Trick or Treat

I usually stopped at Duncan Donuts to pick up two old fashioned donuts and a black coffee.  This seems easy enough, but regardless of how I placed the extraordinarily hot coffee in the cup holder, it always seemed to spill across the white leather interior of my Lincoln Continental.  I was on my way to the Care Center to visit my ex-husband, whose entire left side of his body was paralyzed from a recent stroke.  For the first year, he couldn’t eat anything but thickened liquids and his mouth was twisted permanently preventing audible speech. But he progressed now and was able to eat whole food and most of his words could be understood. It was Halloween, so I decided to get him two pumpkin spiced muffins instead of the usual treat.

Since we were divorced for 12 years, I didn’t anticipate that one day my life would include visiting him every other day. His doctor warned me, when he was in the hospital, “If they learn that Steve has no advocate, they will warehouse him for the rest of his life. He needs you.”  For my son and because of the many times he helped me, I had to step up and be his “person."  After all, we had remained best friends after our failed marriage.  I was just 21 and he was 42 when we tied the knot and, of course, the marriage was doomed from the start.  Still, he spent every holiday with us and we were parents and partners together throughout our son’s life.

The funny thing is that he used to call me “AdvoKate” and “The voice for those who could not speak,” because of how enraged I became at injustice and how I placed myself at unnecessary risk for others.  For example, when I was a senior in college, I could not believe how many men were incarcerated because of dysfunctional childhoods. In my mind, they never had a chance, so I signed up to teach a poetry class at Rahway State Prison.  When Steve found out, he was furious.  “You know what kind of poetry you’re going to hear?”  Since he was a truck driver, most of his words cannot be repeated here.  But if you think of Andrew Dice Clay, you would be on the right track. 

Other times, when I was in a department store and saw a parent striking a small child, Steve turned his back as I approached the woman and said, “Why don’t you try f-ing picking on someone your own size?”  Even though I would be a terrible fighter if it came to that, the F word was usually enough to scare the parent and to make her stop.  I would walk back to Steve and he would growl, “Get him, Tiger!”

Still, my visits to the nursing home were not noble in any way and I didn’t approach them with a warm, giving heart.  I hated it.  The place smelled like urine and more. His rotating roommates were all in different states of being permanent vegetables and the aides were incompetent.  Steve was already in trouble for throwing a shoe at one after she left him on the toilet for 2 hours. Because even his trunk was paralyzed, he didn’t have the force to reach her with the shoe, but he tried.  When they wrote him up for “misbehaving,” I marched to that nurse’s station and ranted, “I’d throw both shoes at you!  How would you like to be left naked on a toilet for two hours?”

Meanwhile, Steve refused to leave his room to participate in any activities, even meals, because at 59, he was a full 20 years younger than most of the residents.  I would beg him to, at least, go to the dining room for one meal a day. He’d say the best he could with a paralyzed mouth,  “I’m not eating with f-ing people who need someone to cut their f-ing food!”  I would reply, “Steven, you need someone to cut your f-ing food too.” He would simply turn away and the visit was over.

I tried taking him out of the nursing home to eat, but that got too difficult for me.  He weighed 230 pounds and by the time I got him in the car and the wheel chair in the trunk, I was so exhausted.  The last time I tried to give him a fun day put an end to the idea for good.  I had purchased a new Sebring Convertible and I thought Steve would really enjoy going for a ride.  I struggled to lift him and drop him into the front seat, fold up the wheel chair and get it into the trunk without scratching my white exterior.  I put a New York Yankees cap on him and a Penn State cap on my head and dropped the top.  I put Born to Run on the radio and took off on Route 78.  The sun was shining and the wind was blowing my hair.  I turned to Steve and asked, “Isn’t this great?” He replied, “I’m going to throw up.”

“What? In my new car?”  I quickly pulled over and reached across him, unbuckled his seatbelt, and gave him a little shove so that his head would be facing down when he vomited.  Oh my God, I forgot that his trunk was paralyzed and saw that his head was going right towards the sidewalk.  I quickly ran around the car to catch him before he hit the cement.  We both decided, with me doing all of the talking, that I wouldn’t take him out anymore.

