Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 22

Friday, July 13th

based on the Las Cruces Farmer’s Market

The Market

There was a swarm of people at the market, especially for such an early morning hour. It was hard maneuvering through the crowd, difficult to see the booths, impossible to purchase items. There were a few booths selling fresh fruits and vegetables, one or two selling herbs, and one selling fresh baked bread. But the majority of the booths were handmade crafts items, jewelry and paintings, photography and woodcarving, as well as sculptures and clothing. The most eye catching item in the whole of the market was the young senorita at the SPCA booth; she was with the cats and dogs brought for adoption. Tall, lithe, with the biggest darkest eyes I have ever seen. Her deep dark hair braided loosely down to the middle of her back. I was smitten the moment I laid eyes on her. Granted, she was in her early twenties and I was pushing sixty but the desire was overwhelming. I wandered between the dogs and cats, casually looking at each critter that was in all of the cages. Most of the dogs were quite loud, barking frantically at the owned dogs that passed by the cages. A few were quiet; one was so timid that it pained me to watch the thing. The senorita approached the cage, and me. She looked down at the little tan dog that was visibly shaking, looking down at it with those deep dark eyes and the little dog looking up at her with eyes just as large and dark. “Would you like to see this little girl?” Her voice was soft and gentle but not timid or weak. There was strength in her voice that seemed not to fit her small frame. “Sir,” she questioned. I looked at her full in the face. “Can you tell me more…” I started to say ‘about yourself’ but caught myself, “…about her, yes?” Her face transformed, sorrow filled her eyes. She told me what they knew of her, her rough little life, and how a special home can turn around the life of this little girl. “Yours?” She bent to pick up the little tan dog. I stammered. “My what?” She held the dog in her arms, stroking it absent-mindedly. “Your home?” She held the dog out to me. It visibly shrank from me and tried to crawl deeper into her arms. “Would your home be a good fit for this little guy?” I looked from the dog back into her face. She flashed a big smile that exposed perfectly straight pearly white teeth. She placed the dog into my hands before I had time to object. I looked away from the young senorita to the pup in my arms. I could feel its shaking body lean into my chest. I looked into his eyes, as big and dark as the senorita standing before me. It almost seemed as if tears were rolling away from its eyes. I looked at the young senorita, at her smile, into her eyes, and realized that I was absent-mindedly stroking the dog in my arms. She looked down at the dog, her smile enlarging and her face beaming. I looked into her eyes, the deepest and darkest eyes I have ever seen; embarrassed I looked quickly into the face of the puppy, into the deepest and darkest eyes I have ever seen. I smiled and looked back up at the senorita. “My home,” I finally said, “It is a very special home.” She ducked her chin and giggled, blushing deeply. I smiled warmly at her youthful innocence. She turned from me, speaking of the paper work that would need to be filled out and the cost of adoption. I followed, nodding and inserting an occasional ‘uh huh’ and ‘ok’. She chattered smoothly and rapidly. The paperwork complete, the dog in hand, I turned from the SPCA booth, the senorita, and the Market. I looked down at the pup that remained pressed against my chest, my brown eyed girl. I decided right then upon her name, Van.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 21

Thursday, July 12^th

based on a conversation with my Aunt Roberta

Third Time Around

               

They met at the small Baptist church in Fairacres. Both just lost their spouses. She lost her husband of 40+ years to cancer. He spent the last 10 years caring for his wife who had developed Alzheimer’s. They had both been married before that. Both had grown children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren even. He also had step-children. Between the two of them there were eight children, all grown, the youngest in her late thirties. She was nearly eighty-years old. He was already past that by a couple of years. He made her feel beautiful. She made him feel young. The rumors flew around the family; rumors of a new boyfriend, of a new girlfriend, rumors of love that brought them both happiness and security. They were cute together. Her children embraced him and called him Dad. His lived out of the area but gave him their blessings. The wedding was three months later.

They made plans to travel. She owned an RV and they were both excited. They moved the bulk of his stuff into her house and rented a storage room for the remainder. The home instantly became crowded; it looked as if she had been a hoarder. One room was impassible. The garage had a small winding path from the door to the washing machine and dryer but there was no walking through the remaining space that was floor to ceiling with boxes and bags and things. He intended to sell some of his things on Ebay. She tried to sell her very old Avon on Ebay but there wasn’t even a nibble. If the little things won’t sell on Ebay, there is no way the big items will sell, she thought. Craigslist is the way to go he decided. But before he could place the first Craigslist ad he suffered a massive heart attack. He went into the hospital, the team determined that his heart was severely damaged and they used a pacemaker/defibulator to keep his heart functioning. He was placed on oxygen. But he survived it. Three months after they had married, they made their first trip to visit his children. It was a long exhausting drive and they both knew that they wouldn’t be able to travel in the RV again. Christmas came and went and they remained happy together.

Two months later he returned to the hospital, pneumonia. He was weakened because of the heart condition. She fell and broke her hip. He asked to remain in the hospital for an extra week while she was in the hospital recovering from the hip replacement. He needed to; he wasn’t ready to go home, especially when there would be no one at home with him. They left the hospital together. Three weeks later, after a particularly difficult phone call from his youngest daughter, he suffered another massive heart attack. There was no saving him this time. She attended his funeral using her walker, her children by her side and his children, those that were able to make it, supporting her from a distance.

Four months later I sat in her living room. I asked her if she knew he had a weak heart when she met him. She did. She is, after all, a nurse. Her eyes filled with tears. I really loved him, she told me. I knew that. My Uncle, her second husband, scared her, she was never really happy while married to him. And while I had only met her latest husband briefly, at the surprise 75^th birthday party for my own father, she smiled more that day than I ever remembered her smiling while married to my Uncle. She glowed. Now, while she still seemed strong, there was brokenness. She blames his youngest daughter who seemed always to bring stress into his life. But she also realizes that is unrealistic. He was already damaged before she came into his life. The stress he undertook caring for his previous wife was too much for his heart to bear. It was a matter of time and she knew that when they met. His heart was a ticking time bomb and while she knew that it would eventually explode, she had hoped for more time with him.

For now, she continues to work in the hospital. She has finally been cleared to return to the floor, her hip finally strong enough to endure twelve hour shifts caring for patients on the floor. She just turned eighty. She walks through the house, pointing out things that she needs to get rid of, unsure of how to go about it. A ghost, I think, wandering the rooms of her castle. Maybe I should sell this place, she wonders out loud. No, you’ve been here for more than forty-five years. You’ve laid down roots for your kids and grandkids. I am reminiscent as I follow her around the home. This room I shared with my favourite cousin on Saturday nights so I could attend church with them. This room housed my Uncle’s mother in her last years of life. The garage we held a séance in. And the backyard, unchanged over the years, in which my cousins and I played with the four puppies. The memories gave me a sense of security, of home. My own family had move three times, my own grandparents sold their family home and moved into a trailer. This was the only home from my childhood that still is as it was. It was familiar, even in the hoarded crowdedness. She then said that her kids and grandkids seldom come around any longer. I looked at her, truly looked at her. My Aunt, the oldest sister of my father who looked remarkably like my Grandmother, looked rueful and I felt so saddened. At eighty, I think, her kids should be visiting her at her home. Her kids should be bringing the grandkids and great-grandkids around to the house. Do they make her go to them? I wished, right at that moment, that I didn’t live 2,400 miles away from here. At eighty, my Aunt needed to be cared for and nurtured. She had hoped for that when she married just 14 months ago. I hope she finds that again. We are communal creatures, created to be with others. I hope that my Aunt doesn’t become reclusive and lost in this sea of stuff that surrounds her. I hope that she finds another to spend her days with, and maybe even her nights. At eighty who has the right to condemn her for that?       

