark. Just a sample of the beginning of our Christmas shopping.

The neighborhood was quiet at 7:30 p.m. on a Friday night eleven days before Christmas. Where was the party traffic? I guess everyone was home wrapping presents and making Chex Mix.

The trees are standing, rounded in lights, ornaments caught up on tips and needles. Big, fluffed bows decorate papered boxes and tissue spills from glittered bags. Christmas movies make merry mirth and highlight the happy family faces. A tiny bell jingles.

In another home, a woman stares at the television and wonders if that medicine could help. Even thinking about preparing a box of stuffing is beyond the fog of her depression. She struggles to stay awake during Wheel of Fortune and then says goodnight, feeling guilty for absence. She settles to sleep with wordless prayers. Hoping the morning will look different.

An institution surrounded by tall, steel fences, sits quietly beneath security cameras and lights. People abandoned by families. Hopeless illness resistant to medicine or therapy. Another department full of patients deserted in twisted minds and insane crimes. Christmas cards will be handed out tomorrow and new socks. Five dollars for chips and cokes. For a few minutes, each will have a reason to reach out in hope.

A flood of memories in the middle of a busy day. Weighted shoulders. Cloudy day. The best dog died two years ago three days before Christmas. Years ago just before Christmas, an afternoon spent with my Daddy, heavy hearted with the depression of crippling illness, trying to coax a smile and settle a brow with words of encouragement and hope. A realization of  his outlook. But his everholding hope.

Returning home to the news of the death of my lifelong Music Man - never known but always loved. Playing his music through tears for both my loves.  Two years later, losing my father barely into the new year.

Everyone wants a table full of games and sledding down the hill with laughing children. Fighting over dinner rolls and soft candles on the mantel. Who can understand the lack of energy to enjoy friends or the debilitating physical pain living in the shame of depression. This is the best, happiest time of the year.

Lean in and whisper hope. We are Jesus to the hurting. Shine glory. Proclaim hope.

A STONE PUZZLE

The tie rack fell from the sky this morning. Evidently, a bolt popped after a million trips around the track of tie fashion, the cogwheel of morning preparation which delivered a silk display of the top note to the best-dressed man living in this house. With a back and forth switch, decisions could be changed in an instant.

I promise you trouble is getting ready to walk through the back door and into the room where the ties are draped in groupings. He loves his ties. True to form, his reaction will be instant. The garage door has gone up. And I hear him, now on the back stairs, opening the door.

No, he has changed his mind and is surveying the opened garage flooded with sunlight which is falling on the six bags of cement he intends to use up this weekend. The five hundred pounds of flagstone, which he transported last weekend in the back of my car, are neatly stacked in the backyard. Even a sheet couldn't protect my black trunk from tiny pieces of rock and dirt scuffs. I will say this. When he arrived home that afternoon, he didn't stop lifting rocks out of the car and into his blue wheelbarrow, rock by rock, pushing the heavy load around the corner and down the steep side of the house until the car was emptied. This is the point where I try not to hover but ask him, gently, "Does your heart hurt?" It is a smiling joke with us now. But there was one time when a similar stack of stone literally saved his life, most likely.

The older they get the less they want to take anyone's good advice. If I meekly tried to suggest that maybe building a rock wall with an accompanying flagstone walk, while a lovely gesture he could surely accomplish, was possibly out of his changed skill set, he would have to prove me wrong and right to himself. And he did, in less than a year because of winter. And his heart didn't hurt. He's known blessings in the middle of rock hard. As his fortune cookie said, many years ago, You have a strong will and iron constitution.

He has mixed concrete in the blazing sun until he announced he would wait until the sun had headed on the west side of the pine trees. That just gave him more time, while hunched over in the driveway, still in the blazing sun, to fashion the pieces from Sharpie marked stone as his leather gloved hands danced around the electric saw rattling the wife's nerves. In the summer heat. He had plenty of time to play with the idea of a purposeful, beautiful walk leading guests to the front door, leaving behind the scorn of rainy days and ice on a slip of land that wouldn't grow dirt.

When begged numerous times, he would finally sit in a metal chair and agree to water and Coca Cola. But he wouldn't let me turn the hose on him. That made too much sense. But I came out regularly with water and cold bandanas. I begged him to eat and asked the question, occasionally.

The week of college graduation of one and only and one month before the wedding of same. I have kept but have not found the ticket from the stone shop we had visited a couple of days earlier. We picked a pallet and the rocks were loaded into the car. The pinch, the discomfort. Not much mention. Really. Just rocks to place a path I wanted for the backyard going to the playhouse.

Is it a miracle when something which could have killed you saves you? Before moving the stone, only excitement over the upcoming occasions. But no clue of the terrible secret sneaking up on you. Until you move the stone.

