life

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.

Mount Rushmore

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

Years ago, I spent a 4th of July in Lubbock, Texas. I’ve never forgotten it. I was with my brother and his family and we ended up on a football field in the middle of a huge crowd. Everywhere you looked there were families spread out on blankets. Little kids in red white and blue shirts with melted ice cream adding extra interest to their cute outfits. Coolers full of plastic bagged sandwiches and icy cans of coke. Moms wearing sunglasses and carrying on conversations while keeping each child on their radar. When any kid wandered too far the dads got an elbow in the ribs and they would chase them down dodging other dads doing the same thing. Eventually when the sun set and the fireworks started, I remember stealing a moment to look at all of the faces around me. Each turned up to the beautiful display above us. The lights catching on their features and making them beautiful too. When the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ started to play, I cried. It was the most American I had ever felt. Going to Mount Rushmore affected me the same way. There is something truly magic about standing in a crowd of people looking up at those craggy faces. In being one of them. You shuffle through the little museum and hear the stories about how they made it happen. The painstaking process. You look at the pictures and tell the person you’re with, “I just can’t believe they hung off the side of a mountain!” They answer, “I can’t believe the precision. They even added the glasses!” You both shake your heads and continue reading the placards and calling out facts to each other. Every once in a while, you make eye contact with a stranger and you both shake your heads in wonder. Later in the little dark theatre, you get a lump in your throat when you hear the entire thing was a nod to American exceptionalism. A love letter from a group of men who labored fourteen years to make it happen. They hooked themselves into belts and pulleys and detonated dynamite to create something for everyone who would come after them. For me. They gave me that sunny August afternoon with my husband. The one where we got to be proud Americans. Unabashedly proud. We stopped under the flag from each state we’ve lived in to take a picture. We went in the gift shop and bought magnets and red white and blue souvenirs for our grandsons. We took hundreds of pictures from every angle and we talked about how much we love America. We talked about it a lot. She is a big messy experiment that means everything. To us. To the men that created Mount Rushmore. To the crowd of people enraptured on that field in Lubbock, Texas all those years ago. To the world. I just have to remember that as I get another text message from a politician and try to survive these last 18 days until the election. Here’s hoping that whatever this election brings it continues us on the same path that Mount Rushmore has been illuminating for the last eighty-three years.

Need a hug?

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

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 6

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I’m late getting yesterday’s post up. I’m late because my daughter showed up at our doorstep last night with her two boys. Our doorstep right now is attached to our fifth wheel. Let me just say that if you add two grandsons and their mama to a camper already holding myself, my husband and our two dogs you get glorious chaos! The daughter just needed a little break. Some time to herself. Even if it was just a few minutes. We fixed her up with a turkey sandwhich on a snowman paper plate and put the tv on a Christmas movie. Most of the time her tv at home is tuned to sports and she’s been unable to scratch that itch for small town love and Santa shenanigans this year. We took the boys up into our small bedroom and just basically set them loose. There were squeals and hiding under the blankets and the younger one pulling the older one’s hair. There were baby grins into the mirror and grandpa in the middle of it all wearing a Christmas shirt and loving every minute! It was wonderful. And it was totally due to the season. We are here because there are Christmas concerts, and early releases and days off from school that two busy working parents can’t navigate without a little extra help. So Grandpa and I are glad to hook up to our traveling home and come stay for a little while. We are really happy when we get nights like last night. Unplanned and wonderful. It’s one of the best gifts of the season. Extra minutes. Opportunities to make someone a sandwich. Unexpected knocks at the door. A gift from Christmas to us.