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 20
Wednesday, July 11th
based on an experience at lunch


An Idiot!?

       "What are you doing kiddo?" "Putting on my new shirt." "Out here," questioned her brother as he looked around. They were sitting at an outdoor table of a small cafe downtown. She looked at her brother and rolled her eyes. "I have a this on underneath," she said as she lifted her t-shirt and exposed a tank top. "Oh" he sheepishly replied. She slipped off the red and white striped tee and put on the white flouncy blouse. The food arrived at their table and they all began eating.

     "Mom, I need the straps tightened." "Your brother can do it," said her father. "It has special brackets," she replied matter-of-factly. "Mom knows how to do it." Her brother looked at the straps. "Do you think I'm an idiot?!" Their parents burst into a loud raucous laughter at his outburst. "These are exactly like my book bag straps," he continued. She smiled at her brother. "Of course I know how to adjust those," he finished. All four of them were laughing quite loudly now. "I didn't know," she said after a bit of time. They finished their lunch and stood. "Mom...," she said pointing to her straps. Her mother adjusted first one and then the other as her brother rolled his eyes at her and walked away, he and their father laughing anew.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 19
Tuesday, July 10th
based on a river experience in


Heart

     She saw it off shore just a bit, nestled between two boulders-the heart shaped rock. She knew the river water would be cold but she just had to have that rock. So, off went her flip flops and into the water she gingerly stepped. She drew a sharp breath..."It's cold!" Her family on shore just laughed and shouted back, "We told you!" she edged deeper into the water and the current. There it was, the prized heart-shaped rock. She picked it up and shouted over the rapids near her, "Can I keep it?" "Sure" replied her Aunt. "I found one three times that size that is in my yard." "Yay." She walked closer to the shore and tossed the rock. Her Aunt picked it up. "This has quite a large amount of quartz in it," she said. "So I can't keep it?" "Oh of course you can take it. Just watch out for Linda, my neighbor three doors down. She thinks every heart shaped rock in the creek belong to her."

     Climbing out of the water, she put her flip flops back on, took her rock, and headed ack to her Aunt's home. 'What a treasure,' she thought. 'A Colorado keepsake that didn't cost me a thing.'

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 18

Monday, July 9^th

based on the drive on I-80

Change of Scenery

Rolling along the interstate from Missouri and through Nebraska was pretty, oddly not at all what I thought it would be like. Yes Nebraska was flat but there were trees everywhere and the interstate followed the path of the North Platte River. There were little towns off the interstate about every ten to twelve miles. Guess that must have been the distance that the pioneer wagons could travel in one day. Oddly, there were very little services off the interstate exits and once I thought I would nearly run out of gas before finding a town off the interstate that did have gas. These places are small, most with less than two-thousand in population.

After I-80 split from I-70 I found the scenery to be abruptly different. It was extremely odd. The green grasses gave way to browns. The corn fields to grain fields. The trees were sparse, mostly only in the cities off in the distances. And hills and bluffs began sprouting up in the landscape. This was very similar to the high desert of New Mexico and not at all like the bread basket of eastern Nebraska and Missouri and Kansas. It amazes me, landscape I mean. I’m a professional artist by trade and I love to paint landscapes.

I began to drift and realized I needed a break, Cheyenne was still quite a distance off my nose. I also decided that a gas stop would be a good idea. I began looking for exit signs that also reflected gas stations. Finally I found one and headed into a very small town, population 545. Passing the high school, the one church, and quite a few houses I finally found the gas station that was also an auto garage and small convenience store. Gas was cheap enough. I wondered where the folks here went to get basic household supplies and food though since this little shop had nothing like that. I thanked the lady for my soda and bag of chips and then decided to take a quick spin through the town.

About thirty homes or so, most of them mobile homes, the school, the church, right at the train tracks were grain silos and equipment for pouring the grain into train cars for transport across the United States. No movie theater, no bowling alley, no skating rink. Wow, what do these kids do to entertain themselves? I am a city girl, born and raised, with rows of houses stacked upon each other so tight that you could smell the cigar wafting through your neighbor’s window. This, this is absolutely foreign to me.

I contemplated the rural life as I left the small town in my rear view mirror and headed back upon the interstate towards Cheyenne. Then the though struck me. All my life I have painted the city skylines that I have grown up in. I pulled off the interstate again, drove right into the next town that I came across and pulled out my easel and paints. This, this was the purpose of the westward trip; to capture the rural life through the eyes of an urbanite. I set up and began to paint the few structures, the minimal trees, and the vastness of the highlands prairie that stretched before me. It would kill my schedule but right at this moment I didn’t care. Schedules are a thing of the city and this, this is the country. Toss the schedule aside and just be.  

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 17

Sunday, July 8t^h

Based on the tram at the St. Louis Arch

Claustrophobic

The car was small, very small. 5 adults were supposed to be able to fit inside but if the real tram cars were anything like this 1960’s replica then this was going to be a really tight fit for the four of them. Violet began to feel small sweat beads forming along her spine. She wasn’t too sure she was going to be able to do this. And the other three that were with her were notorious for horseplay. Violet was genuinely worried.

Clark walked up with the four tickets. “We have the 11:05 cue on the southbound,” he said. Norrie looked at her watch, “Let’s walk the museum for an hour then.” The four headed over to the frontier museum. It was really quite impressive as it showcased the Lewis and Clarke expedition and the westward expansion. There were even taxidermed beavers, a lank bull, a bison, and a horse that smelled like a living, sweaty horse eating the grasses of the plains.

At 10:45 they headed for the restrooms, since there were none at the top of the 162 meter structure. Finally the announcement came for the 11:05 tram and they went through the turnstile and down to a cue line that awaited the next set of eight tram cars to arrive. There they watched a brief film and heard about the historical building of the St. Louis Arch and the ingenuity of the tram cars that would keep the passengers upright while the base of the car turned and shifted along a track that rose up to the top of the arch. Violet felt the beads of sweat on her spine again as she heard the interpreter explain that these are the original cars, only the mechanisms have been updated throughout the years.

The door opened and Violet entered, having to duck to fit through the door. She took the fifth seat which was squarely in the center of the back of the car. No windows. Swell. Norrie came in next and sat next to Violet. Then Clarke who sat on the other side of Violet and finally Rick, who pulled out his camera to take a picture of the four of them in the car. He sat on the floor right in front of Violet momentarily to get the picture but just as he was about to snap the picture the door of the car closed and his camera was yanked from his hand and landed on the floor. Clarke and Norrie broke out in laughter as Rick exclaimed, “My camera!” Violet sat quiet, on her hands, tense. He head was at the top of the car and she was merely five foot four inches tall. Clarke and Rick were sitting bent in the chairs as the roofline sloped down towards the chairs they occupied. ‘It’s only four minutes, it’s only four minutes …,’ Violet kept repeating.