In addition to all of this conflict, despite painting the biggest smile on my face each time I entered his room for two, Steve seemed to not even care that I was there.  I was taking two hours out of every other day, after working full time, to stop to see him. I was basically a delivery girl… that’s it. “ Where’s my coffee?  Where’s my donut?” And then he would stare at the television.  The doctor explained to me that after having a stroke, his brain was so attracted to the television that it was such an effort to turn away and that I shouldn’t take it personally.

Well, since it was Halloween and I had to take my own son Trick or Treating, it was my plan to rush into Steve’s room, put the coffee and muffins on his food tray and leave immediately.  I reasoned that the aide could cut the muffin for him after I left.  As I entered the automatic glass doors, my stomach turned.  After adjusting my sight from the bright October sun, I focused and saw a line of twenty to thirty wheel chairs all along the hallway wall.  The first thing that I focused on was the plastic, orange and black, Jack O Lantern trick or treating buckets each wheel chair occupant had in his or her lap.  In the wheel chairs were grotesque wrinkled, toothless witches; nodding, drooling vampires; hideous fairy princesses with sparkly pink crowns atop dingy, grey teased hair.  Then, I saw Steve.  He was wearing a red, plastic too-small fireman’s hat and a plastic yellow cape that resembled a fireman’s coat with red strings tied under his double chin.  His wheel chair had a cardboard fire truck taped to the arm rest. My eyes scanned up from the photo of the ladder and hoses to Steve’s left arm, which was strapped in his wheel chair by a seat belt- like restraint. Within flashbulb seconds, my eyes scanned higher to see the elastic chin strap making a red mark beneath Steve’s unshaven chin.  A little higher, I saw his stroke-affected mouth with one side so low into the deepest, most despairing frown.  The last blow was the tear drop rolling down from his left eye partially erasing a red circle of makeup that was painted onto his face to form a rosy cheek.  That’s when I lost it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I screamed.  Three aides, at different check points along the caravan of wheel chairs faced me.  He’s not a goddamn child! He’s a grown man! How dare you?”  I ripped off that plastic hat, undid the straps and ripped the cardboard fire truck into ten pieces within two seconds.  I cut into the line and grabbed the handles of the wheel chair and pushed as fast as I could, running at full speed, until I was in his room.  I quickly washed his face with brown industrial paper towels and Lysol smelling hand soap and carefully lifted him back to bed.  I gave him a sip of coffee through a straw and cut his pumpkin muffin into bite size chunks. 

When I calmed down, I had to do what I tried never to do in front of him.  I cried hysterically. I sobbed openly and loudly.  He reached his good hand out to take mine and struggled immensely to be heard.  Even with his frozen jaw, drooping lips, and sputtering tongue, I received his message loud and clear: “Get him, Tiger,” he said. He squeezed my hand firmly with all of the strength he could muster, and turned his full attention to the television where Casablanca was playing on the Turner Classic Movie Channel. 

I was relieved because within just a few moments, I knew in his mind, the real Steve was Humphrey Bogart saying sweetly, “Here’s looking at you kid.”

Top of the Morning?

Let’s be honest, Ladies, no woman looks forward to her annual gynecological exam.  For men out there, you have no clue what we must endure.  The only remotely similar medical experience you undergo is the annual prostate exam.  And even this makes my big, macho husband tremble.  As he turns his back and hears the last snap of the doctor’s rubber glove secured in place, he turns his face over his left shoulder and threatens, “I better not feel your two hands on my shoulders anytime during this exam!”

Recently, I scheduled my first annual exam and PAP smear with a new gynecologist in Florida.  Since moving to paradise, I’ve become somewhat relaxed about schedules and have tried to avoid this important medical procedure.  At 53, this area of my expanding body more closely resembles a ghost town amusement park whose colorful flickering lights and joyful music has long gone silent.  Every once in a while, the caretaker may go for a solo ride on the roller coaster, but the screaming has been muted. In fact, the ups and downs are so much less thrilling that he might actually belch or nod- off in the middle of what was once a thriller.