Searching for Christmas. Day 4

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

Stop and think for a minute about the noise of Christmas morning. Packages being ripped open. Squeals of excitement over what’s inside. Dad’s pleas to put all the paper and ribbons right into the trash. Mom’s pleas for another cup of coffee. The oven timer announcing fresh cinnamon rolls. Various noises from new toys. Dings, and clangs and clatter. It would be hard to describe a scene more representative of Christmas and what it means to everyone. I’m looking forward to just such a moment this year. Two grandsons. Hopefully a sister. My sweet husband. God willing it will happen. But, I’ve been on this earth long enough to have learned it’s the quiet moments that come before that noisy, joy filled one that really give Christmas its’ weight and depth. Its’ true sweetness. Ever been to a Christmas Eve service at church when the whole congregation falls silent while the candles are lit? One person sharing the dancing flame to the next and the only sounds are jacket sleeves brushing together and an escaped cough in the back. Ever gotten up early and walked outside in the snow? Your breath goes ahead of you and your shoes make that delicious slushy, crunching sound that means you beat the crowd. Your footprints are first. Ever been the first one to your dad’s table to have coffee with him? It’s the first day of vacation and you have no where to be. You and your dad drink coffee and talk just enough to not be awkward. He gets up and brings a paper towel folded into a square for your cup. You place it there and steady it with your hands so it doesn’t lurch. You want him to think his folded square is perfect. Ever been asked to watch your baby grandson on a quiet December morning? You drag his bassinet into the family room and rock him to sleep in front of the Christmas tree. It is so quiet and all you hear is his steady little breathing. Later, when he wakes up, you can see the tree lights reflecting in his eyes and when he smiles at you it’s Christmas. Weeks until the official day. The cinnamon rolls, package opening day but still Christmas. I wonder what quiet moment happened in all of your lives today that gave you that Christmas feeling? I wish I knew them all and I hope none of us miss them when they come. It’s a noisy world. Dings and clangs and clatter everywhere.

Searching for Christmas. Day 3.

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

I spent the day with my grandsons and their mom. We were taking the kids to get Christmas pictures made. It was a much bigger deal to me than it was to my daughter. Her generation doesn’t understand the need for a studio picture with a beautiful back drop. For clean faces and perfectly combed hair. For a framed photograph that says these people matter. “Mom,” she said in that particular voice daughters use when explaining things to their mother. “I do not understand why we need professional pictures of these boys. They are the most photographed kids in the history of time.” She was right and her comment made me laugh. I seriously take more pictures than any human should. If you are facebook friends with me you already know this. I’m sorry. I really am. But I love the bits and pieces of life. The way my littlest grandson grins up at his grandpa. The way the light catches my daughter’s face as it climbs through her kitchen window. When she’s there at her sink doing dishes I see me. I see my mom. I see her. I don’t want to miss that. So, I photograph it. This gets me in more trouble than paying for professional photographs. “Mom!,” she says exasperated. “If you post that anywhere I’ll kill you.” I laugh, but I promise her it’s only for me. I think whatever that part of me is is also the part of me that makes me sit down and write. I so want to capture all of the tiny things that make life beautiful. Magic. Worth all of the pain that comes hand in hand with the wonder. Sometimes words work and sometimes I need a picture. For instance, if I could have, I would have photographed myself making a series of totally ridiculous faces at my grandsons today trying to get them to smile for their pictures. Can you just imagine what that must have looked like? A slightly old grandma bugging out her eyes and sticking out her tongue while she hopped from foot to foot. What a picture that would have been. I can guarantee my husband would pay big money for that shot. Honestly though, I do wish you would have been in that studio to see the sweet smiles. The hair combed into a perfect point and protected by little hands all the way there in the car. The careful way the big one balanced the baby on his lap. The serious consideration of which lollipop to choose when it was over. Oh, and their mother making her own faces and jumping up and down right beside me trying to help get the perfect picture. That might have been the best part of the whole day. Looking over at her and grinning because we were in it together. Remembering doing the same thing with my mom. Feeling again the blending of time. It was some serious Christmas magic y’all. I hope, if you’re getting family pictures made this season, you feel it too. If you can, grab your phone and photograph what’s going on behind the scenes. I would love to see it. I promise I won’t tell your daughter you showed me. If you don’t tell mine.