The boys were enrapt with what they could see out of the small window on the door. Mostly steel beams and stairs but every once in a while they could catch a glimpse of the mechanisms and the track that the tram cars rode upon. Suddenly the speed reduced. ‘Thank goodness,’ Violet thought. But the cars did not stop. They continued up at the slower pace for fully two more minutes of the four minute ride before sliding into the passenger loading and unloading zone. With a sigh of relief the door opened and the four climbed out and up a few steps to the top of the arch. Violet pulled out her camera and leaned in on the window platforms. She had to admit the view was breathtaking, St. Louis on one side and the river on the other.

For five minutes they remained, going from window to window and side to side taking pictures from different angles. Right at the moment there was no thought about the briefer three minute ride down in the small tram. Violet felt accomplished, however. She had ridden in a small tram car and not panicked. She patted herself on the back as she stood in the cue line for the ride back down to the bottom of the arch. She was really glad that she hadn’t given in to her fear or she would have missed a once in a lifetime experience. She smiled slightly as she boarded the tram a second time, taking the same seat, and once again sitting upon her hands. ‘I did it!’

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 16

Saturday, July 7^h

Based on an automobile incident on I-64

Fatal

“What is that idiotic driver doing?” Willard slowed to the speed limit as the car in front of in the left hand lane refused to go over the speed limit while passing vehicles on the right. “Now that car is going the speed limit.” His wife of forty years, Willie Mae, soothed. “I don’t care, when in the passing lane you are supposed to pass. And when another vehicle comes up behind you then you need to pick up your speed to get out of their way.” Willard stayed close to the bumper of the car. “Will, don’t be so impatient.” “Well Willie, the rules of the road are the rules of the road.”

Suddenly the car in front of him tapped its brakes. Willard knew this as the frustration of the driver of the other car urging Willard to get off the bumper of their car. He refused. But the car didn’t increase its speed as it passed the semi-truck trailer. “Willie, I’m going to run that car off the road if it doesn’t get up and pass that truck.” “Will”, Willie Mae placed her hand upon his arm, “Slow down and get off that bumper.”

Finally the car passed the semi. Willie stepped on the gas pedal, swung into the right hand lane, even though the car had signaled that it wanted over, and then, out of anger, swung his black Ford pick-up truck tight in the path of the grey Toyota, nearly clipping the front end of the Camry before swinging back into the right hand lane again. He placed a smug smile on his face and looked into the rear view mirror.

The grey Toyota Camry had apparently slammed on the brakes when he swung his truck in tight to the front end of the car. As he watched in horror the Toyota was mid-flip and he counted three more rolls before the car came to a stop on its hood off the right hand shoulder and against the fence along the field. Willard pulled off the road and stopped the truck. Willie, confused, watched Willard leap out of the truck and run back up the interstate to the vehicle that he had just caused to flip. She got out and ran after him.

He approached the driver’s side of the car, a young girl lay unconscious in the seat, the deployed air bag hasn’t prevented serious injury to the child. “Oh God, Willie, she’s just a young girl. She’s probably a pretty inexperienced driver. Oh God Willie, what have I done?”  Willie Mae was already on the cell phone calling for emergency vehicles. Willard looked over to the passenger side of the vehicle. A man whom he presumed to be the girl’s father also lay unconscious. Willie opened the back door and a woman fell out of the car. “The girl’s mother is dead Willard.” Willie Mae gasped as she inspected the woman’s broken neck. Willard opened the back door on the driver’s side. A young man had received life-threatening injuries. He heard the sirens approaching in the distance. “Willie Mae, we have got to get out of here”, he heard himself say. “What? Willard Howard Macinelly what on earth are you talking about?” “I can’t be caught here with one dead and possibly more dying.” “Well you can’t run Willard. That will be far worse. I am not going to let you just leave.”

Willard saw the fire truck coming towards them followed by the police and paramedics. He ran for the truck. “Come on Willie.” She stood but did not follow him. “I will report this Willard.” He climbed in the truck, took one last look, and sped away. “Oh Willard,” Willie said to no one in particular. “See what your anger has gone and done? Now not only is it the death of these innocent folks but it will also be the death of you.”

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 15

Friday, July 6^h

based on a very laughable moment in Blacksburg at Macado’s.

Beaten

The five had taken seats at a table in the restaurant. There were plenty of booths available, in fact there was space galore and plenty of everything available, but the booths accommodated two or four so they sat at a table. There was only a couple of other people in the entire restaurant and it felt deserted and dead but it was ‘lupper’ time, 3:30 is after the lunch crowd and before supper. So they were somewhat loud in their jovial fun.

As they joked and laughed a pair of elderly ladies walked by the table at just the most inappropriate time for it was right at that moment that one of the young men made a comment about women and the table erupted. The eldest of the two ladies paused and looked at the five. She stared glaringly at the young man who made the comment and for a moment, probably a mere second or two that felt like an hour in slow motion, it seemed as if the elderly lady was about to raise her cane and beat the young man with it. The entire table grew quiet as she passed and then began to laugh hysterically about the young man being beaten by the little old lady.

And as one of the girls watched the ladies walk to their car she commented to the others at the table about the lack of a cane; however, the little old lady did have a remarkably large purse that she was carrying. The table erupted in laughter anew at the thought of the young man being beaten by a small little old lady using a purse that appeared to be literally half her size. How she carried a bag that large was beyond knowing. Eventually the food arrived and the laughter was replaced by the sound of casual conversation and mmmm sounds.  

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 14

Thursday, July 5^h

based on a K-Love call in

God Happenstances

“I heard an interesting story today”, she said. “About?” “Ok, here it is as the lady told it. She had many errands to do and so she headed out to accomplish them all. She volunteers at a nursing home and as she drove she was passing the nursing where she volunteered her time. She felt a God nudge to pull into the nursing home, but she didn’t. She had so many things that needed to be done that she chose to ignore the God nudge. Soon she realized that her thoughts were distracted and she was beginning to fail to remember what errands she had to accomplish, where she needed to go and even where she was. She confessed the error of her ways and turned the car around to head back to the nursing home. On her route was her church and she decided that she could stop into her church and drop off the payroll for the youth workers. As she was leaving the church parking lot, she saw an apparent homeless man, struggling with many bags of groceries. The day was hot and he had so many bags. She got out of her car and spoke to the man. He told her that he had such a long way to go with so many bags. She told him to wait right there and she would see about getting him a ride. Heading back into the church she found a gentleman who was just leaving the church, explained the situation, and asked if he could take the man. He agreed. She helped load the grocery bags into the car and saw them off. She stopped right then and said a word of thanks to God. Even in her rebellion He was able to use her. She didn’t make it to the nursing home but she was just in the right place at the right time to meet the needs of another.” “Wow”, I said. “It is always amazing to me how things work in the universe. There truly are no coincidences, just God happenstances.”

I pondered the wisdom of the lady who realized that there can be value even in one who has a rebellious nature about them. I find that God uses all moments to accomplish His plans in the lives of somebody; we just don’t always see those plans come to fruition. Sometimes it takes years and years. Sometimes it is, as for this lady, almost immediate. I imagine that, to God who sees all points in every life all the time that it has to absolutely boggle the mind. But of course, He is God. To my minute brain I cannot fathom it all, knowing the waking and the lying down of six billion people. It is all I can do to keep up with my own waking and lying down. The awesomeness of God is just so unfathomable.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 13

Wednesday, July 4^th

based on the lack of a fireworks display in Hampton this year.

