The Hallway is a Lifetime Long

I've been watching you walk down the hall for 14 years, but when I watched you walk down the hall today at 2:00, the person I saw heading toward his friends was not a child--he was a man. You are a man. I thought I was out of your sight in the office, but somehow you knew I was watching; I felt you seek me out. You asked me if I was okay. When did you become so aware of other people? When did you grow up?

In my mind you are still the towheaded little boy who fell asleep on the deck with his dog. You are the pre-k student who was sure he didn't need me to walk him into the building that first day of school, only to turn around and run back into my arms after walking a few steps. Today, though, instead of you running to me with tears in your eyes, you put your arm around my shoulders while I had tears in my eyes.

I will miss you next year; there is no question about that. You are the only other person in our house who understands some of what I say. My tears were a combination of emotions. I am proud of you on a level that exceeds my vocabulary. I love that you are strong enough to wear two kinds of plaid in your "golfer-on-crack" outfit from yesterday. I love that you are strong enough to stay away from situations you consider wrong. I love that you are strong enough to disagree with me on religious and political ideas. I love most of all that you are strong enough to follow the path you want.

Any sadness you see in me right now is purely selfish. I will miss you and I know I will. Consistently stronger than any sadness, though, is pride. You have grown up to be someone I would choose for a friend. You are someone I want to know and talk to, someone I would want in my family even if you weren't my son. I love what you've done so far, and I can't wait to see the great things you will do in the future.

SacajaWildWoods

Once a year, I take a personal day and don't invite anyone else to come along. I'm not even nice about it, either. One day, completely alone, playing in the woods. I wait until I know for sure that mushrooms are happening, then I put in for my day.

I watched the weather for several days, afraid that Wednesday would be ruined by storms. Rain I can handle, but I'd rather not be struck by lightning. There was at least a 70% chance of rain that day, so I selfishly declined when asked by my 3rd-shift-working husband if I'd like to come back to bed after my shower. This is the same guy who said the night before that it would be fun to have me home that morning. Stupid boys and their stupid boy penises.

Donning my moccasins (okay, they are Skechers sandals, but they are soft, brown, and frayed), I escaped from the palace of love, peanut butter sandwich, cans of Diet Dew, camera, mushroom sacks, and dry clothes in tow, and headed out. Dad had the 4-wheeler hooked to the truck, so I could just park my mama-mobile and drive away from my life for a few hours.

I can tell you the secret to my mushrooming success: I look down, a tactic much more effective for hunting than for navigating. I almost never get lost in the woods, but I had some issues Wednesday. The first real problem happened on what we call the mountain. Oddly enough, I got thoroughly turned around on the mountain last year. Last year when I got turned around it was nearly dark and I had the boys with me. This time, however, I was gloriously alone. Well, alone except for whatever was making all that screeching noise. Sticking with the Indian scout theme of the day, I decided I could use the sun as my guide since I knew what direction I needed to go, I just didn't exactly know where that direction was. I looked up, located the sun through the clouds, then realized it was noon. At noon, the only thing the sun could tell me for sure was which way was up. My back-up Indian scout skills kicked in eventually, and I started looking for the white tops of the sycamore trees in the valley.

The other navigational adventure Wednesday happened on my uncle's land. I know the trails very well and love to ride the 4-wheeler on his property. His land is beautiful in its wildness. Wednesday I found a new trail, so I followed it. It was nice--not tippy or rough--so I just kept following it. Mostly, I was curious. I'm not entirely sure where my uncle's property ends and the neighbor's property begins, but I think the fence I came to at the top of the hill is probably a clue. Again, INDIAN SCOUT! The trail came out at a fence line. To my right was an open field and to my left was a clearing. The field looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. The clearing didn't look at all familiar. Since Indian scouts are both curious and sly, I went both directions. The clearing didn't do me any good, but that open field turned out to be my grandparents' field. New path from here to there! Coming up into the field answered my questions about trespassing. I certainly was. Accidentally, but I still was! Of course, there is the issue of looking at a field I've visited all of my life, a field I'd been in numerous times that day, and not recognizing it.

