Immediately after publishing my last post, I checked my email.
First, a message to John and me, from John's sister, letting us know that their Mom wants a new computer case for Christmas and would we buy one?
Second a message from John just to me: "I said yes. Don't we have an old case in the basement?"
Monday, November 26, 2007
Still My Birthday
Remember Saturday's post, More to Love?
Yesterday, John took the children out on Mysterious Errand. Stage whispers were made and furtive exits taken. That sly Merrick has mastered the art of the raised eyebrow.
While they were gone, I discovered an urgent reason to phone. "What are you guys doing?"
Silence.
Me: "Really! Tell me! Are you shopping for my birthday?"
John (easily broken): "I know you know."
Me: "Where are you?"
Silence
Me: "Come one! Tell me! The Bibelot?"
John: "Nope."
Me: "Nordstroms?"
John: "Ha-ha."
Me: "Guthrie gift shop?"
John: "No."
Me: "Picky Girl?"
John: "What?"
Me: "Macy's, even?"
John: "No. But what do you mean by 'even'?"
I listen intently to sounds of commerce in the background, assessing precise tenor.
Oh My God.
Me. "Target?"
John (clearly thrilled by his ingenuity): "YES!"
Silence.
John: "Mary?"
Yesterday, John took the children out on Mysterious Errand. Stage whispers were made and furtive exits taken. That sly Merrick has mastered the art of the raised eyebrow.
While they were gone, I discovered an urgent reason to phone. "What are you guys doing?"
Silence.
Me: "Really! Tell me! Are you shopping for my birthday?"
John (easily broken): "I know you know."
Me: "Where are you?"
Silence
Me: "Come one! Tell me! The Bibelot?"
John: "Nope."
Me: "Nordstroms?"
John: "Ha-ha."
Me: "Guthrie gift shop?"
John: "No."
Me: "Picky Girl?"
John: "What?"
Me: "Macy's, even?"
John: "No. But what do you mean by 'even'?"
I listen intently to sounds of commerce in the background, assessing precise tenor.
Oh My God.
Me. "Target?"
John (clearly thrilled by his ingenuity): "YES!"
Silence.
John: "Mary?"
Today is My Birthday
Crossroads
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers sifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys in into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
Joyce Sutphen
Straight Out Of View, New Rivers Press
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers sifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys in into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
Joyce Sutphen
Straight Out Of View, New Rivers Press
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Fast Lane
My neighbor, H, must in his mid-sixties. He's been retired for 18 years. From what I can discern, he has no hobbies, no volunteer commitments, no destination.
He does work on his house, though: contemplative nail by contemplative nail for eighteen years.
He also takes care of quality control on our block. When you see him standing in front of your house, you know you've got trouble -- crack or crumble, detected.
The folks on the corner are doing a massive remodel. H stands vigil, at least half an hour a day, watching the wood without a word.
Stairs are crumbling across the street. H pondered those yesterday, then moved to the longish grass next door to stare at that and send meaningful glances toward the windows.
He did tell me that he's going to teach Merrick to park his tricycle on the grass. Too untidy left on the sidewalk.
This morning I saw him in front of our house. I ducked and scurried another the windows to a hidden vantage point. H stared at our crumbling masonry. For a long, long time.
Then he sent the look (toward the window I had been before) and moved onto the next yard.
I may really get wild and have the kids leave toys in other people's yards, just to give the poor guy some genuine problems. Encroachment.
He does work on his house, though: contemplative nail by contemplative nail for eighteen years.
He also takes care of quality control on our block. When you see him standing in front of your house, you know you've got trouble -- crack or crumble, detected.
The folks on the corner are doing a massive remodel. H stands vigil, at least half an hour a day, watching the wood without a word.
Stairs are crumbling across the street. H pondered those yesterday, then moved to the longish grass next door to stare at that and send meaningful glances toward the windows.
He did tell me that he's going to teach Merrick to park his tricycle on the grass. Too untidy left on the sidewalk.
This morning I saw him in front of our house. I ducked and scurried another the windows to a hidden vantage point. H stared at our crumbling masonry. For a long, long time.
Then he sent the look (toward the window I had been before) and moved onto the next yard.
I may really get wild and have the kids leave toys in other people's yards, just to give the poor guy some genuine problems. Encroachment.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Busy Season
Sum up the holidays?
Between their 2 to 3 jobs and full-time school, my young college students don't have any time. None of them ingest news of any sort on a daily basis, on-line, in print, on TV or radio. One was shocked to learn (from me) that Rudy Giuliani is now a presidential candidate.
"But isn't he the mayor of New York?"
My older students--those returning to school, mid-career--are swamped with full-time jobs and full-time school and children. They're marginally more informed but they don't care. Theirs is the shrug your shoulders attitude. Their noses are to their own grindstones, consumed with mortgages, careers, family demands.
A year after 9-11, Elaine Scarry wrote a marvelous essay that first appeared in The Boston Review: Citizenship in Emergency.
She points out that the only defense launched against the terrorists was from an informed citizenry (not the military, not the president). The people on Flight 93, she says, operated like a "small legislative assembly or town meeting."
Using cell phones, they gathered and verified facts. They assessed the threat to their own lives. They developed a plan. They voted on the plan. They acted.
She juxtaposes the efficacy of this process to the inability of the government to respond. Scarry notes that the military suspected Flight 93 was under terrorist control for nearly an hour but knew this for a fact for 20 minutes before the plane crashed.
Still, the military didn't deploy a defense. The logistics were just too overwhelming.