And that is why I ask the question all of these years later, after an eventful few days of the miracle of modern medicine and a stainless steel piece of art tying it all back together and the best color in his cheeks beaming as he dances with his beloved wedded daughter.

He goes back to what he likes best. Building. Even with cement and heavy stones. Can't stop him.  He will walk into Home Depot with the disintegrating straw hat held together with sweat and powdered stone, dirt covered baggy shorts, his favorite tie-dyed tee, the bandana and his knee pads and ground down topsiders along with a friend just stepped out of the garden in his overhauls bringing me the best tomato of the summer. Purchase to make.

Now he is home from work. Yellows and blues and paisley greens and dots and stripes are laid out - too short, too narrow, too wide, spots and picks. When the tie spinner fails it's a good time to check inventory. The reaction was almost as I expected. But glory, the tie turner has been saved. Alas, not all of the ties will spin again.

He is more lost in his thoughts of what work he can get done by sundown of this late autumn afternoon. The time change has tinkered with his inner clock. He knows every rock by number, mapped out in his head, the beginning of a patio. And because it has already snowed once this month, winter will break in and halt the production. By spring, after rain, he will be leveling the land, planting stones and stirring cement with his hoe. Breaking in new Christmas leather gloves, hunched in the driveway cutting rocks into the shape he needs. Always figuring out the puzzle to work the best fit.

I'M REALLY NOT TROUBLE

A teaspoon of whiskey from every bar in town.  

That’s not what I said, although the reaction has been the same as if…What I said was “I want to eat my way down the Midway.” I do not want to toss corny dog trailers and fried butter vendors into the air. I do not care to spin all the cotton candy, green, pink, and blue, into one sugary ball and roll it past a goldfish in a bowl that will be won and carried home, named Elvis and live for one year. I wouldn’t dare throw up smoked turkey legs pretending to juggle- though be advised, if you decide to ride, their greasy effect is not subtle. I do feel crazy when diners are too lazy, squirting mustard and ketchup from big jars of condiments all over fries and corny dogs, letting it drip and mix,  – just too icky. Please clean it up quickly. 

Don’t blame the hot dog rolling on a stainless log or the “fresh” corn bobbing in a watery bog. Shirts and shoes required for service. I won’t pull the plug at Steak on a Stick but at another fair it made me sick.   It’s just a Middle- Eastern kabob grilled for the mobs. Fresh kettle corn!? I’ll fight for the first bunch of that buttery, warm, sugary, salty, crunch. Fried twinkies and snicker bars won’t earn my attention. 

But I’m headed for detention when I unhook the little cart frying funnel cakes. Will I make it through the gates? I did not plan for this sudden escape. And someone thought I would be trouble. All I wanted was to take a walk down the Midway, have a bite of this and that and watch other people do the same. Could it be the powdered sugar on my hands and face? Funnel cake larceny has gotten the best of me. I won’t give them my real name. What will a respectable woman do?

signed,

a woman who is not trouble as long as she gets a funnel cake and a Corny Dog

RAPSCALLION SQUIRRELS FLINGING ACORNS

 I was sitting in my neighbor's driveway, putting together a surprise goody box for her 94th birthday. Big crash. Like glass crash. I grabbed the goods and jumped out of my new car expecting to see a huge crack in my windshield. Two chunks of a huge split hickory shell were lying in the wipers grill. I couldn't see the guilty party but I did feel the force behind the pitch was aimed at my car.

That time of year again.  I woke up this morning and realized today was the day, the primary day of acorn flinging, Drop Day. Elephants running across our roof.

We do not have tickets to the World Series.  At this late date, all the baseball uniforms of every team are at the cleaners.  So who is running bases on my roof?

It is that time of year again, the Squirrel World Series.  Day barely breaks before they are playing with acorns as big as crabapples.  And they can’t catch!  If I sneak out on the deck, I can hear the fans singing “Take Me Out to the Taylor Tree,” smell the popacorn and hear little bitty cans of Nut Beer popping open, all before 7 a.m.! Bases are loaded.

Drop Day is a big deal at my house.  We have oak and hickory trees circling the house.  But this year we are experiencing Drop Week.  The acorns are so big everyone knows someone who has either been hit in the head or broken a bone falling over an acrimonious nut.  The dog has had his legs crossed for days. 

What is the purpose of the squirrel?  Maybe their purpose is to drive the meek mad. Friend or foe, ask a person not what they hate or love, but what drives them crazy.  A whole industry has developed to thwart the endeavors of these birdseed thieves.  My father had a little chair for the squirrel to sit on and eat corn, thinking it would distract the cute rodent.  They just got fatter. 

They keep their teeth sharp by chiseling deck rails.  We have especially talented squirrels that leaned out over the roof edge, devouring a shoebox size piece of soffit.  We covered the opening with mesh wire stuffed with steel wool pads, about the only thing they can’t get their teeth into!