Perhaps it's best for all that I'm an English teacher and not an Indian scout. I never did manage to start a fire without some sort of man-made incendiary device. I tried rubbing sticks together. I tried flint. Nothing. The sticks got warm but didn't ignite; the flint sparked but didn't light a fire. I don't always know where I am even when I know where I am, and I doubt that I really can move through the woods undetected. I'm a little afraid of hidden screeching animals, a lot afraid of slimy, slithery, or hoppy creatures, and quite fond of running water. I don't hunt anything with legs or lungs, and if someone else catches wildlife I won't deal with it. Nope. I like grocery stores, beds, showers, and toilets. It was fun for a day, though.

Why not?

Another beautiful day, and another evening at my grandparents' farm. Today seemed to last a full week, because I knew I was taking off tonight, and I knew the weather was perfect for playing outside. People have been finding mushrooms for a few days now, and I couldn't wait to get out there and find my own. And I did find my own. I spent time with my sons doing the things I love best this time of year. I hiked, I rode, and I picked mushrooms. Now, at the end of the night, I feel clean, and not just because I took a shower to wash the woodland cooties off of me! My mind is clear, my eyes are clear, and my spirit is clean. I went in search of mushrooms, but I found so much more.

Although I'd nearly given up hope of it ever happening again, each time I visit and have the 4-wheeler, I ask Grandpa if he wants a ride. I've gone three or four times in the past few weeks. Every time, I asked; he had no interest in going. Today I asked, "Want to go for a ride, Grandpa?" and he replied, "Why not?" Tonight I was blessed with a chance to go back and snatch up a few minutes I thought I had lost forever.

Granny wasn't happy with Grandpa's decision to go for a ride and tried to discourage him; he absolutely ignored her. He didn't even acknowledge her protests. I suppose I ignored her, as well. I got his shoes on him, and as I was hustling him out of the house I was looking back over my shoulder, mouthing "he'll be okay." And he was. It was a short ride, and it was difficult to get him on the 4-wheeler, but he went. He didn't want his coat or his cane. He just wanted to go. What I'd thought about all day didn't matter any more. What mattered was this surprise response to what has become a cursory question. He said, "Why not?" and off we went.

It's an uncomfortable role for me, taking care of him, but it's a role I am proud to take when given the chance. I'm the understudy--Mom is the one who does the work--but I'm around. For reasons I don't fully understand but try not to question, Grandpa trusts me. The wisest and best person I know in the world trusts me.

In the Face of God and Monsters

What is courage, anyway? Of course I can look in the dictionary and find a definition for courage. What I prefer to do is look around me and see courage in action. Everyone I know possesses courage in some way. I watch people persevere when life is unbearably harsh, and I watch people ask for help when they need it. I watch people live the lives they want and deserve, even when finding their way to the right life may leave hurt in its wake. I watch people facing death and accepting the inevitability.

Two weeks ago, I watched my 8-year-old niece fight fear and climb into a tree house. She couldn't reach the bottom step on the trunk of the tree and had to use my shoulders for another step. The first time she tried to go up, she was actually shaking. The second time, she got nearly to the tree house and needed to come back down. Eventually, though, she did it. Not without hesitation and not without fear, but she did it. Had she climbed without fear, it wouldn't have taken courage. Overcoming that fear and climbing the tree is courage.

My nephew has yet to climb to the tree house. Although his failure to climb may not seem courageous, in my eyes he is brave. He doesn't want to climb that tree, and he has no intention of giving in to pressure or teasing. He makes funny excuses, such as not wanting to climb it because he might fall on us and hurt us, but he holds his ground.

My grandfather is staring death in the face and has yet to blink. He knows. I'm absolutely certain he knows. He talks about having had a good life and about not being able to change things. He told me he wishes he and my grandmother could go at the same time. If he is afraid, he doesn't show it.