Like all women, when the day for my gyno appointment arrived, I gave myself the “Let just get this crap over with” talk.  I paid great attention to the little details that a man would never even consider.  What shoes will keep my feet from perspiring so that they smell pretty mid day?  How does my French pedicure look on my big toe? If the doctor’s hand or arm should brush along my calf, with I feel smooth and silky?  What matching lacy panties and bra should I select in case the bitchy nurse should glance and judge them where they lay on the requisite patient chair? After a military quality inspection of the lower half of my body, I checked my face, added my rings and earrings and I was on my way.

Before being taken into the exam room, I was given the opportunity to meet with my new gynecologist in his well appointed office.  He was an upbeat, handsome man, with blue friendly eyes and neatly trimmed auburn hair and beard.  While he did ask me if I had any concerns, my too quick “no” response made the whole experience similar to speed dating.  No wine, no food, nothing before he popped up from his leather chair and said, “Off, we go, then.” Perhaps this was a one night stand.

I was trying to keep my feet and hands from sweating as I reclined on the vinyl exam table wearing a white, scratchy robe of the same quality as paper towels.  I followed the familiar instructions of the nurse who barked, “Everything off.  This drape on top with the opening to the front and this one covering your lower half.” So, there I was, as so many women have been before me, butt forward on the table, legs open, feet in stirrups, with only a thin paper drape covering what my grandmother told me I should never let a man touch.

The bubbly, doctor bounced into the room and his nurse immediately stepped to my left side.  He rubbed his hands together, to make them warmer, and said “Ok, let’s have a look.”  As he did, I focused numbly on the mysterious colorful mermaids that had been painted on the dropped ceiling panels.  I tightened every fiber of my body. Both of arms were extended to my sides and with defensive, white knuckles, my hands held metal grip bars on the side of the exam table. I heard the doctor sit on his short stool, and could hear the squeaky wheels as he rolled himself closer.  Gently, he lifted up the lightweight, white paper sheet.

 Instantly, he exclaimed, “Oh my God, who’s Irish?”

“What?” “Huh?”

Complete silence.

My mind processed rapid thoughts.  What the hell is he talking about?  Are parts of me a red head? Am I freckled?  Does anything, in that area, resemble a shamrock? Am I carrying a Leprechaun? Was this a rhetorical question?

Then, he freaking repeated the question again more emphatically, “Who’s Irish?”

Like a hundred year old turtle that has been flipped on its back and is struggling to get right, I floundered on the exam table and used my very few remaining “core” muscles (as my legs were still in stirrups) to lift my head and ask, “What do you mean?”

He said, “Your ring. Your ring.  I see you’re wearing a Claddah ring.”

He pointed to my right hand on the side of the exam table.

The three of us in the room laughed so hard that, at fifty –three (Ladies, back me up here) my instant prayer was that I didn’t pee my pants or lack thereof.

“I just bought my wife one,” the doc added.  

He had me at Erin go Bragh!

Mean Girl

Do you ever think back to a moment in your childhood to realize that you did something truly mean.  I hate to admit that every now and then, I participated in street urchin, gang mentality activities that hurt innocent victims. In my tiny NJ neighborhood, the people most targeted by our adolescent cruelty, were Annie and Tony—the owners of a candy store a few blocks from our house.                                         

Annie and Tony were Polish immigrants with thick, spitting accents who opened their eclectic store at daybreak and hustled until 9:00PM.  I never liked it when I was sent to the store for cold cuts or bread because nothing was organized and sinister cats tiptoed across the display counters throughout the day.  It was difficult to pick up a loaf of bread without the Wonder name appearing a bit furry from cat hair.

