family

Feeling like an evil hero.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

My little sister died.

I never thought that would be a truth in my life. That I would be here without her. I knew she had cancer, but I believed every single person who told me she was going to beat it. My family, her doctor, my husband. Especially my husband. He’s my favorite person in the world and his eyes crinkle at the corners. How could I not believe him? And, it was with that confidence that I advised her throughout her cancer journey. So many phone calls and texts and visits. Yesterday, on her birthday, I wanted to get back to what we said to each other last year on that same day. So, I scrolled through our texts. It took me two hours to get back to last year.

“Should I pay this bill or buy myself some new sheets? They are my favorite color.” “Buy the sheets!” I would reply. “I have this weird pain in my side. Should I call my doctor or give it until morning?” she would ask. “Do you have a fever? Did they mention weird side pain as a possible side effect? What is your gut telling you? If it’s not setting off alarm bells wait until morning. That is what I would do. We don’t want your doctor to hate you. It’s 3 a.m.” I would answer. “Do you think it’s ok if I skip Christmas this year? I promise I’ll do it big next year.” “Of course it’s ok! You can do whatever you need to do to get through this! There’s no right or wrong way to survive. By the way, I sent the sheets.” And so it went for that year and the one before it. My little sister asking me for advice and me giving it. Giving it because I loved her and I didn’t want her to have to decide anything. I could not take the cancer, but I could handle the decisions. Make her non-responsible for any wrong choice. The first sheets were awful and she hated them, but it was ok because I sent them. She hated the tea kettle too and the over night bag. I fixed it all. More than once she said to me, “I don’t know how I could get through this without you.” And I answered, arrogantly, “You don’t have to.”

The Bible says pride goes before a fall. My God is that true.

When the day came that she called me and said she was scared to go into the hospital I handled it with my much called-upon confidence. “Don’t be scared,” I told her. “It’s really not that bad. They bring your food to you and you can push a button and someone will be right there. And they give you warm blankets when you feel crappy. Staying in the hospital will be the least awful part of this whole awful experience. It’s kind of like having parents again. I’ve done it lots of times. It will be fine.” And, she believed me.

Even worse? I believed me. I actually let my guard down. I got her checked in. I went down and bought her a stuffed Eeyore because that is what big sisters do for little sisters. I went back to her room the three extra times for hugs that she requested and I left her there. Alone. Worse? I relaxed a little. There were trained professionals on watch. I could afford to nap on the way back to Texas. I could play my music while I slept. I could not take my phone in the bathroom with me in case she called. I started to really believe my crinkly-eyed husband.

And then, my phone rang. I had just talked to her that morning, so I expected a question or a funny story. “I turned my tv up and can’t turn it down and it’s on Judge Judy.” “Someone just asked me if being bald is fun?” “Can we go to Salem next year for Halloween?” “Gross, good grief, and yes!!! Let’s!” is how I would have responded.

Instead, it was a nurse telling me my little sister, who believed me when I said being in the hospital was going to be ok, had fallen. Fallen and developed a brain bleed and a neurosurgeon would be calling. After that, it was a rushed trip back from Texas and three long days in the hospital. It was Eeyore coming home with me and a funeral where people took home Halloween decorations and pie. And now? Now it is just life without her. Which is infinitely less interesting and fun. And, forever, heart breaking.

And, it’s me. The resident evil hero that gave bad advice. The worst advice. I should have told her to never trust anyone in a hospital. To keep her wits about her at all times. To call me every five minutes to keep me apprised of what was happening. Mostly, I shouldn’t have left her. Ever. I should have just climbed in her bed and lived the entire experience with her. She could have called me from the next pillow. “You’re snoring and I really need my rest for tomorrow.” “Do you think I could have the better pillow tomorrow night and the first shower?” “You’re drooling on Eeyore and he was supposed to be mine.” We would have worked it out. We’re sisters. Were sisters. How is this real?

So, yeah, I’m having a hard time. A few things are keeping my head above water. First, I’m out of the advice business. At least important advice. I think I would still tell you if your outfit is ugly, but maybe not. Maybe I’d let you rock those stripes and plaid. I sleep with a stuffed Eeyore and might from now on. My sweet husband understands and so should you. And, yesterday, when I searched through those text messages to see what I said to my sister last year on her birthday I didn’t find any. Instead, I found a couple of photos of Halloween decorations and fish planks. That was because she was here. We spent her last birthday together. I spoiled her rotten. Bought her everything she asked for, took her to her favorite place for lunch and made sure she knew her big sister was on watch. That I could steal her birthday from cancer and give it back to her like it had always been. Her and me having fun.