Sparkles

“Yes, there is no city fireworks display this year. Yes I would agree, poor city planning. However, in these economic times, would you rather the city spend the money on a spectacular fireworks display or on new textbooks?” I looked down at my feet and scrunched my nose. “Sparkles", I shouted and looked up into their faces. They looked at each other and smiled. “Tell you what, we will go to the store and pick up a package of sparklers, alright?” “Sparklers, heck, that’s hardly a display at all!” They take my hand as we walk out the front door of the house. “You’ll see little one, these will work out just fine.” I turn my face up towards them, just to make sure they can see my pout. “Fine” I repeat unhappily. “And then after, we’ll sit in front of the television and watch the fireworks shows in D.C. and New York City.” I climb into the car. “Sparkles?” They chuckle. “Yes little one...sparkles.”

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 12

Tuesday, July 3rd
based on the latest adventures of McCoy, my mother-in-law's new puppy.

That Darn Dog

Well, he did it again. That darn dog. Returned home after being away for only four hours and he’s gone an’ chewed up the bottom of the couch, done pulled out near all the stuffin’ as well. That darn dog. So I took him by the neck and drug him to the couch and paddled his b’hind but good and then tossed him on outside. That darn dog. Stuffed the white billowy stuffin’ right on back inside the dern ole’  couch and then I commenced sewin’ on it when I heard the gosh awfullest yowlin’ comin’ from the back yard. That darn dog.

He weren’t neven supposed ta be my dog in the first place. He was fine an’ happy livin’ over there Texas way. When I first got the phone call that my son’s dog done gone an’ had a litter of pups I was a listenin’ and talkin’ with joy over their good will. Then he asked would I want one? Well heck no, I done got mah Teddy here and them two cats. What would I want with’n another pup? But then my daughter what lives up the road from me called me up an’ said ‘Ma, Riley sure would like ta have a pup. Course Matt won’t hear nothin’ of us havin’ a dog. Can you bring one o’them pups back wit’ ya and keep him at yer house ‘til we gets Matt talked into havin’ him?’ Well I’ma sucker fer mah gran’children. I called mah son over there in Texas and told him to pick out a pup fer me and I’d fly over there an’ get him when I come ta visit my newest great-gran’babe. I was assured that this here pup would stay small and while he was a feisty thing he was workin’ hard on his trainin’. I shoulda listened to my other daughter-in-law what told me ‘No, ma, ya don’ need a nother dog!’ As I said, I’ma sucker fer mah gran’children.

So I get this here pup home; he’s little as can be, an’ pretty calm little thing right at first. Didn’ do much other than sleep and eat and sleep and pee and eat and poop. ‘Course that was right there in mah livin’ room on the carpet that he’d done did all that. That darn dog. But then when he got himself acclimated to mah house he became all feisty and began a chewin’ up on everythin’ he could wrap his mouth around. Why he even devoured mah good house slippers. That darn dog.  An’ he eats faster’n a rocket ship. I gots ta keep him distracted so poor ole’ Teddy cans finish up his meal. Them cats isn’t none too happy ta have the pup in the house. He gets ta barkin’ at ‘em and they gets ta hissin’ at him. He’s had his nose swiped at quite a time or two which  I can sure tell ya true ta that one. Once though, he lit in ta Isis, the older of the two cats, and I thought he was goin’ tear her head off. I yanked him hard ‘til he choked and coughed fer a good twenty minutes or so after that one. That darn dog.

An’ a course mah daughter’s husband, Matt, won’t have nothin’ ta do with the pup so here he still is at mah house. I’ma guessin’ he’s mah dog now. He aren’t so little no more, he’s a growin’ every single day and he now towers over mah Teddy. Mah Teddy comes up about half a calf high on my leg but the pup, well he’s up ta mah knee already, an’ he’s only five months old. So much fer bein’ small. That darn pup. He aren’t nothin’ what my son said he’d be. He aren’t small, he aren’t house broke, and he aren’t trained niether, no sir not one little bit. I’d take him back ta Texas ‘cept fer the cost to fly him out there. Oh an’ the dumb pup has kinda grown on me. Yep. That darn dog. 

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 11

Monday, July 2nd
based on standing in line at TNCC with my daughter.

The Line

The line was rather long, the one of the three that we stood in that is. We were in the second line, the one in the middle of the hall, admissions. The first line was counseling. The third was financial assistance. There were like ten folks in our line ahead of us, five behind. Counseling had none when we arrived but now there about five. Financial assistance, well that line was like way the longest line ever. So glad we didn’t havta stand in that line. Our ‘rents were very well off. Unfortunately that meant we qualified for no financial assistance. Fortunately it kept us outta that ridiculously long and time consuming line. Yay for being economically healthy, boo for not being eligible for any state or government assistance of any kind. We aren’t an ethnic minority, we don’t fall below the middle class economic line, and we are residents of the state and country citizens. Ah well.

A girl approaches the line, leans in to like speak with another girl that is standing in our line like four people ahead of us. “I know her”, my sister whispers to me. “Really, from where” I ask her, not really whispering ‘cuz I really don’t care who overhears us. “We were in middle school together.” I look carefully at the girl. Well, she is like vaguely familiar but doesn’t stand out in my recollection. She should though since my sister and I are twins and attended the same schools together since like pre-kindergarten classes at Miss Bonnie’s St. Mary’s Star of the Sea School three year old class. But nope, this girl triggers no memory in my brain. “She went to CN High,” she continues whispering. Curtis Normell High School, not exactly our rival school academically but pretty much our competitor in the Arts departments. “How’d ja know that?” I still don’t whisper and slightly elevate my volume hoping the girl like overhears us. “She looks like a CN.” I look intensely at my own face looking back humorously at me and laugh out loud. The folks ahead of us in line turn and give us a scowl. We stifle our laughter to a chuckle. “Are you ready for this,” I ask my sister. She nods her head with a big bright smile. “Of course you are”, I reply. “You thrive in any environment!” She looks at me and the corners of her lips turn up slightly. “That’s only ‘cuz I am a whole two and half minutes older than you.”  I smile back. “Yah, like that’s it.”

After twenty minutes of line standing a lady approaches the person who is now first in line. We’ve moved up to third in line. We hear her asking the young lady what she needs to have done but we don’t hear the girl’s reply. The lady tells her that she is in the correct line and moves onto the man in line directly in front of us. He’s older, by quite a bit; at least his gray hair implies that he’s quite a bit older. She asks why he’s in line. He responds but really I don’t listen to what he says…something about re-enrolling in the school, at least that’s what I think he says. Then she approaches the two of us and looks directly at my sister and asks “Why are you here?” “Registering,” my sister responds. “Have you already applied for admission?” “Yes we have…” “But we’re not sure what to do next” I interrupt. “Have you taken the placement tests?” She is still looking at my sister. My sister and I look at each other. “Uh, no,” I say. “Well, you should go up the hall to room 122 to take the placement tests and then go to room 132 for the orientation class which you must take before going to counseling.” We look at each other again. The woman looks at the line which we are now like second in. “But,” she continues, still looking at my sister, “since you are so close to the front of this line just stay here.”  “Oh, ok,” we say in unison. The girl behind us snickers. “Seriously,” I say to my sister. “Am I invisible?” The line all around us chuckles softly.