Annie and Tony, too, were unattractive because they seemed interchangeable. Maybe their bodies just looked the same because the two of them wore matching denim bib overalls daily.  They also had similar white hair that was tinged with yellow on the ends.  It didn’t glow like blonde hair, but looked dingy like white sweat socks that needed bleach.  It was dulled by the fact that to save on utilities costs or to keep the place cool, they rarely had lights on in the store.  From the outside, then, when they and the cats moved about on the inside, the big store windows turned them into ominous shadows working the meat slicer or pushing a straw broom.  This sent even more hair and dust into the air to settle on top of the Bit O’ Honey, Tootsie Rolls, or Sugar Daddy candy boxes.  Still, we went to Tony’s because no matter how poor we were, we always had enough to purchase three pretzel rods for two cents or a few long red licorice whips.  Looking back, I can’t believe that, after braiding these sweet, red strings or swinging them around to hit my brother, I still ate them.

Each day after school, three or four boys pulled open Tony’s store door, making the cow bells strapped on by a faded brown leather belt, startle the owners inside.  “Annie, do you want to suck my Sugar Daddy?” One pimple faced boy taunted.

Tony puffed up like a blow fish and put his fists in the air shouting, “What you strange boys want?  Git from my store!”  But the more he yelled, the more the boys laughed.  By the time Tony hurriedly cleared his products from a center portion of the counter on hinges, the boys grabbed a case of RC Cola, a bag of hot dog rolls, or any other item displayed near the front door.

One crisp fall night, I was sitting on our concrete stoop, when my brother and his two friends ran to the porch.  “Did you see that?” My brother Billy said, struggling to catch his breath.  “I nailed Tony in the head with a Ding Dong.”

The three boys chuckled.  My brother’s friend, Joey, reached inside his blue Yankee's wind breaker and said, “Yeah, well look what I took.”  His hand was filled with colorful jaw breakers, Sweet Tarts and other penny candies.  “Here, have some.” Joe turned to me.  “Why don’t you come with us next time?”  My heart leaped because Joe recently began kissing me every time I completed a pass when we played touch football.  I was steady quarterback and started throwing the best spirals in the seventh grade, even though I was a girl.

Just around 6:00 O’clock the next evening, the four of us headed to the store.  We all wore blue ski masks and our blue school windbreakers.  Our pockets were filled with eggs.  We used sewing needles to put holes in the top and the bottom of the eggs. Then we blew out the insides and filled them with Ajax and topped them with Scotch tape.  Joe went up to the store window first and whispered to Billy, “Annie is sitting in her chair at the counter.  I don’t see Tony.”  “Perfect,” my brother replied.  With that, Joe pulled open the glass door and the four of us pelted Annie with the eggs.  White and green speckled Ajax covered her shocked face and she started rubbing her eyes and screaming.  Just then, Tony came out of what seemed like a secret hallway swinging a baseball bat.

As he struggled to connect with one, another boy ran behind him and kicked him in his seat.  “Leave him alone!”  I screamed. “Stop it! Don’t hurt him!”  I didn’t realize, at first, that I was talking to the boys--not to Tony.  I ran home terrified.            

A few weeks later, I was forced to return to Tony’s candy store for my great grandmother's quarter pound of ham bologna.  I never knew if she wanted me to ask for ham or bologna. When I asked for clarification, she spewed curses at me in Polish and added, “Stupid girl, get ham bologna.”

When, I entered the scene of my previous crime, I guess Annie didn’t recognize me in my plaid Catholic school uniform. My blond hair was angelic compared to my navy ski mask. She stood from her badly scratched  maple rocking chair and said, “Come, here, Sweetheart, is this not beautiful?  Listen."   She pointed to her ear, then squinted, creating deep wrinkles on each side of her face. She lifted her head proudly and read slowly and clearly from her Readers Digest.  “Be careful of the words you say.  Keep them soft and sweet.  You’ll never know from day to day, which words you’ll have to eat.” 

She pushed a crumpled Kleenex across her shriveled face and asked, “What can I give you today?”

Nervously, I stuttered and said, “My great grandmother wants ham bologna, but I don’t even know what that is…”

Annie mistook my shame for innocence and said, “I take good care of you, honey.  Don’t worry.  Grandma be happy.  You are a good girl!”

It was on this day, in Tony's candy store, that it clicked for me that words have power.  As Annie handed me the small, brown, package of meat, I smiled and said, "Thank you, Annie. Have a good day."  In that moment, when our eyes met, I put my mean days behind me.