The main thrust of her argument is to question the wisdom of our current nuclear policy, allowing the President to make a decision--without Congress-- to launch a warhead in the name of defense.
We all know that scenario--the nuclear missile headed toward our borders, the President's hand forced to press that red button.
This should be changed, Scarry argues. Effective, speedy response and defense is a myth, an impossible story citizens soothe themselves with--and a dangerous lie. One person shouldn't have that power.
Instead, she holds the citizens of Flight 93 as examples for us all: we should all be operating like that, right now. We have the responsibility--as citizens-- to be well-informed. We have the responsibility to act on our knowledge, to defend the nation, ourselves. If we leave this vital task to politicians and the government machinery, we lose.
When we read this essay in my classes, someone always says: "But I'm too busy to get involved."
Then we all marvel at the irony, how we're too busy scrambling to question the scramble itself, the direction we're headed.
Well.
I better get going. Lots of shopping, baking, gift-making, card-writing, and party going ahead. Busy, busy, busy.
Between their 2 to 3 jobs and full-time school, my young college students don't have any time. None of them ingest news of any sort on a daily basis, on-line, in print, on TV or radio. One was shocked to learn (from me) that Rudy Giuliani is now a presidential candidate.
"But isn't he the mayor of New York?"
My older students--those returning to school, mid-career--are swamped with full-time jobs and full-time school and children. They're marginally more informed but they don't care. Theirs is the shrug your shoulders attitude. Their noses are to their own grindstones, consumed with mortgages, careers, family demands.
A year after 9-11, Elaine Scarry wrote a marvelous essay that first appeared in The Boston Review: Citizenship in Emergency.
She points out that the only defense launched against the terrorists was from an informed citizenry (not the military, not the president). The people on Flight 93, she says, operated like a "small legislative assembly or town meeting."
Using cell phones, they gathered and verified facts. They assessed the threat to their own lives. They developed a plan. They voted on the plan. They acted.
She juxtaposes the efficacy of this process to the inability of the government to respond. Scarry notes that the military suspected Flight 93 was under terrorist control for nearly an hour but knew this for a fact for 20 minutes before the plane crashed.
Still, the military didn't deploy a defense. The logistics were just too overwhelming.
The main thrust of her argument is to question the wisdom of our current nuclear policy, allowing the President to make a decision--without Congress-- to launch a warhead in the name of defense.
We all know that scenario--the nuclear missile headed toward our borders, the President's hand forced to press that red button.
This should be changed, Scarry argues. Effective, speedy response and defense is a myth, an impossible story citizens soothe themselves with--and a dangerous lie. One person shouldn't have that power.
Instead, she holds the citizens of Flight 93 as examples for us all: we should all be operating like that, right now. We have the responsibility--as citizens-- to be well-informed. We have the responsibility to act on our knowledge, to defend the nation, ourselves. If we leave this vital task to politicians and the government machinery, we lose.
When we read this essay in my classes, someone always says: "But I'm too busy to get involved."
Then we all marvel at the irony, how we're too busy scrambling to question the scramble itself, the direction we're headed.
Well.
I better get going. Lots of shopping, baking, gift-making, card-writing, and party going ahead. Busy, busy, busy.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Culinary Roulette
Note the earlier post (Prodigal Daughter), in which I observe that eating with my mother is a sort of culinary Russian Roulette. Somebody makes a fatal mistake.
Imagine the Thanksgiving feast, all that time to fumble and pitch.
As usual, the fatal mistake was mine (a dour and perhaps ill-conceived comment on the small rural town where I spent my adolescence). She packed up and left before dessert.
Now that I have children of my own, watching her walk away is harder--mostly because I'm always weak-kneed with relief to see her go.
But I want my children to adore me as adults.
This desire runs like a film clip (in Manhattan) where the 'mature' but still chic me is seen lunching with adult children; visiting museums; cooking huge Sunday night dinners (monthly, I'm realistic in my fantasy) during which we discuss politics, the economy, religion, and life and there is plenty of philosophical dissent but Family prevails; planning baby showers or anniversaries; grabbing the quick workweek lunch with my successful, happy children--who find me interesting, witty, frustrating, wise and generally pleasant to be around.
The soundtrack is Jeff Buckley's version of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Just in case the intensity of the vision isn't clear.
But I am decidedly not modeling the parent/adult child relationship I want to create with my own children. Instead, I'm stuck holding the spatula, watching my mother round up her dogs (that's another story) and leave.
Hope I fare better.
Imagine the Thanksgiving feast, all that time to fumble and pitch.
As usual, the fatal mistake was mine (a dour and perhaps ill-conceived comment on the small rural town where I spent my adolescence). She packed up and left before dessert.
Now that I have children of my own, watching her walk away is harder--mostly because I'm always weak-kneed with relief to see her go.
But I want my children to adore me as adults.
This desire runs like a film clip (in Manhattan) where the 'mature' but still chic me is seen lunching with adult children; visiting museums; cooking huge Sunday night dinners (monthly, I'm realistic in my fantasy) during which we discuss politics, the economy, religion, and life and there is plenty of philosophical dissent but Family prevails; planning baby showers or anniversaries; grabbing the quick workweek lunch with my successful, happy children--who find me interesting, witty, frustrating, wise and generally pleasant to be around.
The soundtrack is Jeff Buckley's version of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. Just in case the intensity of the vision isn't clear.
But I am decidedly not modeling the parent/adult child relationship I want to create with my own children. Instead, I'm stuck holding the spatula, watching my mother round up her dogs (that's another story) and leave.
Hope I fare better.
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