The man before us in line is called into the room. We stand at the open doorway. I try not to peer in, trying to respect the privacy of the two already in the room but I’m curious and can’t help myself. I lean in. There are actually four ‘cubbies’, two are dark and empty. There are two open windows that are occupied. I can hear the man speaking to the woman behind the admissions window number two fumbling with the answer to the woman’s question. The question seemed simple enough. “When did you graduate?” But he seriously seemed unable to answer the question. She remained patient and offered, “Last spring?” “Yes,” he replied. “Do you still have your student I.D.?” “No,” he said. “Do you have any I.D. on you?” He pulls something out of his wallet. She begins to say something to him but I can’t hear the conversation any longer because my shirt is being forcefully pulled upon by my sister. “Stop that.” She looks at me a tad bit annoyed. “What,” I say. “I was just curious.” “Curiosity kills the cat,” she recites. “But,” I mimic the sing song style, “satisfaction brought him back.” She laughs at me. The girl behind us in line chuckles again. After another minute or two the man walks out the door and we hear “Next in line.” 

“Wow, thirty-three minutes. Is that like some kind of line record or what?” The girl behind us as well as the two men and the mother/daughter duo behind them all laugh out loud. I smile broadly and follow my sister into the room.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day 10
Sunday, July 1st
based on a shorts movie about a child with a mother who has dementia; in the form of micro short story such as Ernest Hemmingway's "For sale. Baby Shoes. Never worn."




Bond
Lost mother.
If found, tell her of her daughter.
She mostly forgets.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Nine

Saturday, June 30th
based on a severe storm that rolled through (yes, we've had a lot of them lately!)

Shell Shocked

<begin chat>

I don’t have a lot of time so this is going to be a quick message to whoever is out there to read it. The thundering sounds of the shells are all about me. And the sky alights as if the fourth of July. Already there are reports of massive outages throughout the city, Upper James, Prince George, Victoria, Kings Ford, Raleigh and South Princeton all without any power. I fear that we will be hit all too soon and then I will be unable to transmit any information to whoever might be there. I pray that there are still others out there. Internet is still working, but it’s spotty at best.

I can now hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns right outside of the window; I’ve dimmed the lights so as to not attract their attention. They have invaded; there is no doubt about it now. I can hear the roar of the tanks rumble down the streets interspersed with the bombings. In the brief silence I can hear the voices, arguing at times, cajoling at other times. And occasionally a female voice rises above the din. They are too near. I have locked the doors, just in case the soldiers were to try the handle.

Wait, a flash of light, coming through the drawn curtains. A flashlight. I’m crawling under the table with my laptop. As I promised, I will stay on here as long as I can. I pray to God that someone is catching this chat window. Someone somewhere, please dear God, please someone be alive to become a witness to these horrific abuse of militia gone awry. Someone is at the door. The handle is turning. Wait, wait ….

It’s alright; I believe they have passed on by. I can breathe easier ag

<chat terminated>

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Eight

Friday, June 29th
based on the movie Little Man Tate.

Undeveloped

The little boy was brilliant but emotionally exhausting. I wept for him. Being brilliant is not a gift, it is a curse. There are those who want to take advantage of the brilliance, those who don’t understand the brilliance, those who shun the brilliance, those who ridicule and taunt and persecute the brilliance. And I wept for the plight of the brilliant little boy who was enduring all of those and so much more. And adult trapped in the body of a seven year old body. Life, at times, seems so unfair. Genius in a child is no different than retardation in an adult. Both are the subject of awkwardness.

Fred was unpretentious. He was a quiet child and incapable of harm but harm was very capable of finding him. He was lost though he didn’t know it. During the moments of childishness he was quite adorable though. The way he smiled, his laughter, his wide eyed curiosity for the world, Fred was a very contagious soul and a sheer joy to be around. I found myself mesmerized by him yet unsure if I like that or not. I like the kid but I was afraid, so terribly terribly afraid – both of him and for him. He just wasn’t ready for the cruelty that would/ could befall him. If only he had been better supervised; life would have been for Fred if only he hadn’t of been so undeveloped. But instead he was misled and misguided and wounded … battered, beaten, and left behind. The conditions coupled with his injuries proved too much for him. He was found alive but his little heart stopped beating on the way to the hospital. Such a waste, such brilliance, and he was gone in one thoughtless, careless moment. 

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Seven

Thursday, June 28th
based on a Magic 2013 iPad game that I kept continually losing!

I Think I Can’t

“I can’t do this!!” Katelyn threw the cards across the table. Robert, Kip, and Cindy stared at her, jaws dropped. Katelyn stood, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched, tears forming and just beginning to roll down her cheeks. The three risked fearful glances at each other and stood at their seats. Katelyn turned toward the wall, keenly aware of how her outburst made her appear and of course she felt quite a bit of embarrassment tossed in with a tad of humiliation. “I’m sorry” she mumbled. She turned back to her friends, “I just don’t get this stupid, dumb, idiotic game!” Katelyn was whining but right at the moment she didn’t care. She had lost every hand since they began playing two hours earlier. “You said this was an easy game” she continued on. “But it’s not!” Robert and Kip looked at Cindy dumbfounded, a look Cindy knew all too well. It was the ‘YOU do something with her!’ look. Cindy shrugged slightly and walked towards Katelyn. “Ya do know that you’re overreactin’, don’ja?” Katelyn stared at her, eyes unblinking, tears still streaming down her face. She didn’t want to admit it but she did know that Cindy was right. “You just aint gettin’ the luck of the draw” Cindy crooned, wrapping an arm around Katelyn’s shoulders. “Com’n back ta the table and we’ll have a nother go at it.” Cindy led Katelyn back to the table and sat her in the chair. Robert and Kip mumbled something about drinks and snacks and darted off to the kitchen. Cindy shook her head as she watched them depart to the dining room. “Men,” she said. Katelyn kind of chuckled at that. “Ya wanna tissue, Katelyn,” Cindy asked. Katelyn nodded her head and watched as Cindy left toward the bathroom to retrieve the box of Kleenex. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’, Katelyn scolded herself. ‘Why do you always have to behave like such a baby?’ Robert and Kip returned with a bowl of Mexi-chips and salsa. “Here ya go, Katelyn,” said Kip. “Dive in,” Robert finished. Cindy returned with the box of Kleenex and Katelyn took one and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She grabbed a chip and dipped it deep into the bowl of salsa. “Okeh” she said, stuffing the chip into her mouth. “Let’sh try thish again.” The three looked at her and said almost in unison, “Huh?” Katelyn laughed and repeated, “Let’s try this again. Robert, shuffle those darn cards.” Robert, Kip, and Cindy took their seats and an easy chatter began once again among the four friends. “Ok” Robert said as he dealt the cards. “Let’s try this again and this time Cindy will help you each step of the way.” “Better yet” Kip cajoled, “all cards face up fer the next two games.” Katelyn smiled big, glad for her friends who understood her so well.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Six

Wednesday, June 27th
based on a snippet of a conversation with Aunt Linda.