The Tides of Life

When I was growing-up, my family spent memorable summers at the Jersey Shore building sandcastles to be washed away again and again by the thundering surf. Now that I live on the beach in Florida, I learned that in addition to all of the fun associated with a day at the beach, the event has many lessons to teach.

You see, what most people, who only go to the beach for the day or a week may not realize, is that the beach is not always a beautiful place.  It's a completely unique beach every single day.  One morning, you walk along the shoreline and your feet are warmed and massaged by smooth sand.  The seashells you find are all perfect, whole treasures, and the waves are just big enough to tickle your soul as they carry you, giggling like a lover, safely back to shore.

Other mornings, the beach is littered with ghastly, stinging jellyfish.  Your toes are stabbed and scratched by jagged shells.  Your arms and legs get bound and tangled in webs of foul-smelling seaweed.  Overpowering waves batter you and spit in your face, stinging your eyes, forcing tears, as you struggle find your balance.

Sometimes, you smell a rotting fish that sea gulls, which a day before appeared so graceful and beautiful, are fighting brutally amongst themselves to salvage. One flies away celebrating with a sinister laugh as it carries bloody chunks. You can't imagine that you were deceived into seeing it as a dove once.

Despite its cosmic beauty and its gloomy ugliness, its daily certainty and its growing mystery, the one thing that the ocean has taught me to remember in life is consistency.  No matter what happens; no matter what my marital or income status; no matter what time of the year it is, the waves keep rolling into the shore and out to the sea--over and over, with nothing to stop it, forever and ever into all eternity.

As we move through “our times” often made bleaker by the media, we must realize that there are always going to be wonderful days of smooth sands that form perfect shells of memories. Likewise, there will also be days where the dull sky and murky water seem to meet to form endless grey.  Like the surf rolling in and out, what you must keep in your mind and in your heart is what remains constant.  Here is what I have learned:

First, you are never alone.  Let the waves remind you of the support of your family; regardless of how your family is defined.  If you don’t have a family in the traditional sense, know that you will always be part of the human family and someone is here for you.  Take the risk and let someone know that you need help. I promise a pool of support will be captured by your openness.

Second, as you weigh the burdensome questions and decisions, stand firmly on the shores of the core values of honesty, trustworthiness, respect, fairness, and compassion.  These will always keep you afloat, above the bottom feeders, who will eventually be consumed by larger scum.

Finally, if pressure seems so great that you think that you can't possibly make it  another day, just close your eyes and remember the sounds of the ocean.  Listen in on your soul for the greater than you waves rolling in and rolling out that have been there everyday since your birth.  Your worrying will never change or impact that in any way.  No problem in your life will ever be more significant than the tiny grains of sand.  They are continuously stripped from the shore as the wave rolls out and redeposited in a completely different circumstances, as the tide rolls in.  Nothing will ever interrupt that rhythm.  Tomorrow will still come, and you will be able to face it.

This is the give and take of life. It reminds us to appreciate and celebrate our rightful place as children of the universe.  ALL the rest is just some crazy sunscreen—colorless, meaningless, layers that we apply as humans.  It's as if we think we actually have the power to combat forces as powerful as the sun. Put your hand up to stop the glare of electronic humanity and look within.

Surrender. Grab a beer.  Sit in a beachy chair.  Close your eyes. Remember what matters.

Nature vs. Nurture?

Recently, friends and I were weighing the pros and cons of presenting the concept of “being gay” to elementary school children.  Some were concerned that the mere talk of it could be the equivalent of notifying children that they have options from which to choose.  Yet, from my experience raising my son, Aaron, an only child, I observed that children are who they are at a very young age.

 Even in Kindergarten, when I had 11 little boys joyously celebrating my son’s 6^th birthday on an apple farm in PA, there were clear divisions among the guests.  They drastically differed in size and shape as well as personality.  Ten boys would be pleasantly engaged in a 5 on 5 Wiffle ball game.  Sure, a few barely knew what was going on and one or two may have been picking their noses instead of fielding a grounder.  Two others would be off to the side—one trying to put a firecracker in an apple and another, riding my son’s Big Wheel down a steep hill to see how it would feel to crash into a birch tree.  Then, there was the one sweet boy, who followed me around the kitchen suggesting that the pale blue napkins would make a better color palette then the Yankee's themed napkins.  One other boy iced the cup cakes and asked if he decorate them with pink and blue sprinkles, instead of malt ball baseballs.  