Thank God for that.

This country.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

I had a few more blogs I wanted to write about our road trip. Some food stops we made. A quirky place called Carhenge–definitely hope you look that one up. I really wanted to write an entire blog about where we ended our trip. My husband’s brother and his wife’s. They were our people when our kids were young. We got together for all the fun holidays and spent minutes and hours and days loving each other’s kids. Ate countless dinners together and melded in a way that can’t be undone. Walking into their house after that long trip was like coming home and shedding years all at the same time. They were just another piece of that crazy, road trip week that was perfect. I wanted to do all of that, but my youngest grandson got sick and I spent a week rocking that little man and wiping his nose and taking some weight off his parent’s shoulders. So, I didn’t get my last few blogs written and I thought about trying to squeeze them all in today, but I wasn’t feeling it. And, it was very important me to get this last road trip blog done before the election tomorrow. So, here’s the thing. We need tomorrow to work. To do its American thing. No subterfuge. No violence. No funny business. Just American citizens standing in line to vote. Minutes. Hours. Days. Whatever it takes, because it’s that important. It’s that important because America is kinda a big deal. I’m not saying she’s perfect. Of course she’s not. Neither are you. Neither am I. None of us are. But, as long as there is freedom there is the opportunity to get up every morning and try again. To fix what’s wrong. To make things better. And, America is not the guys in suits or the women either. The ones on TV. The ones so sure they know better than everyone. The ones that are trying to turn us against each other. You know they are. ( Did you read any of the comments under your family’s posts on Facebook the last couple of weeks? Or years?) No, America is Annette in Kansas and the quiet motel clerk in Wisconsin and all of the people painting their barns red in Iowa. It’s the crowds at Wall Drug laughing with their family and drinking drinks and making memories. It’s the guy who sold you carpet last week and the waitress serving you enchiladas tonight. It’s your Uncle Paul and the lady giving piano lessons at the church. Tomorrow, take a minute to look at the people around you. Really look at them. See if you can see America. The resolve that made those men hang off the cliff so we could take our families to Mount Rushmore. The dedication to work a not fun job with a cheerful heart and kindness. The courage to run into a scary moment instead of away from it. That is America. I’ve mentioned before that I spent many years living in a place where hurricanes happen way too often. Because of that, I learned that the folks who offer to row in and save you when your house is flooding and you’re on your roof are your countrymen. The people who show up with food and gift cards and a shovel when you need it most. So, when you pull that curtain tomorrow, vote your conscience but don’t drink the kool-aid. Don’t let TV people change how you feel about your fellow Americans. I might be in line with you. Seriously. I didn’t early vote. I was busy with that sweet baby boy that I love with my whole heart. I want him to grow up and be a part of this great experiment. I want that young girl from Ukraine to come back in a few years for another summer job. And, in four years, I want to be standing in line to vote. Minutes, hours, days. Whatever it takes. Maybe, by that time, we will have all wised up to the TV people and they, with an appropriate air of meekness, will be rowing their boats to make things better and not just stay in power. After all, in America, every morning is another opportunity to try again.