 The antics of the squirrel are so amusing we forget they are just rodents in the tree of life.  Recently, we watched a squirrel climb into the BBQ grill.  He thought he had found a secret paradise, his twitchy tail still hung out the back.  Later, we looked in the grill and found a half-eaten acorn.  I left two fat ones as a gift.

 Do you know why you never see a squirrel kid?  They can’t run with nuts in their mouth and aren’t long or fast enough to keep up with Mama.  What makes a squirrel change direction in the middle of the street?  Count the times you’ve zigged for his zag.  Come to think of it, have you ever seen a squirrel lying dead from an inaccurate leap?  No.  A Secret Squirrel Society gathers up the errant Wallenda to perpetuate the myth of the flying squirrel. 

 Despite the negative, there are good things about Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel.  They are thorough and tireless when building a nest high in the treetops.  Think of the courage required to jump out a distance five times your length or the confidence required to zip along branches and electrical wires.  Despite my frustration with them, I am drawn to their secret treetop world, only imagining the thrill of flying through the air and maneuvering their hickory mazes and oak bowers. 




A yearly reminder of the revival of the love affair with Fall. One of my most requested posts for reading at Fall Festivals such as The Really Good Cornbread Festival and The Strangest Pumpkin Pie Spice Soups and Sauces Carnival.

HELLO WORLD, I AM HERE!

This is the deal. Please hear me out a moment. I thought Blogger was broken. Or at the very least the view counter.

In five years of writing my blog, Randomonium, I had reached a new record low. Not even the very beginning posts were so poorly received.

This was truly a blow. I went from hundreds of views last month and now to this, ten.

And then someone told me, "Mother, it's the weird doll picture."

The story hasn't changed but the doll picture is gone.

This is a refreshing, sweet story about a little babyboy saying hello world. Here I am!



The deck has been questionable for some time. Deterioration has detoured any deliberate activity besides laying clothes out to dry in the sun, draped on old deck chairs or the occasional grilled burger. No wobbly feeling but still, loosened, ailing railings could look detrimental for the resident architect who had no part in the original construction.

The contractors bring their trailer for hauling the old wood to the dump. And anything else. I scurry under the house. In one area, there is room enough for a much discussed tornado shelter with access from the deck stairs. But maybe not enough time to spare when running for your life in the middle of the night down the stairs, trying to put on your tennis shoes and not drop your cell phone.

Even though the entry has a small door, it is still necessary to scrunch over halfway and put one foot inside. The land of rock is covered in Visqueen. The thick plastic covers small rocks littering the hard ground, probably byproducts of the 1978 origin. With a small footprint, my every step crunches trying to find secure footing. Standing upright makes my knees weak because I have fallen before, knees first.It is dry and musty and a little humid. But always cooler. Thankfully, I have only heard the naked grasshoppers jumping a few times. No other wildlife. But it is spooky. Even the dog doesn't enter with a casual "I'll run ahead of you!" Good light comes in for about three feet and then fades like walking into a cave. I always bring a flashlight. Boulders as big as cars amaze me. So they say, millions of years. A house built on rock.

I run ahead of Burt, determined to pitch out everything left under the house. But there is not much left. Two old, zippered garment bags. Baskets, from the basket error of decor, hanging on nails. Burt carries out a large, cumbersome television stand once admired for its plastic strength and its modern wood styling - found under our first house. Still serviceable, I'm sure there is a millennial somewhere who would pick it up off the curb, this mid-century relic. Without a remote or cable reception, the matching television would require two millennials to carry it anywhere. Gone are the days when seemingly every Coke, Pizza and bathroom break were measured by Flip and Telly.  Goldie, Lucy, Matt and Kitty. Mary, Marsha, Bob and Carol. Little Joe. Colombo. JJ, JR and John Boy. Sixty seconds. Five-O. Twilight. And Ed.

Two large covered bins are sitting on the Visqueen, out of the light. Treasure or Trash? Imagine my surprise to see my handwritten label on the top of each box. I must have been in a highly organized state.

I have been a very, very good mother for thirty-one years. But I am not the mother who has saved every piece of paper just because my child pushed a pencil across it. Which is good, considering I have sentimental issues regarding my great-grandparents letters and diaries. I am the depository for my families.

The first box was full of elementary type items. The pencil thin annuals. A few handmade items. A stash of favorite books. A gallon size bag of every McDonald Happy Meal Toy which would make us rich someday. Gonzo paddle boat. 1985. Bouncing Mario. 1989. Monsters Inc. Door. The best find is the handful of papers my child pushed a pencil across - early hand drawn portraits of our family - her "Pre-Knee" Period.