Meanwhile, I thought I would have some control over shaping what type of man my son would become.  I insisted that he would never play with toy guns.  In the early 80s, there were many experts claiming that violent movies and toys were “turning” America’s children aggressive.  Meanwhile, he loved Legos, Transformers, and his amazing little Computron Computer.  He was having fun and guns would never be allowed in my house.  Was this too strict?

 I thought I might have been and was more than a little concerned when I took my son to Toys R Us to select any toy he wanted after he received perfect scores on first grade report card.  My grandmother started this tradition with us when we were younger.  Back in the 60s, she was shocked when my brother selected a baby alligator as his prize after making the Honor Roll in 4^th grade. Nanny kept to her word and my brother got whatever he selected, despite her disgust.

I stood back in Toy R Us as my son went up and down the colorful aisles assessing which toy would be his best reward.  I knew immediately that he found something when he jumped up, and then “skipped” a bit as and declared, “This is it.”  My heart sunk…but if my grandmother accepted an alligator, I too had to keep my own mouth shut.  My face instantly tightened, yet I was able to force a really straight smile that more resembled gritting my teeth.  “Are you sure, Aaron, honey?” I asked.  He said, “Yea, I love this!”  He handed me a clear bubble package that contained a pink plastic blow dryer and 8 pink curlers and rushed to the register.   Did this mean what I thought it meant?

I begrudgingly paid for the selected item and sighed as my little blonde haired boy excitedly skipped through the parking lot to our white Ford Tempo.  He was  giddy.  I was sick with worry.  I asked, “Aaron, you seem so happy.  Why do you like this toy so much?”  He stopped, took the bubble package out the plastic bag, letting the bag drift away in the wind.  He pointed to the hair dryer and said, “This, here, is my ray gun.”  Then he pointed to the pink curlers, “And these are my bombs.”

 I sighed relief.

Still, to ensure that I was an open-minded mother, I decided, against his father’s strongest objections, that my son would have a doll. I wanted him to be able to demonstrate his nurturing side. One day, I bought him the “My Buddy” doll, which was a 36 inch stuffed boy doll wearing blue cover-alls, an orange and yellow striped shirt, and a red baseball cap covering blond hair.  I wanted to prove that I was able to let my son enjoy gender neutral toys. 

When I came home late from coaching basketball one night, I walked into the living room to find my son on the couch with his doll.  He had his left hand on the doll’s cap and the other on the crotch.  “What’s going on here?” I asked on the inside.  Aloud, I said, “Hey, Aaron, what are you up to?”

Aaron stood up on the coach and lifted the blue clad “My Buddy” doll over his head.  He nodded to direct my attention downward to the drab beige carpet, where seemingly hundreds of olive green plastic army soldiers were lined up in rows as if they were advancing on him to “take” the couch.  He said, “Look, Mom, this is really cool!”  He shook the doll above his head and shouted, “This is a huge bomb that could take out all of these soldiers at once.”  With that, he threw the cloth doll with great force, knocking most of the soldiers onto their sides.

He jumped off the couch, danced around in his Ninja Turtle briefs and tee shirt, and shouted, “USA, USA, USA!”

Ahh, that’s my boy?

Repeat: Lost in Translation

My day job has kept me too busy recently to add a new blog, so I'm going to post one that I posted earlier in May because I think it's funny.  I hope you agree.

My husband and I are fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful neighbors, who are year-round residents, in our Florida condominium.  To our left, lives a remarkable couple, who just celebrated their 50th anniversary.  Like many successful seniors, they came to America from another land and worked tirelessly to secure the American Dream for their children.  Their three daughters have all earned college degrees and have been extremely successful.