Incapable

“I’m on disability” she said to me. “Why? Oh, because of your back?” She shakes her head slowly. I lift an eyebrow in curiosity. She takes her right hand, points to her head, and slowly makes a circle with her index finger. I get it, mental health issues. “I’m not seeing my therapist any longer” I say with a bit of pride. She smiles, “Really?” I smile back at her, “Yah, guess I’m ‘fixed’”, I reply with a slight chuckle. “I saw my therapist just before we left but I won’t see him again until the ninth. I get back in town and he goes to Arkansas.” Arkansas, I think, what’s in Arkansas? I don’t ask. “I’ve had two nervous breakdowns” she continues. I say nothing. After a bit of silence she says, “My back is still giving me problems, I have another slipped disc. And my foot is still bothering me.” I lift my eyebrow again and she continues. “It still slips out after I broke it. And right after I had the cast off, I was at Mike and Missy’s house and fell and broke it again. It was in a cast again for weeks.” “So, it’s very weak”, I say. She nods. “Yah so my doctor said that I’m not allowed to work.” Not ‘allowed’, I ponder but just when I’m about to ask her why she’s ‘not allowed’ her grandson comes up to her. I bite my lip. We never have the opportunity to continue the conversation as Missy shouts “Time to go my children, come dry off. We have to leave in the morning.” Linda turns from me and heads to the pool steps.

I have a couple of friends and family members that are on disability. I think of them as being weak, but I’m sure that I judge them far too harshly. Some people just don’t have the coping skills. Still. There have been many times that I have longed to be that selfish and fall into my label within the mental health community and be declared disabled. I haven’t…ever. I’m not that weak. I have my husband and children who keep me grounded if not sane. And while I do at times long for the escape of a hospital ward or a nervous breakdown, I just can’t allow myself that dependence. I have never been that dependent on anything or anyone, not even my husband – much to his dismay. I watch Linda as she dries the pool water from her leg. Linda … whacky, fluffy, tubby Linda; she has always been the kooky one in her family. We are similar, she and I. She bears the brunt of the jokes in her family and I in mine. While not as gullible as I, she can nevertheless be made to believe a lie quite easily, if you can keep a straight face when telling the tall tale. Linda used to work, at one time. She worked in the community hospital, laboratory I believe, though I’m not really sure. I never truly knew what she and her husband’s jobs entailed, I only knew that they worked at the same hospital.

“Jim’s retiring soon” Linda had whispered to me while we sat at the kitchen table. I had arrived late in the evening to see them, knowing that they would only be in town for three more days. She and Missy were making beaded bracelets. I hadn’t connected the dots at that time. “Really”, I had said. “That’s cool, what’s he going to do?” “He’s still going to be at the hospital, part time. They really wanted him to come back.” “Yah,” I begin to smile but notice the apprehension in her eyes. I didn’t understand then. Now I do. Disability isn’t a lot of money and with Jim retiring and working part time – well, finances could be tough. While I’ve always refused medication in outpatient care, I do know how expensive they are. I have no idea how many different medicines Linda is taking, but I understand the worry. And to top it off, she may require another back surgery. Could she be feeling incapable? I had the distinct feeling that she was worried about not seeing her therapist until the ninth. Is she so deteriorated?

Our mental health was another shared bond that we had. I drove with her to an appointment once, many years ago now. She talked gaily about her diagnosis. I spoke apprehensively about mine, which I never really agreed with from the moment I was labeled. I hate labels. I hate being defined by a label. I am who I am. Linda had seemed almost proud of her many and varied diagnosis labels. I have an acquaintance friend who is the same, Michele. Michele wears her mental illness on her sleeve, literally, and on her chest and back; a t-shirt that lists every mental illness to be found in the DSM-IV. She will proudly point to her shoulder and proclaim ‘this is one of mine’, or her left breast and tell anyone who will listen ‘this is my favorite diagnosis ever’. She is wackier than Linda. Michele is also far more disabled. I heard that she and Mark, her husband of over thirty years, have divorced. Jim and Linda have remained together for over forty years. I don’t see them divorcing any time soon, but I don’t see them often enough to know the dynamics. Not any longer. We used to see them twice a year, sometimes three times a year. Now it is down to once a year. She seems unchanged, really, in all the years that I have known her, for nearly thirty years now. Does mental illness do that to people? Linda, Michele, Renee … oh, you don’t know Renee?

Renee is an extreme case, lost in her depression, her PTSD, her anxiety, her suicidal ideation, her other selves. When I first stumbled upon Renee, twenty years ago now, I believed her to be so strong. She spoke eloquently, she wrote masterfully. She lived alone, took no bull from anybody, and adored her therapist and her cat. Then she met Eric and, after a quick engagement, was married and pregnant. Jordan was born with many a disability herself, autism and retardation. Renee was crushed. She seemed to go into rapid decay and as the years past and Jordan aged, Renee became more and more incapable. There is a revolving door on the state mental hospital, on several hospitals actually. Anytime Renee feels ‘unsafe’ she checks herself in. At one point her depression became so severe that she willingly, almost wantonly, endured seventy plus electroshock therapies. Crazy? I’d say certainly. I guess Renee actually has changed over the years, from competent to incompetence, capable to incapable.

I am no longer connected to these, my comrades of mental health. While I am not sane, I’m not ‘insane’. I have learned coping skills and have found an internal strength that Linda, Michele, and Renee do not seem to have. While Linda is the most capable of the three, there is just something about the term ‘disability’ that implies a lack of. Linda is incapable after all. And while I espouse my own capabilities, my own competence, my own sanity, am I? Really? Are any of us truly competent, capable, sane?

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Five

Tuesday, June 26th
based on a conversation that occurred during small group.

Nothing

Meribeth stood beside the bed. The beeping had ceased. The fervor disappeared. She hugged herself and stared down at the bed. The tubes remained yet in her arms. Life ends so suddenly. Walking closer to the bed, Meribeth stared down into the face of her mother. It wasn’t as she expected … death. It was so brutal, almost cruel. There was the look of terror on her face just before a bubbling, gurgling sound. Her eyes open wide, moving erratically, almost in frenzy, almost like she was fleeing, or trying to. Death didn’t come peacefully to her mother. Death came forcefully and her mom tried desperately to escape its clutches. Why? Why Mom?

Meribeth lightly reached out her hand, brushing her mother’s hand ever so lightly. It wasn’t cold like she expected. It wasn’t anything, actually it just was, just is, well, there. That was it really. All that was left of her mother was just, well, there. There lying in that bed as nothing; just a body, a bag of bones and flesh and nothing more. But oh mother, where have you gone? Not in this bag of flesh. This isn’t you any longer. Meribeth pondered as she stroked her mother’s lifeless hand. Mom seemed so extremely terrified of death that surely she hadn’t seen the bright light and walked a path where family members greeted her warmly and the love of God surrounded her. So where did you go, mom?

What happens to the soul after it leaves the body? Does it “hang around” here, completing unfinished work in the afterlife? Does it go into a form of “purgatory”? Are there levels of heaven that each soul has to work up through to reach God? Or is there nothingness, sleep eternal that seems but a moment in time. Is heaven for real?  Are you there Mother? Can you look down upon me, cheer me on, weep with me? But would you be so frightened of heaven? Could you be in hell? Was that the final look that I saw in your eyes, wide and frantically searching for a way to get out?