Wall Drug

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

The zoo in Colorado Springs is my favorite. It’s bullt on the side of a mountain and the views are incredible. Albuquerque Zoo is a close second. There’s something about the air there and they used to have an orangutan that pretended to smoke cigarettes. He was funny. My sister, however, swears by San Diego’s zoo. She says there’s no competition and I believe her. She’s the zoo lover extraordinaire! Myself? I’m more a fan of a good people zoo. I love going to the mall and sitting in the food court and just watching folks. Y’all are funny. The skinny teenagers giggling behind their hands. The way too patient mama who might need to give her kid a little pat on the behind. The beleaguered dad sucking down an Orange Julius and questioning his life choices while his family shops. But nothing, and I mean nothing, prepared me for Wall Drug in Wall, South Dakota. Not even Vegas where I once saw a guy dressed up as Elvis wearing a wedding dress in a wheel chair. Take a minute to picture that. I’ll wait. Back to Wall Drug. That place was the mother lode of people watching. Mostly because there were hundreds, felt like thousands, of them crammed onto its’ property. Ever been there? It’s more than a little crazy and pure American. First of all, they sell everything you could imagine. Need neon dice that flash? They got ’em. A full barbecue meal. It’s there. Brontosaurus sculpture? You know it. They also have an entire boot store! A huge one. And, wouldn’t you know, in that crowded place in the middle of nowhere my husband was suddenly in the market for boots. Not a joke. My husband is a very thorough shopper. He has looked at me aghast many, many times in our long marriage because I tend to walk in a store and buy the first thing I like. This makes sense to me. I like it. It’s for sale. I’m good. Not him. He has to try it on and think about it and debate it–it’s a whole thing. To keep us married, I have learned to remove myself from those situations and find something else to do. Hence, I sat on a bench for almost an hour just watching people. Wow. I’ll say it again. Y’all are funny. Mr. Man with the big tummy who dropped ice cream on himself and got a chewing out from his wife I see you. All the people with dogs, the puppy says hello–again. Way too skinny lady with spangled back pockets and blue eye shadow debating the sparkly pink boots– you have been noted. Scary looking biker dude wearing no shirt and a leather vest with an even scarier skull looking thing on the back–I averted my eyes, but I totally saw you too. To be honest, you kinda intimidated me. You need to take it down a notch. Go have some ice cream or something. Ask big tummy guy where to get it. Mom with the leather purse suffering through your own version of hell in the gift shop while waiting for your four(!) kids to pick a souvenir I totally see you. Where on earth was your husband? Probably trying on boots with mine. Some people. I decided, that day, we should stop taking foreign tourists to places like the Statue of Liberty or the White House and instead drop them in the middle of South Dakota at Wall Drug. This is where they can really experience America. In fact, I think half the country was there the day I visited. It’s hard to find a square inch in that place not occupied by someone! Even the giant jackalope wearing a saddle is crawling with people looking for a photo op. And, by the way, you guys cough and sneeze and touch things a lot. And some of your coughs sound a little serious. Tall man in the plaid shirt I’m talking to you. Turns out there is a limit to my love of people watching and it centers around the fear of tuberculosis. So, when I had finished my 32 oz. weird tasting pineapple drink and there was still no sign of my husband, I went and told him politely it was time to go. Well, pretty politely. I did snap my fingers at him and the lady chewing out her husband for spilling his ice cream gave me a little nod of admiration. As we made our way through the throng of people trying to get to the front door and back to our car, I made sure to soak the moment in. To really notice all that Wall Drug is. I did this because I have no intention of ever going back. Been there, done that and yes, I bought a t-shirt–the very first one I saw. My husband, however, did not buy boots. Some people.

Two Rivers, Wisconsin

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

When I am an old lady (way sooner that I’m comfortable with!) and I think back on Wisconsin I will remember flowers and lighthouses and nice people. A different flavor of nice, but nice all the same. I say that because they are not walking towards you friendly in Wisconsin. They are more two steps back and then a smile kind of nice. I noticed this, first, with the young man who checked us into our room. Our motel was the kind of place where your room door opens onto the parking lot and a decorator was not consulted about anything. There’s a microwave that looks like somebody might have used it at college first. The beds are the old-fashioned kind you better check under for puppies and socks before you leave–we found both. The shower squeaks and bangs before it starts and none of that matters because once you cross the parking lot and a small street you are on the shores of Lake Michigan. That is a sight you won’t soon forget. I couldn’t get over folks talking about going down to the beach of a lake. But it’s there. Anyway, I digress. Back to the young man who checked us in. It was pouring rain when we arrived and tumbled into his lobby dripping and exhausted. Darkness had long since settled and it was that time of night when hotel lobby folks are in the back room watching tv or doing their homework. This one wasn’t. He was clicking clacking on a computer. Took way longer than i expected to look up and then didn’t smile. He kinda looked like a chubby version of that famous character Spicoli from Fast Times.(If you don’t get that reference you won’t be old as fast as me!) Looked like him but with none of the natural bounce of Spicoli. Nope. This kid found nothing amusing about two wet Texans in his lobby. Polite, but not amused. Or friendly. That never stops me. I told him we were first time visitors to Wisconsin and asked him what we should do in the area. What he recommended. He stared at me for a minute and then lumbered over to the wooden display rack and gathered up several flyers. He shoved them into my hands, gave my husband our room key and informed us it was too late to get any food close. Ten minutes later, when I was back to buy some microwave popcorn and a candy bar from his little store, the computer was once again click-clacking. I tried to start a conversation again to no avail. Back to my room in the rain to eat my nutritious meal and listen to the shower screech. Fished the puppy out from under the bed and was already asleep when my husband got out of the shower and informed me there was only one towel. “One of us is going to have to go to the office and get more.” he informed me. Not gonna be me I thought and then fell asleep again– exhausted I’ve been in the car for days kind of sleep. Didn’t wake up until I smelled coffee the next morning. My husband had already been down to the office where, he informed me, there was now a lady working and he had gotten a stack of towels. “Was she nice?” I asked without opening my eyes. This was one of those questions I ask my husband that he never understands. He honestly doesn’t care if people are nice. If they have a family. How long they’ve worked at a place. He just cares if they are doing their job. “She gave me coffee and towels.” was his reply. I stuck out my hand, took the coffee and the first of our three days in Wisconsin began. It was a blur of one beautiful place after another. We had coffee at a charming coffee house around a fire that was completely necessary. (You probably didn’t appreciate that sentence enough if you’re not from Texas!) We walked along the beach of Lake Michigan and the puppy barked at water. We got ice cream late one night at a wonderful old-fashioned ice cream parlor called Beernsten’s the was something from a kid’s best dream. Glass jars of different chocolates lined every counter. We saw red lighthouses and gorgeous hydrangeas casually growing beside the road like they wouldn’t cost me a fortune back home. We wore light jackets and shivered and talked, mildly seriously, about whether we would want to live in Wisconsin. (No, because of the winters!) Stopped one night to watch a full moon rise over Lake Michigan and felt our throats catch at the peaceful beauty. Smiled at the other folks watching the same thing and pleasantly frittered time away as vacationers do. So much so that, suddenly, it was our last night in our homely room that had started to feel like home. I packed and then, to celebrate, I told my husband I was going to get popcorn. I hadn’t been back to the office since that first night and I wondered on my way over if our friend Spicoli would be there. He was. Click-clack. But this time, when I walked in, he stopped typing and looked up at me. And, he talked. “Sooo, what did you guys do?” He said with a real interest. I stared at him for a moment and then answered, “We ate cheese curds.” All the wonderful things we had done and seen and that’s all I could come up with. “We ate cheese curds.” He nodded his head and that was that. Click-clack. I gathered up my popcorn and another candy bar (We were on vacation!) and asked him to charge them to my room. He told me, “I got you.” And then, just as I was about to go outside, he added, “Wisconsin is cool. Come back.” But he smiled. A real smile. I smiled back. A happy Texan and a quiet kid from Wisconsin. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband about the interaction even though I knew he wouldn’t care.