However, with the economic downturn, one of their daughters was unemployed last year.  My neighbor, Maria, approached me while I was walking my dogs and asked if I would consider reviewing her daughter’s resume to see if it could be improved.  I work as a grant writer, but while teaching English for 12 years, I always included lesson plans on resume writing, so I had some experience.  Later in the day, Maria gave me a Post It size paper containing her daughter’s e-mail address, so that I could introduce myself and encourage her daughter to e-mail me a copy of her resume.  When I sat at my computer to write to Maria’s daughter, I struggled to read Maria’s printing.  The letters and numbers, comprising the e-mail address, were printed neatly but they were so tiny.  Even with my most powerful reading glasses, purchased in bulk from BJ’s, I couldn't make out all of the characters in the handwritten e-mail address.  I struggled and came up with the best e-mail address I could manage.

The next day, when I was walking my dog again, I saw Maria.  Humbly and gratefully, she inquired about whether I was able to e-mail her daughter.  I stuttered a little as I explained that I tried to do so.  I said, “Maria, I’m so sorry, but your writing was so very tiny that I could hardly read the address.  I sent the e-mail anyway, but honestly, I’m not sure if it went through to the correct address."

Maria, who would rather die than inconvenience anyone, reached for my hand and put the other to her head.  “I’m so sorry,” she said with a broken accent.  “My daughter, Katerina, told me, 'Momma, make sure when you give Katie the   e-mail address that you use only small letters.'  So I tried really, really hard to write it as tiny as possible.  I even did it two times.”

I burst into laughter.  I gave Maria a hug and said, “Maria, Katerina meant that you should not use capital letters in the e-mail address--not that you should write really small!”  We laughed so hard that my dogs thought we were crazy.  Fortunately, Maria's daughter did get a job and all is well.

Child Rearing?

Recently, I attended a picnic at my friend’s house.  I got relief from the heat in heavenly air conditioning as I helped her to carry-out some trays of food.  While inside, I heard a car arrive.  It was the grandparents of the children whose parents were hosting the picnic.  I was stunned as, from the sliding glass door,  I saw the grandfather struggle to get to the house.  His baby steps allowed him to cover just inches at a time as his son helped him.  I heard he had been seriously ill, and his arms displayed the tattoos that were dark bruises from IVs.  His face was fully crimson as he struggled to reach the glass storm door.  Clear tubes connected him to an oxygen tank that his wife managed behind him. As he got closer, I looked into his piercing blue eyes and saw nothing but determination.  If he could have spoken,  he would have voiced his deep commitment to see his family at one final picnic before he died.

As he stepped through the doorway into the living room, his 10 year old grandson spun around in a burgandy Lazy Boy chair and said, “Hi, Grandpa,” but made no move to get up.  This cushy chair was the only reachable piece of furniture near the door that Grandpa could get to before collapsing from his immense struggle to enter the house.  I waited for it to be said, but heard nothing.  I tried to keep quiet, but couldn’t.  Eventually, in my most stern teacher’s voice, I took a step towards the grandson, who was still swiveling in the Lazy Boy.  I said, “Jason, you get out of that chair this moment and let your grandfather sit down!”  Immediately, I knew I had crossed a boundary by speaking to someone else’s child this way, but I couldn’t stop myself.

Jason squished his tan face into defiance and stared back at me with wide brown eyes.  He exclaimed, “I was here, first!”

As if slapped across the face, I opened my mouth in shock and looked from his face back two steps behind me where his mother was wiping her hands on a dishtowel containing sunflowers.  Inside, I’m thinking, “Okay, now she’s going to let Jason have it!’

The mother's face turned to stone as she put her right hand on her hip and said, “He’s right. Jason had that chair first!”  Then, her raised eyebrows asked me how I dared to talk to her son that way.

I was raised by a schizophrenic, catatonic, psychopath and yet every hair would be ripped from my head if I ever failed to give my seat to an elder, a pregnant woman, or a disabled  person. What is Jason learning?  Who will pass down our society's basic courtesies in the future?

Crazy, Mom, thank you for all you did right.  Maybe a kick in the rear is a good thing every now and then.  The truth is that there are probably no bad children or bad dogs, only bad trainers.