The second box was full of dolls. Cate loved dolls, stuffed, plastic, homemade. She would name anything with two eyes. On our way to get a puppy at The Humane Society, she exclaimed, "Pepper for a boy. Penny for a girl." The second smallest pup, available that day, became our seventy pound mutt, Pepper.

And she would remember their names, every single doll and stuffed animal. After she started school, she began teaching those babies, lining them up around her room in chairs, on tables, on the bed. Then she would make a list complete with lines and check marks. She was a firm teacher. I loved to walk by the room and see her telling them what she was learning. "Now Babies," with a good pointy finger, calling the roll.   She was exacting. Still is.

I didn't remember putting these dolls away. Now I was faced with a box full of scrungy baby dolls. As I put them on the den floor, looking at their dirty faces, crooked eyes and crumpled clothing, I realized I was mucking about in mold. I put them on the chair for a quick pic. Poor Miss Madame Alexander was already on life support by the kitchen sink. A couple of these looked like they were auditioning for Children of the Corn. Creepy.

There was no choice. They either got better or it was the trash. But I knew all the names and I had memories with each one. The little brown bear was in the crib from the beginning. The first little doll always tight fisted but sturdy. One of the family favorites, Baby Catherine. Second Christmas. Half as big as my little doll. Super shiny doll hair. Baby Catherine went everywhere but church. Sometimes she traveled in arms but most of the time she went by the top of her hair, held by the hand of a two year old. In short order, her locks twisted and twisted, giving her a new name, Whoopie Catherine.

These dolls lived with all of us. On the couch, stuck in the chair, sitting on the back steps, under the covers at the foot of the bed, under the dresser, missing in the closet. They shared clothing without complaining and took turns in the Wizard of Oz stroller. They studied around a table with four chairs and squeezed into a vintage high chair. For afternoon naps, they reclined on a lovely wicker chaise lounge. At bedtime, they piled into a doll bed resplendent with eyelet bedding. And a couple of the dolls fell asleep on soft pillows, just inches from the sleeping princess.

Black and white. Brunette and blonde. Sleepy eyes. Green, blue and brown. Floppy crochet, plastic tummy, fabric body, eyelashes and painted cheeks. And open arms.

I had to give it a try. I put them in the washing machine, poured in Tide and punched the button of no return, here's a chance and we shall see. Hot water.

They all survived. Remarkably well. I became terribly distracted and had to leave town rather suddenly. But I put them in a bag on a box (of which there are several) in the garage.

We jumped in the car after loading the much anticipated suitcases, hanging clothes, pillows, snacks, chargers, unopened presents, umbrellas, computers, large opened boxed presents. We were to the brim.

We tried to drive all night but even when traffic is light, on the much travelled interstate, the body wants to rest although the mind could keep going from excitement.

When Mc Donald's has turned off their lights, you know it is the middle of the night. It was after 1:00 a.m. when we pulled off of the highway and into the brightest gas station that looked open. That is the main detriment to all night travel. Everything closes.

Watching Grandad pump gas, I stood and looked up at the moon and was overcome knowing this would be your day. There was a beautiful moon greeting, beaming down on yours who were waiting.

An hour later, when I put my head to the pillow I wondered how I would sleep, dreaming of holding you, now just hours away.

Too few hours later, we headed down a new road, floating. And waiting for the hundreds of miles in front to zoom forward like the little guy on Google maps. But we seemed to inch along in our ebullient anticipation of the moment. A phone call here and there and then great silence.

At another gas station, inside, milling around with people stopping to refresh or buy a Diet Dr. Pepper and Coke, maybe a slice of pizza. In this most unceremonious location, we welcomed you with teary eyes and snotty noses, touching the screen without thinking but hoping, in the middle of people with debit cards and Little Debbie's and roller hot dogs on buns,  you were the center of the universe - the place where our world would forever change.

And the next few hours seemed faster but still not fast enough. Down the road, but not there yet, we stopped and changed into our baby boy blue clothes to help us join the party. Outfits purchased and held out just for the occasion. Actually, your Mamie had eight but who is counting?

As we drive into the city of your birth, I marvel to think this will be your start. Crossing the bridge, down below, the rapids of the Potomac seem to jump higher. Waiting again, for another light to change, a nearby tree seems patched in foils of olive, tan and grey. I want to jump out of the car and say, He is here! But I know that would be very embarrassing for several people and this is really not the spot.

Another light but at least we can see the destination. A million years in every corner of a parking garage. We don't run through the shining lobby because we are grandparents now. Restraint is hard.

We stand at a locked door with a black eye looking down on us. Please let us pass. Finally, after all the days since mid October and a couple of inside peeks at you, we open the door.

And it is not what you could imagine because it is better and it is nothing you have ever experienced. Two people you love dearly lift up the corner of a blanket .

Six days new, wondering about your Mamie!