Dyersville, Iowa

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

Our next stop started with a search for a good half way point to stretch our legs and get some lunch. Dyersville, Iowa and the movie set for the Field of Dreams seemed like a perfect place to do that. I know, I know another movie set. But, to be honest, I was still feeling a little bit guilty for making my husband trek all over the place looking for those bridges. So, when I discovered we could stop and see the house and, even better, the baseball field they used in the movie I couldn’t pass it up. I didn’t tell him where we were going but promised him there would be food and a place to walk the puppy. About halfway there, I got tired of reassuring him that he would like the place and just told him where we were headed. (I think there was some lingering distrust from the storm situation.) He asked the usual husband questions. Are you sure it’s open? Are we allowed to be there? How much does it cost? I answered every question and crossed my fingers. It could have gone either way. A $45 dollar entry fee and a lame Field of Dreams sign in front of a corn field could have awaited us. That, actually, would have been just my luck. Especially since it was twenty-five miles off our route! If you have a husband, you know that that is fifty miles total and better be worth it. It was. It so, so was. The first lady we met looked exactly as you would hope she would. Hair on top of her head and eyeglasses with the points out to the side. She greeted us and told us we could make a donation if we wanted or just drive on in. I got out the suggested twenty dollars, but when she told us the next man we met would be her husband and he was better than Jimmy Stewart I added another twenty. I like women who like their husbands. We drove out into a dirt field with lots and lots of other cars and I started to get excited. Surely, this many people wouldn’t be here to see a lame sign. We met the man who was better than Jimmy Stewart and he was, indeed, very enjoyable. We followed the crowd to a red barn that seemed to be a good starting point. Turned out it was a gift shop. I bought my ubiquitous t-shirt ( I have a weakness!) and then we made our way outside. The house from the movie is there. You can take a tour. I’m sure it’s very cool, but we did not participate. We did not participate because my husband realized there is a perpetual game of baseball going on. Seriously! There are bags with mitts if you didn’t bring yours–although a lot of folks did. There are bats of different sizes and people take turns pitching and batting and playing outfield. My husband did his due diligence and watched for a while to make sure anyone could walk on. Took a break to take a picture on the famous bleachers from the movie with me. Joined in clapping for the guys who got a piece of the ball and then, when he couldn’t stand it anymore, turned to me with a grin that said, “I’m going in coach.” I smiled back and got my camera ready to photograph and film everything. It was epic. Just so, so cool. He was out there for a long time and I didn’t care a bit. I visited with the other folks lining the field waiting for their loved ones. Visited with a local couple watching a son who loves baseball. They told me they brought him out most Saturdays. It was free and he got to play with all kinds of people from all over the place. Visited with a family from Michigan who had driven down for the dad in their family. He was on the field pitching to my husband and doing a fantastic job. There was a lady with red hair who wanted a turn. She swung and missed the first two times, but got a hit on her third pitch and the whole crowd cheered. She stood there grinning and saying, “I can’t believe I hit it!” My husband repeated that phrase when he finally came in from playing outfield. “Did you see me?” he asked. “I got a couple of good hits. Not into the corn field, but good hits. Do you mind if I play a little bit longer?” I did not mind. I settled back in to continue my visit with the lady whose dog was rough housing with mine. The sound of the bat cracking and people visiting and kids playing made a pleasant background for our conversation. The corn fields surrounding the field were lush green sentries keeping us all in their sights and all the faces around me were smiling. It was quite the moment. When my husband came off the field I winked at him and said, ” Is this heaven?” He looked back at the field and then answered, “It is for me.” Good answer honey. Good answer. After that, we gathered up our belongings and said goodbye to our new friends and headed back to our truck. Had to take time to look at the videos of all the at-bats and outfield catches and talk about how exciting it would be to show it all to my father in law. And there he was. My husband as he must have been when he was a kid playing baseball. Loving the game and excited to tell his dad. I grinned at this man I love dearly and sent a silent thank you to the people who run this place. It’s true. If you build it they will come. There will be families, and hot dogs and pleasant afternoons. Home run hits and new t-shirts. Tired puppies and happy husbands. No entrance fee. Nobody saying you get three hits for ten dollars. Just a feeling of community. Of togetherness. Of America. As we left the corn field and baseball field behind us, I tried again for my movie moment and asked my husband, “Is this heaven?” He caught on, grinned his little boy grin and answered, “No, it’s Iowa.” We high-fived, rolled the windows down and routed back to the interstate.