Courage can be doing something or not doing something. It can be taking circumstances into your own hands or waiting for time to take control. Perhaps Mark Twain would have said he couldn't define courage, but he knew it when he saw it.

Seasons Change

My favorite place in the world, the place that makes me believe in the gift of family, respect wisdom accrued over a lifetime lived, and truly appreciate the beauty and unstoppable power of nature, is at once the place that brings me unmatchable pleasure and indefinable pain.

Last night I spent hours at my grandparents' farm. We had the best spring day so far this year, and I took complete advantage of it; I borrowed my parents' 4-wheeler and truck and took off. Somehow, the warm sun and wind on my face rejuvenate me, and last night was no exception. The weather was irresistably pleasant, and I had the run of the hills.

It was one of those perfect days--days that can't happen in the dead of winter--that offers a marked change in temperature between the hidden shade of the timber and the sunlight of the open spaces. Every turn in the trails and rise of the hills brought the hope of new life and things to come. The valley that was the impetus for this year's family Christmas poem was as sacred and secluded as it should be, hidden from the road, from the pasture, and from the hilltops above. There were harbingers of spring, of life, of hope everywhere I rode.

When I saw my grandparents, however, the harbingers were of something quite different. They are suddenly, tragically, and sadly old. Neither of them is completely self-sufficient, but they manage. Perhaps their love is bittersweet. The depth and unconditional quality of their love is remarkable. I don't know if I have in me the ability to do what they do for each other. Toenails. Hair. Bathing. Shoes. Dressing.

Their love for me is palpable. I have never questioned that love, and I honestly feel more love from them as time passes. At the same time, they grow closer to each other and farther from the rest of us. In a single glance, their nearly-sixty years of marriage bolsters them. Grandpa waits patiently for Granny's coughing fit to stop, telling me simply, "Sometimes she breathes in too much air at once. This happens a lot." As he tells me this, Granny is coughing to the point of choking and clenching her crippled fingers in pain. Earlier, when I asked if Grandpa wanted to go for a ride, Granny was the one to explain that he just wasn't getting around very well. The tension that exists on some level in nearly all marriages seems to have gone away as their time together has grown painfully short.

Granny still tells the family that Grandpa gets confused and can't remember things, but the flint in her voice has softened. Grandpa still tells us that Granny is terribly demanding, but that proclamation is now a statement of fact rather than a complaint. At some point, and nobody knows when it happened, there was a shift in their relationship. They are the only two people who fully understand the truth of their marriage and the magnitude of their love.

So this place I love haunts me. I have my best fun and sharpest pain at my grandparents' farm. The hills I love are turning green and running amok over the grey of winter, but this year it is different. This year, it is as if the vitality of the surrounding hills is wicking away the lives in the house.

Adventures in Parenting

Life with three teenagers is never dull. Never. We have daily drama, mostly with the girl, but the boys contribute their share. Some parenting issues aren't issues at all; just do your job. If they are sick, take them to the doctor; if they are bleeding, fix it; teach them not to hit, bite, lie, cheat, and steal. Other issues are more complex.

I was raised going to church and Sunday school. I went, and I still go. However, I have serious problems with organized religion. If it weren't for my mom and grandparents, I doubt that I would attend church. I believe in God, but I don't believe that many of the strictures of religion are necessary. Beyond that, I believe they are wrong. I hypocritically sit in an adult Sunday school class most weeks listening to people rail against swearing, drinking, homosexuality, media, and all things left. I do not now nor have I ever enjoyed being told how to think and feel. Do I swear? Shit, yes I do! Do I drink? When I feel like it. Do I drink and drive? Of course not. That's dumb and could hurt other people. Do I believe homosexuality is a sin? Absolutely not. Furthermore, I don't believe it is a choice. Do I watch TV? Yes, and I enjoy it. I don't watch Fox News, though. Is it my right to decide what happens with my body? It better be.