Meribeth shivered. The thought of an eternal hell sent chills down her spine. There would be no knowing. Her mother lay dead in the bed and could never come back and tell her. That is the way of death. It is to remain ever a mystery. Philosophy wasn’t something she enjoyed, theology even less. No Meribeth lived in the reality of the physical world, that which can be touched and seen. There were things that needed attending to now, arrangements that needed to be made. “We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever; the goal is to create something that will.” Good ole Palahniuk. While she didn’t believe in any form of immortality she did like to ponder that which would outlive all of humanity. The cockroach, it will definitely be the cockroach.

Meribeth reached up and closed the still wide open eyes, closing the terror that she still saw lurking behind the glazed over globes. A nurse walked into the room. The funeral home had arrived for the body. She nodded and stepped away from the bed, taking one last long look at the body lying in the bed. After all, that is all that it is. There is nothing; nothing but a bag of bones and flesh. Her mother was not there, not any longer.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Four
Monday, June 25th
based on a huge storm that rolled through.

Blown Away 

     The leaves are literally being ripped from the willow tree! How is it going to survive this? The gush of wind is whipping around the house, howling through windows that are barely able to keep the wind out on mild days. The tumultuous rains slash through the air at an angle almost parallel to the nearly flooding yard. The houses across the street have become nearly invisible; the evening is now dark as night. I am worried. I have not yet experienced such a storm as this; lightning piercing the sky, thunder rumbling in a low growl, and hail mixed with the rain pelting the roof and angrily slamming against the windows. I hear a crack and watch the splinter in the glass crawl its way up. A broken window. This is more than worry, this has quickly become fear. I have never felt so alone. 
     The phone rings and I startle, turning quickly in the direction of the sound. Brr-ring.

"Hello?"
"Hey hon."
"Hi, are you on your way home" I ask too quickly.
"No ..." he pauses slightly. "I can't get out in this just yet. Looks like another half and hour."
I turn and look out the window. Through the splintered crack I can see the flooding of the road. Flash flood, I think.
"Swell. Get home safe."
"I will."
"Bye" I say. Nothing...no reply comes through from the other end.
"Hon? Honey?" Nothing. Are the phones down? I hang up the line and click it on again - no dial tone. Fear has progressed to terror.

     The outside door in the laundry room flings open, the wind driven rain rapidly soaking the floor. I run quickly in and slam the door shut, sliding the bolt in place and turning the lock on the handle. I breathe out slowly and place my head against the door. I can hear the rain bearing down heavily on the other side. And another sound, louder and harsher. The hail, I think, and slowly turn away from the door. Water, leaves, and melting ice pellets lay before me. I walk to the mop and take it from the wall. Before turning to tackle the wind blown mess I glance into the kitchen and freeze. Muddy shoe prints track across the floor toward the dining room. My jaw drops open. My eyes grow big in horror. I drop the mop and back away slowly towards the now bolted and locked door. Escape is just a twist and a slide away, but can I do it before the owner of those large muddy shoe prints walk back this direction? I turn to the door, to the lock. The handle lock won't turn. I'm fumbling and my fingers feel fat and slow and sluggish. Finally the lock turns. Now to lift the bolt and slide it left. I draw a deep breath and hold it, forcing myself to concentrate. Through the pelting rain I hear another sound. Footsteps. Horror rises to panic.

     I begin to breathe heavily as I glance over my shoulder, a shadow slowly growing on the kitchen floor cast by the light from the dining room that I know I didn't turn on. I turn back to the lock, tears begin to well in my eyes, my breathing becomes erratic - the lock won't move. Come on, come on, come on, I try cheering myself on. The sounds behind me become louder, I don't turn to look. Finally I lock frees and I pull the door open, which practically flies from my grip as the fierce wind rips the door inward. I step out, preparing to run, when I feel a hand upon my shoulder. A scream escapes my throat and then two firm hands turn me abruptly and I look up into the eyes of ...

"Hey Hon." Recognition begins to flood into my brain. Anger replaces the terror. I pommel his chest before collapsing into it, allowing his strong arms to envelop me.
"Oh my God" I say wearily into his shoulder. "You scared me to death!"
His hand comes up to my head and he strokes my hair, entwining the length of it trough his fingers.
"Not yet" he whispers throatily. "Not yet."

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Three

Sunday, 24 June 2012

based on the drive home from Roanoke on interstate 64.

Driven

Finally, the road stretched before her. Tunes played on the radio and she sang along merrily. She loved driving, almost more than anything else that she did. There was just something about being on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, foot on the pedal, and of course the tunes playing on the radio. The hum of the tires beneath her during the silence between songs was somewhat soothing, rhythmic and somehow comforting.

The traffic moved steadily, she set her cruise control – don’t want to risk a ticket, now do we?  The two lanes opened up to three as she approached the incline, the third lane allowing over the roads to pass each other. She gripped the wheel tighter, looking up at the driver of the fuel tanker as she passed him by. She was always overly cautious when passing the might trucks, especially since her life was almost lost due to a near collision with one as a teenager.

It was a small highway, four lanes that cut through the desert straight as an arrow. She was inexperienced behind the wheel, just received her license in fact. The drive from the DMV toward home took her onto the highway at speeds she was just learning to manage; seventy was fast even for experienced drivers in the mid ‘70’s. She came upon the semi-truck driver quickly, too quickly. She signaled and swung into the passing lane much too sharply, but she maintained control of the car. Looking into her rearview mirror, she saw the car approaching so she swung back into the right hand lane, too soon. Too close to cutting off the giant semi-truck, who laid on the horn and quickly applied the brakes. She sped up, seventy-five, eighty…her heart beating too quickly in her chest, she didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she began climbing the mountain and headed through the pass. She missed her turn to home.

But that was now thirty odd years and about half a million miles ago. Now she was quite an accomplished driver. She realized that her thoughts had been wandering and the third lane was now merging into two, into her own. In her reminiscent mind travel she had not noticed the large truck that had been forced to merge into her lane, flashers blinking brightly to warn of his slow forty-five mile per hour speed, far slower than her own sixty-five mile per hour speed. She slammed into the back left corner of the merging trailer, throwing her left where she bounced off the right rear quarter of a passing van. The steering wheel was ripped from her grip as the wheels tried to grip some road width as the car spiraled first on the interstate and then off and down the edge of parkway. She lost count of the number of times the car flipped as she rolled down the mountain towards the valley below her. She once caught a glimpse of the road above her, the semi-truck trailer hanging precariously over the edge, the guard rail damaged, dented, and totally gone where her own car had gone through it. She could almost make out the look of horror on the faces of those who had stopped their cars and watch her tumble down the side of the mountain.

At last the car stopped rolling and slid to a stop, the driver’s door flat upon the ground, the steering wheel pinning her thighs to the seat. She reached up to grip it and listened to the spinning of the wheels of the tires.  There was just something about being on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, the hum of the tires beneath her was somewhat soothing, rhythmic and somehow comforting.