Winterset, Iowa

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A cozy day watching movies is pretty much my idea of a dream scenario. It was on just one of those days that I first watched Bridges of Madison County. My kids were young and I was sick on a day they weren’t. If you’re a mom you know that never happens. They always give it to us. Always. So, we take off work for their illness and then suffer through ours at work. Meetings, and hallways and blowing our noses in bathrooms. Miserable. But that day I had achieved a kid’s version of a snow day. I was home on the couch with the entire afternoon stretching out in front of me. So, I watched Bridges of Madison County. We could probably do entire societal studies on why that movie hits us girls so hard. It’s right up there with The Notebook. La La Land. You pick. I remember blubbering as the movie ended. Pulling another box of tissue out of the laundry room and burying my face in my daughter’s Blue’s Clues pillow while I cried some more. It was a definite core memory for me–to reference another great movie. (Inside Out!) I was just so proud of Francesca for choosing her family over the handsome photographer. The last scene where they are driving through town made me yell at the TV. “Don’t do it. It’s not worth it!” An hour later and after another dose of cold medicine I cried because I felt sorry for her. She had let her true love go and strapped on all the weight of being a mom and wife. I was feeling that very deeply. Dinner needed to be made and it would be me making it. I couldn’t smell and my eyes were swollen shut. I pictured myself leaving town sitting in a truck with Clint Eastwood and cried some more. All of this to say, I have been obsessed with the covered bridges ever since then. I love to take pictures and I couldn’t wait to take pictures of them. Didn’t think I ever would because when would I be in Winterset, Iowa? It’s not exactly on the way anywhere. Unless, of course, you embark on an epic road trip with your husband who hated the movie, but loves you. If that happens, you drive out of your way to make the small town a stop. To spend the night there. To follow road signs and local’s directions to find all of the bridges. To drive down country roads and walk through prickly grass. To take too many pictures that, in latter years, would end up in a box under the bed but now live on my phone. What will today’s kids do with all of the pictures saved on the cloud? What is the computer equivalent of a cardboard box? Where would Francesca have hidden her secrets today? I don’t know, but I know I’m glad I have 96 pictures of those bridges on my phone (I counted) and I’m glad I had the chance to see Winterset, Iowa! We discovered the John Wayne museum is there also. No dogs are allowed, but on a hot day the nice ladies working there will let you carry your puppy through the exhibits. They will scruff her behind the ears and point you to the best bowl of french onion soup you’ll probably ever have. Your husband will enjoy the museum and the delicious dinner. You will both make faces at the beer that tastes like a Christmas tree and you will fall in love with Iowa a little bit. Have a not serious conversation about moving there and take forty-five more pictures ( I counted again) of their charming downtown and courthouse. You will go to sleep happy and tired and wondering how you could have waited so long to visit Winterset, Iowa. The next day, as you leave, you will wave goodbye at the town and blow the city limit sign a little kiss. Your husband will roll his eyes at you and you will get out your phone to see how far it is to the next stop. At least that’s what I hope happens because it was a really good day.