Much to the chagrin of many people in my life, I have never sheltered my children. When they had questions, I answered them, regardless of the subject matter. They have known the truth about sex for a long time. My daughter knows that I would much rather she tell me needs to be on the pill than that she is pregnant. My sons know that if a girl tells them no, they have to stop and if they don't, it's rape. I was relieved when my kids found out about Santa. I have let them watch PG-13 and R movies since they were in upper elementary school. One of my aunts refers to me as a bohemian. I have also, as a result of my own obligation to church and family, taken them to church.

This weekend, my daughter was told at a church/youth convention that God made guys to react and be attracted to people of the opposite sex, so when girls dress in any way but the most modest, they are promoting promiscuity and, in essence, "asking for it." My parental pride comes from her response to these ludicrous statements. She was furiously indignant, just as I hoped she would be. She needed me to back her up, but she was mad. I've told her that no boy has the right to touch her, even if she prances around nearly naked. It's not that I necessarily want her to dress seductively, but she has the right to wear what she chooses. Saying boys react because that's how they are made is ridiculous. Yes, they may be attracted, but no, they do not have the right to act on that attraction. I have yet to hear a boy's choice in clothing blamed for a girl flirting with him.

Parenting is a crap shoot, really. I don't know if I do the right things much of the time. I have screwed up my share with these kids. There are, however, two things in this world of which I am absolutely certain: I love these three kids more than anything in the world. I don't think that makes me any different from most parents. Secondly, I love the people they are becoming. They are growing up and growing into people I want for friends. Maybe in that way I am different from some parents of teenagers.

John Mark

My 84-year-old grandfather--the wisest and best person I know--is slipping from my world. Although there is no doctor saying, "He has ________months," I can feel his frailty as surely as I can feel my own vitality and I can hear his time in his words. Both figuratively and literally my fingers are entwined with his in an effort to prolong the grasp I have on his life.

Three nights ago I had an incredibly vivid dream. The kind of dream that leaves the dreamer either devastated or relieved that it was, in fact, only a dream. Instead of the silver-white hair of today, Grandpa had the steel-grey hair of my youth. Instead of a parched, pale face dominated by crevices and age spots, his face was the ruddy tan of a working farmer. Instead of a weak, stooped gait, he was running down the hill with me on the cart between two feed buckets.

That man, that version of the man I love so much, is gone. I don't know when he left; none of us saw it happen. There was no warning and the change wasn't documented. Perhaps in his medical chart, there is a discernible change from one visit to the next. Certainly pictures show the change. Somehow, though, we didn't see it coming. He went from old but strong to simply old.

I am the oldest grandchild. Although I am entirely willing and able to share the burden with my parents and aunts and uncles, I have been spared much of the responsibility. In this family, I am still a child. And as a child, helpless and unlearned, I am watching my grandfather leave.

A new chapter in the book of my weird life . . .

Since we're a pack of rampant rednecks here at 112 North Avenue, we get ourselves into some strange and disturbing situations. Already I need to clarify. When I say "we," I mean Jeff and occasionally Coop. A while back one of the neighbor's dead trees from the fence row broke off but didn't fall all the way over. It isn't pretty and is quite possibly dangerous. Obviously Jeff's dusted off the graph paper, slide rule, and other useless tools. Well, that and an old garden hose. Oops. I mean "rope." I missed the first part of the show, but somehow he and Coop got the tree lassoed then invited me out to watch them pull it over. The flaw in the plan (if I have to pick just one) is that a garden hose can only withstand so much stress. Somewhere in round three of tug-of-war with the tree, after the heated discussion about using the momentum of the tree to their advantage, the hose broke. Since Jeff was the anchor man for the team, he was practically on the ground and didn't have far to fall. Coop, however, was the front guy and went flying when the hose broke. If his neck weren't sore, this would be funny. I'm just glad he didn't land in the fire he'd started earlier in the evening. It could happen. Not to most people, but it could happen to Coop.

I quit watching shortly after making sure Coop was basically okay. Somehow they got the tree off the stump, only to discover that the tree is attached to and suspended from another tree by some insidious grapevine. Now it's like an all-natural pinata, except when you whack this pinata (with its own stick), all you might get would be critters and bird shit.