Chocolate dream whip and an old song.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

I’ve written before that I think songs can be little bridges to the past. To a time you would give anything to go back to. It’s why I have spent this afternoon scouring the internet for a particular song. It had something to do with a horse that was going faster and faster. I want to listen to it.

I want to listen to it and I want to close my eyes and I want to be a little girl again with my kid sister.

Especially on one particular day.

It was winter time and when I looked out the back door that morning it was nothing but white and dripping water. Muddy puddles and cold. I did not want to go to school. I did not want to stay home with nobody to play with. So, I went back and crawled into the bed I shared with my little sister.

“Let’s talk mom into letting us stay home today.”

Thirty minutes later, we were both in the living room still wearing our nightgowns, with our noses pressed against the cold picture window, watching our older siblings get on a bus for school. It hadn’t even been hard. My older sister was glad not to have to get us dressed, my dad was already gone to work and my mother was still in bed that morning. It was not a good day for her.

Suddenly, there we were, two little girls with a whole day stretching in front of us. No school. Nobody bigger than us.We watched cartoons. We played with Raggedy Ann. I read her some books. We laughed just because it was funny that we had accomplished this big thing. Things were great until we got hungry.

Our refrigerator was completely empty. Nothing. No crackers. No leftovers. Nothing. Barely any milk. Not enough for both of us to have cereal. In that moment, I did what probably any kid would have done. I climbed on top of the counter and started looking in the higher cabinets for food the grownups might have put out of our reach. I found some things that could have been cooked, but I was not allowed to use the stove. Ever. No macaroni and cheese for us. I put the blue box back and and kept looking.

Finally, when no other cabinets gave up any treasures, I stood with one foot balanced on the cool metal of the drawer handle and one foot wedged against the wall and reached the little cabinet above the ice box. A box of dream whip. And, as a bonus, it was chocolate. Chocolate dream whip and nobody to tell us we couldn’t have it. I jumped down and showed it my little sister and we danced around our kitchen with it held over our heads like a prize.

Next I climbed back up on the counter and got down my mother’s big yellow mixing bowl. The one we weren’t supposed to touch. I ripped open the white package and dumped the powder into the big bowl. Bits of chocolate dust floated to the end of my tongue. I got the milk out and poured the last of it into the bowl. It didn’t look like enough so I added a little water. Then I got the whisk my mom used on potatoes and went to work. I’m sure it would have been a five minute job if we had used a mixer, but two little girls and a whisk took a minute. But finally we had a bowl of what closely resembled chocolate dream whip.

I gave my sister the two biggest spoons in the drawer and I wrapped my arms around the yellow bowl, held it as tight as I could and walked to the table. We sat there for a while. Both of us eating out of the bowl. Scraping down the sides for the parts that had turned kind of crunchy. Clicking our spoons together to hear the sound.

Outside, it continued to drizzle. Inside, I was still so happy to not be in school

When we were done, we went back in the living room but there was nothing on TV but soap operas. We hated soap operas. My families record player set in the corner with the top open.

“Let’s listen to records!”

I grabbed the one on top and put it on the record player. When I turned on the power it started to wobble. We needed the little yellow thing to go in the middle. We popped it in and started up the record player again. It was that song I have spent this whole day looking for. That crazy song about a horse going faster and faster. We danced around the living room holding up our nightgowns and laughing. And then I asked my little sister if she wanted it to go faster.

“Yes!” she giggled back.

I went back to the record player and pushed the lever to speed it up. That was the funniest thing we had ever heard. The voice sounded crazy. We danced even faster. We started holding hands and spinning. We needed it to be louder. I turned it up and up until it was as loud as it would go. And we danced in a circle with our hair flying out behind of us. Long strands unbrushed and wild. One blonde and one with flashes of red. Both of us yelling with joy and a massive sugar hit. Both of us happy. We were like that when our mother suddenly appeared in the living room door.

“What on earth is going on in this house? Why aren’t you girls at school?”

I picked that moment to fall down and pull my little sister down with me. We landed with her on top of me and I looked up at her face smeared with chocolate and smelled the sweetness and let out another trumpet yell of happiness. It was one of the very best moments of my young life.