Need a hug?

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I was at Walmart the other day. Cart full of groceries and in a hurry. Aggravated because there was only one check out open. I don’t enjoy the self check out. It takes me forever. People huff. Anyway, I was standing there perusing the cover of a People magazine and waiting my time when I realized there was a small drama playing out ahead of me. The lady in front of the couple in front of me didn’t have enough money to buy everything in her cart. She was taking things back from the conveyer belt and handing them to her son. He was probably twelve with huge glasses and a nintendo t-shirt. Skinny arms full of laundry soap and baked beans and toothpaste. My brain immediately started cataloging the cash in my wallet. But, before I could make a move, the man in front of me had his wallet out. “Let me pay,” he said taking a step toward her. She turned and put a hand out towards him. Not to accept, but to stop him. Because he was stepping toward her, her hand ended up in the middle of his chest. Splayed there and stayed. They spent a minute staring into each other’s eyes and then he stepped back in place. Behind him, I quickly stared at my feet. I didn’t want her to see that I saw. Saw the pain and confusion. The resignation. The fear that somehow she might become someone she never intended to be. She paid for what she could, her son handed the rest to the cashier, and me and the man finished our purchases.

When I got to my car, tears started to fall. I wished I knew the lady. Had her phone number. I wanted to call her and tell her I understood. Understood that sometimes things hurt too much for even help to land right.

I understood because the day before, I was at the vet saying goodbye to our dog we loved for ten years. She was the best. Tiny, tough and funny, but completely incapable of beating cancer. In the examination room, I held her until the vet said she was gone and then stood up and froze. Our sweet young vet came around the table offering me a hug. Compassion was written all over her face and I knew she meant well, but I said no and backed away holding out my hand just like the Walmart lady. A physical representation of how much I didn’t want her to hug me. I saw the surprise on her face and felt bad. I wasn’t trying to be mean, but I was completely incapable of accepting a hug in that moment. Too many things were too close to the surface. I needed my shell to get out of there. My shell and my sunglasses.

I didn’t want to accept that hug and start ugly crying and not even really know what I was crying about. The loss of my sweet dog? Sure. My sister’s long wait for scan results? Absolutely. The news headlines? Without a doubt. All of that and more. It was easier to just refuse the hug and make my escape. No reason to upset the poor folks in the lobby.

Thinking about it later, I wondered if Americans aren’t mostly feeling the same way as me and the lady in Walmart. A whole nation of people fragile and hurting and just trying to keep it together. Life certainly seems weird lately. Friends in my circle talk about it a lot. Everyone just seems off. Out of kilter. Worried. It’s like the pandemic happened and we never righted ourselves afterwards. We seem to be a whole nation of little kids waiting and trying to act tough until the grownups show up and fix things. Our bottom lips quivering while we stand in a corner with our arms crossed. Waiting for grocery prices to go back to reasonable, waiting for headlines to be less terrifying and waiting for some sign that things will be better this time next year. Will they?

I read a story about a bunch of college kids the other day at a church service that wanted to be baptized so badly they did it in the beds of pickup trucks. Filled them up with water hoses and got it done. The Walmart man was going to buy the groceries. The vet offered a hug. An election is coming. Some opportunity to choose.

Little signs, but signs I hold onto all the same.

I love you America.

Mitzi used points.

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I had the occasion to be having lunch in a Thai restaurant not long ago. One of those places with gleaming dark tables that are placed entirely too close to each other. Fine if the place is empty. A problem if it’s not. Well, it’s a problem for me. I mostly don’t enjoy strangers listening to my conversations. The folks who made my phone notwithstanding. You know how that goes.

Anyway, back to my lunch. I was there with my husband. He’s mostly quiet. Mostly always. We work it out by me talking and him grunting. That’s all I need. I have more than enough words for both of us. This particular day I was glad he was quiet for another reason. I was in heaven. The closeness of the tables were yielding rich, rich fodder for my writer’s heart. The lunching ladies at the table next to us appeared to be operating under the belief they were enclosed in a force field created just for them that kept the rest of the restaurant from hearing their conversation. They were not. I assure you. I could hear everything. And I was listening. Oh boy was I.