Slice Of Life: A Daily Story

Day Two

Saturday, June 23, 2012

based on two moments of the day - a chance encounter with Nancy Geeting, wife of Reverend Doug Geeting, and a second chance encounter with Reverend Jeff Cannon and his wife Karen Cannon.

Bumping Into

It’s very difficult to bump into old “friends”. I’m not even sure if I can call them “friends” – at least not any longer. At one time in my life, they were very close “friends”; and what I mean by that is that I confided many personal things to one or more of these bumped into “friends”. My life was impacted by them in various ways, good and bad. And as I said, it is very difficult to bump into old “friends”.

But here I am, standing awkwardly with many thoughts running through my head. Things like, ‘gosh, what am I supposed to say to her?’ or ‘do I give them a hug?’ and even ‘I wish they were still a part of my life.’ Time and distance does that, builds awkwardness into a once casual closeness that was not lost on either me or them. But now? Now I stand here uncomfortable and longing to get away.

There are things left unsaid. Does she know how healed I have become? Does he know how much he rooted me and gave me security? Can he ever understand how his being fallibly human enabled me to approach authority figures? Probably not; nor is this the time or place to discuss such things. And so I look away and watch my feet and smile and make small talk and recognize the longing within myself that sought more. More from each of them. I was needy then, maybe I still yet am. Maybe that contributes to the awkwardness, this recognition that I’ve not changed as much as I believed. The story moves forward.

She did look good, not seeing us as she scanned the crowd far above our heads. If it hadn’t of been for my companion she would have disappeared altogether without ever noticing me. But her attention was drawn to us by the shout of my companion. And she looked at her. And then she saw me. And I stood. I had to; she was after all coming towards me. And so I stood. I hugged her lightly – at least I believe I hugged her lightly. It’s hard to know if I did or didn’t for you see right at that moment I was lost in the longing of myself and the past and who we were together in friendship. We chatted idly, about the wedding, about her daughter’s wedding album(s), a mention of her son and then she was off. I fumbled with items in my bag, drawing a deep breath; my companion nudged me and mentioned that he was waving at us. I looked down upon the floor and yes, there he was, standing where he sits every year that we are here, smile as big as his face and arm waving wildly. I smile back and wave slightly and then the moment was past. They looked toward the stage and I resumed fumbling through my bag. I don’t feel regret and yet there was something. Maybe it is the realization of the loss of the friendship, the recognition of that which was and can never be again. The story moves forward.

And then we are off to lunch, my companion and me. I sat in the seat of the bus, staring out the window, stopped at a traffic signal near the place that we were to be let off. They came into my vision, I focused and I saw them. I said nothing. At least I believe I said nothing. Once again I was lost in my own thoughts, the past met the present in the longing of myself. However this relationship was never as close or as strong as the relationship between me and the two sitting on the floor of the center. Ever. In fact the relationship between me and the he of these was much more volatile than any relationship I had ever experienced with and by a person of authority. I learned a lot from this relationship, from this friendship, from him; I learned that it is alright to argue with authority, it is ok to question authority, I can raise my voice to authority, and that those in position of authority are not above me and not better than me. And so I exited the bus and as I did we paused; all four of us saw each other at the same time and we hugged lightly and smiled gently. I tried to keep the pity deep behind my eyes so he could not see that that was the feeling I now held for him. We chatted briefly about lunch, where to eat, what was good, did he treat us to the Mexican restaurant just last year or was it two years ago. And then we parted, they boarding the bus and we off to lunch. The feelings were far more muted than I thought they would have been, should they have been? The friendship, if truly there was “friendship”, seemed entirely past. And I suppose that is as it should be. After all, they are not in my daily life any longer.

I have moved on…that much was made plain today as I bumped into old “friends”. I am no longer the person I was seven years ago or eleven years ago, or even fifteen years ago when I first moved to Virginia. I am more confident of who I am in my own skin, of my own opinions and of my own feelings. While I am ever grateful to them, they are not integral to the development of me any longer. Bumping into them made that blatantly obvious. I am, apart from all of them, more complete. 
   

Slice of Life: A Daily Story

Day One

Friday, June 22, 2012

based on an announcement acknowledging the accomplishments of Reverend Cheryl Simmons who has been placed on medical disability from the pulpit by the Virginia Conference United Methodist Church

She

She walked upon the stage, haltingly, cautiously, almost wearily. The weeks have been long and difficult – moving does that at times and all the packing is taking a toll on her already weakened body. Illness does that at times. She was still young and unwilling to believe that she was no longer vital. What is vitality anyway? Well, if your career involves speech and one has lost the power of speech then obviously vitality involves the ability to talk. So I guess I am no longer vital, she thought to herself. She breathed deeply and placed one foot on front of the other, forcing herself forward across the stage. Recognition for achievements seems all but mundane in the face of the loss of her job, her career, her calling. YOUR calling God, she thought, YOUR call upon my life. Arriving mid-stage, she stopped and listened to her name echo through the sound system around the giant space that is the civic center. Accolades for a job well done, for all of her accomplishments, for all that she has done for and given to the church, the constituents, the conference. She dropped her head – not out of embarrassment, more out of shame. A feeling of failure seemed to seep deep into her bones and settle there. And then the Bishop approached her, hugged her, whispered into her ear – “there is more for you to do; God isn’t finished with you yet.” The tears began to well within her eyes. The applause began subtlety and began to grow. By the time she was released from the Bishop’s embrace the entire room was upon their feet and applauding. A standing ovation, for me, she thought. The tears fell. She slowly walked off the stage, escorted and aided down the stairs, she exited the room. Around the corner, out of sight, hidden from all the eyes – pull yourself together girl. She returned to the hall, walked to her seat. She held her head high.

Pride, isn’t that one of the seven deadly sins? She didn’t care; she was going to make sure that retained her pride in the face of her bitter loss. She had heard the call from God while still a young adult in college; it challenged her and urged her to change her major life course to that of a minister. Being a minister is a tough job, ridiculously tough as a female; the perspectives of many older congregations were not aligned to the acceptance of women in the pulpit, even now. Had she miss heard? Maybe she had misinterpreted? She completed seminary, began her ministry as every woman in the conference had, in the small rural church of the Shenandoah Valley. The Valley was the truest test of the preaching abilities of the women – if rural Virginia could tolerate you in the pulpit, then a successful career in the pulpit was assured. And she passed, with flying colors, and was moved to a very urban community. Things were going wonderfully and then she was struck – unable to speak; as debilitating as a construction worker becoming a quadriplegic. She was left bereft, broken, and feeling abandoned by God. Friends encouraged her, prayed with her and for her, uplifted her. Words of comfort and care surrounded her. And she knew the value of the words, and for the most part agreed with each sentiment. Yes, she knew that while God closed one door he would open another. Yes, she knew that God would walk with her through this period in her life. Yes, she knew that great things would come if she trusted in God. Yes, she knew … At times she just wanted to scream, but she didn’t even have the ability to do that any longer, did she?

She sat in her chair, on the floor of the civic center, with her head held high, and the tears streaming down her face; and those around her offered yet another platitude, another sentiment. They placed their arms around her shoulders and they gently hugged her and they encouraged her to hang in there, hold on, and wait upon the Lord. And she smiled bravely, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, and nodded slightly with each passing word and touched each hand lightly. And within, within she was screaming.