And yes, I want to go back there. To that moment. To those little girls.

I want to wrap my arms around my little sister and tell her I love her and that I will always, always protect her. That I will hold her hand when Santa Claus scares her. That I will never be mean to her when I am in High School and think I’m really cool. That I will insist she goes on every vacation I ever take. I will tell her I do not want to see sunsets in Florida without her. I will whisper in her ear that when we are almost old women I will take her cancer diagnosis from her and make it mine. Every appointment, every chemical, every poke. I will stand between her and what’s coming and I will let nothing through.

But, I can’t. I can’t do any of it.

I can only remember and search feverishly for a song that will serve as a bridge back to that moment. Wish that my husband could drive me to that time. Search the internet for images of dream whip and wonder if my sister would like it if I sent a box. Wonder if they even still make it. Cast about for a way to create another day like that for us. Warm, joyful, chocolate safety. Free of cancer and worry.

Oh that I could.

I would.

A day at the County Fair

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

You’ve been. The County Fair. That dusty, hot, smelly slice of life. You’ve jumped over the puddles where a hose leaked. You’ve stepped in various varieties of colored poop. You’ve seen the proud 4-H kids leading their steers, goats, pigs around. All of them with a checked shirt and a big number tacked to their chest. Behind them, you’ve seen their moms carrying all of the brushes and spray bottles and hair spray with hope splayed across their faces that this whole venture will turn out well for their kid. A blue ribbon. Maybe their picture in the paper. You’ve been in the exhibit hall to see all of the projects. The oil paintings of Pac-man and wolves and hummingbirds. The draw bridges built out of craft sticks. The jars of jelly and the purple and blue quilts. You’ve eaten the funnel cakes with powdered sugar that turns into a sweet silkiness that makes your napkin stick to your fingers. Just try and shake it loose. The long ears of corn dripping with butter and not quite shucked. The homemade lemonade with the little lemon wedges and, most times, an insect or two floating alongside them. You’ve seen the kids looking to spend their spending money. Meet boys. Feel grown up. They travel in packs and stand awkwardly at corners. They laugh too loud and yell across the clearings at friends to be noticed. They are defiant and needy and young. You’ve seen the super important guy running around with a clip board and a badge. This thing ain’t happening without him. He’ll guarantee you of that if you ask. Don’t. It will take a minute. But, he’ll also tell you where to go to watch the costume contest for goats or where the first aid tent is if your kid gets bitten by a bee or a rabbit or anything else. So, maybe he’s right. You’ve seen that family that looks a little down on their luck. Three or four kids. One of them named Blaze or Chance and a troublemaker. “Blaze stop it.” “Blaze get down from there.” “Blaze leave your damn sister alone.” You’ve seen them all share the same turkey leg and oversized soda. You’ve had a fleeting thought to buy each of those children their own ice cream cone but then didn’t. You don’t want to come off weird. You’ve ran into old friends and shook their hands and hugged their necks and felt the sweat on the back of their t-shirts. You’ve talked about mutual friends and how much the kids are growing. How much things cost and the weather. One of you ended the conversation by saying you need to get to the exhibit hall to see someone’s prize winning pumpkin or squash or batch of cookies. You’ve reached the end of your desire to see anything else and had someone in your group beg to go to the carnival. Books of tickets and cheap stuffed animals and an old peeling ferris wheel that looks magic in the dusk when the lights come on. You’ve stood there looking up at the laughing couples with their faces a blur against the twilight sky and felt lucky. Lucky to be a human. Lucky that you knew enough about life to be there. Lucky. Lucky. You’ve turned in a slow circle to take it all in. You’ve searched the crowd for those you’ve been to the fair with in the past. Your parents when they were still alive. Your children when they were toddlers holding your hand with an intensity you miss in your deepest heart. Your best friend from high school who always shared her lip gloss. You’ve gone home with a little bit of a sunburn, dirty tennis shoes and a restored heart. Lucky. Lucky.