Before you judge please understand they were talking about really personal things. Things I shut my bedroom door and hide in my closet to talk to my sister about! Seriously.

I’m just going to say the one with flashy diamond rings is married to a man who should be checking his credit card bills a little closer. His wife isn’t traveling solo. The one in the pink sweater set has finally found a girl named Veronica who waxes her in the manner she grew accustomed to the three years she lived in New York. A perfectly precious apartment across the street from Central Park and nether regions waxed as smooth as a new born baby. She shared the number with the girls in case they wanted to switch from that perfectly horrid Angela at the other place. She promised them they would be pleased and reapplied her red lipstick. It matched my cheeks. The one who kept checking her watch and who ate all of her lunch, even though she wasn’t remotely hungry, has decided not to invite April to her next luncheon. I guess I understand. April did blow her nose on one of her host’s beautiful napkins at the table while people were still eating. And she understands they were paper napkins but they were expensive and they were on theme. Who does that? At this point in her story, per my peripheral vision, she rested her forehead onto her open hand while the lady next to her patted her shoulder. Tragedy. In the Thai restaurant. I used my own napkin to wipe a tear before it landed in my food. I felt her trauma.

Sometimes, as a writer, I have to work hard to hear someone’s conversation. I guess I really shouldn’t listen, but y’all are interesting. You give me great ideas that I use to my advantage. But not with these ladies. They did me the favor of talking at full volume. In a loud restaurant. I didn’t miss a word. Not one. Well that is until the topic of a friend’s upcoming wedding came up. It’s going to be in Vail. In the summer. They hate the color palette. Champagne and gold. So dated. Shrimp for dinner sounds good. They are all flying together. It will be so fun to get drunk on the plane together. (Bet that will generate a headline somewhere!) And the condos they rented are walking distance from the shops. One of them is looking for a perfect carving to hang over the new fireplace at the lake house.

But then, something incredible happened. A topic was introduced these ladies didn’t feel was polite to discuss in public. I’m not even kidding. I mean at this point any patron of the restaurant could have blackmailed any of the three with a pretty fair chance of scoring some cash. But, apparently there are some things that are just not to be shared. Mitzy, their dear friend, was taking a different flight than the rest of them because, pink sweater set whispered quietly and emphatically, she bought her ticket with points. “Points!” she repeated fiercely.

Granted, I almost missed that part but, thankfully, I had accidentally dropped my napkin and had to bend over to retrieve it. What? You’ve never dropped your napkin? At least I’m not April. Anyway, back to the ladies, their friend had not used cash and purchased the best seat available to anyone on earth. Instead, she had taken a lesser seat to save money. Three heads landed in three palms and they were all patting each other’s back. A commiserative circle for the ages.

It was at this point that I choked on my soup and my husband looked up at me, grinned and asked if I was ready to leave. I grinned back and said, “No way am I leaving this chair. Ever.” He grinned again and went back to his rice. Turns out he’s learned a few things from me.

There would be a long conversation later. The miles in our truck spent relaying the conversation to each other and laughing until our sides hurt. Taking comfort in the fact that our credit card bills hold no secrets. That we use plain ole’ Bounty napkins and can withstand table nose blowing. That we would never discuss waxing to each other much less in public.

And that we have a heart for Mitzi and her points. She could be one of us. Granted probably much better dressed, but I bet she wouldn’t turn down the free peanuts. Mitzi seems like a practical gal. And she has my eternal respect and gratitude.

She made those three lower their voices and that fact is still making me giggle. A lot. I like giggling and I like stranger’s conversations. Sue me. I’m a writer.

Searching for Christmas. Day 10.

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

In the parking lot was an older gentleman with three bouquets of flowers. He was waiting patiently for a woman dressed in fancy Christmas attire except for a pair of light blue house shoes. We followed them in and joined the rest of the crowd waiting for the doors to open. We were a mixed bag of church clothes and ugly sweaters. Slacks and jeans. People were greeting each other and talking about how hard the cast had worked to get ready. Lots of smiles and hugs. I took my grandson over to the drink cart and the lady made him a coke and gave it to him wrapped in a thick white napkin. He thanked her in his serious, I wanna get this right, voice. Finally, a lady wearing a Christmas headband found our name on the list and led us up two stairs and down a long ramp to our seats. My grandson was handsome in his Christmas sweater and my husband was unusually festive in his Santa hat. He grows his beard out every year at this time so he fits the part. I tried to take a picture, but silliness ensued and I ended up with two pictures of my grandson’s tonsils. We sat in the crowd of people waiting for the production to start. I eavesdropped on several conversations around me and made polite conversation with the older woman next to me. She instantly wanted to know if I was a local. Where I lived. Who I belonged to. I explained that we were visitors. This immediately made me more interesting and slightly less so. We finished up our polite chatter and she turned back to all of the familiar faces surrounding her. These were people that knew each other. The children in the cast were discussed and catalogued by who their parents were and when those parents graduated. I smiled as I listened to them all talk. I belonged to a little town just like this. I just wasn’t there. No matter. I was ready for the next two hours of speeches from the director and presents given to community sponsors. I was ready for the six little girls dressed in glitter that danced to Run Rudolph Run. I was ready for the corny jokes and the bad acting. I was ready for the look of sweet awe when the “real” Santa Claus snuck into the audience as beautiful music played and handed out old fashioned peppermints. Right from his velvet gloves into my grandson’s cupped hands. I was ready to sing along with the audience and to laugh hysterically when one of the actors had wrapping paper stuck on his shoe when he came on stage. Heck, I was even ready to wait an extra long time for the next act to start when we heard a crash behind the curtain and it was obvious something had tipped over or malfunctioned. And, I was so ready to hold my grandson’s hand as we walked back to our car. He was singing Jingle Bells and when I asked him what his favorite part was he answered, “My favorite was all of it.” Me too kiddo. Me too. If you see a sign advertising a local production this season go see it. If there’s a line to donate a little extra to the local theatre program do that too. Buy their cookies and programs and whatever else they’re selling. Because what they are really selling is community. Connection. Christmas spirit. All the lovely things about small towns this time of year.

Searching for Christmas. Day 7

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

Have you seen them? I know you have. The big cardboard boxes wrapped in Christmas paper taking up room in local businesses. Sometimes, because you’re curious, you stop and peek in. You find different things in the bottom. Sometimes it’s coats and packages of socks and maybe a couple of little kid shirts. The kind that come three to a package with the price stuck on with that extra sticky stuff that’s almost impossible to get off. Sometimes it’s toys. The little telephone on a string seems to be popular. Nerf footballs. Weird monster looking creatures that little boys love. Whatever it is it’s on its’ way to a kid somewhere. A kid who will wake up Christmas morning to a surprise. A present. A part to play in the excitement of the morning. God bless the folks who take the time to wrap those boxes. To put them out. To direct people to them when they wander in. The ones who gather up whatever is in the bottom of the box every evening and add it to a pile in the back. Waiting until the very last moment to drop it off somewhere or call to have it picked up. Hoping that the pile grows and that their red wrapped box makes a huge difference. And God bless the people who come to get the piles. Who take them back to a church or a conference room somewhere and separate them and log them and wrap them. They put shiny tags on them and group them for families or schools or neighborhoods. They load them up again and take them where they are welcomed by another crew that have arranged a little get together. There will be paper tablecloths with gold bells and greenery on them. There will be red paper plates and hot chocolate and cookies decorated like snowflakes. The lights will be too bright and everyone will feel a little awkward but there will be a warmth in the air. A gentleness and lots of quick smiles and parents with their hands on their kid’s shoulders or the back of their necks. Moms will be holding several jackets and Dads will be holding the littlest of their families. Candy canes will appear and some of those cheaply made Santa hats. Kids will get a little braver and some will start making furtive trips by the tree to see if there is a present there for them. They will run back to their parents grinning and hide again behind their legs. Soon Bob from accounting or Charles that teaches adult Sunday School will show up dressed as Santa. He will settle himself into an office chair or a couch pulled in from another room and the kids will assemble into a line before anyone even knows it’s happening. That one lady who always volunteers for these things will appear with a clipboard and starting checking off names from a list. Each child will leave with a gift wrapped and tagged with their name. They will take it back to the parents with a hopeful grin. “Can I open it now?” their eyes will ask. Sometimes the answer is, “Yes.” Sometimes the answer is, “Save it for Christmas.” Gradually the parents will leave with their tired kids and their arms full of gifts. Volunteers will begin to stack chairs and throw away empty cups and pick up discarded Santa hats. Eventually somebody will unplug the Christmas tree and shut off the overhead lights. It’s all as simple and as beautiful as that. It happens every Christmas and it always starts with someone wrapping a giant box in pretty paper. With someone being willing to be part of the chain of good deeds that will lead to four year old Christoper in his footy pajamas having a toy on the most important kid day of the whole year.