2020: Battered, Tattered, Worse for Wear

At a recent writing conference, I greeted some friends, then joined them at the vendor table we were manning to help promote OWFI (Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, Inc), and popped open my laptop. Sounds simple, right? The phrase “popped open my laptop” seems a pretty accurate representation of what that process should entail—but this time, that task was more arduous than you’d think. 

First, I pulled out the laptop & attached the power cord. I plugged it in, then using both hands, I squeezed the gaped casing together on the upper left side by the power button, trying to force a connection. Clenching the case with one hand, I mashed the power button down with the other and began the “oh please, oh please, oh please” chant that is meant to invoke the magic that will awaken the electronic mass before me— the one that by the looks of it, should never whir to life again. And after the third verse (a little more desperate, but same as the first) the light stuttered on and the cracked screen flickered with promise. Huzzah! 

But I was not finished yet. Next I reached into my bag and pulled out the external mouse and, after enthusiastically unwrapping it from its wound up cord, plugged it into one of the few holes that punctuate the laptop’s silver masking tape cast that has failed to stand the test of time. And with that we had movement!  The power of selection!  

But the ritual was not yet complete. Next came the external Bluetooth keyboard, ready to take its place on the very backs of the fallen integrated keys that lie dead and dormant beneath it, a bleak reminder of the way things were. 

And finally, I was ready to work. My friend Shelley observed all this, and chuckling, commented, “you know, if 2020 were a laptop...” What a perfect analogy for this poor contraption!

Today I was reflecting on this, following the successful implementation of ritual and chant, and thought about how true her observation really is, even beyond the surface. This year has been so...  2020. Sadly, enough said. And with all of the trials we’ve encountered—individually, globally—how many of us are maybe feeling as tattered as this sad little laptop?  How many of us feel cracked, worn down, coming apart at the seams? Anyone else feel like we need a magical chant to breathe the light back in every time we let ourselves “power down” for even a minute? We are relying on new tools, to replace those that won’t function in this new landscape, oddly reminiscent of those that were such integrated parts of our lives, but still separate, external, somewhat awkward and removed. We try to create support but can’t seem to keep it together. Sometimes we feel like we are struggling to force connections. And it’s all too easy to feel that from the looks of things, we don’t have much left to give. 

But guess what? Despite all the extra efforts, the inconvenience and annoyance, this battered, tattered laptop of mine still got the job done. Perseverance and ingenuity won out. It wasn’t pretty, but it was battle tested and triumphant. And maybe that’s the point. 

Trials are gonna come. They will dominate world news, infiltrate church pews. They will creep into family homes and steal away quietly into an individual’s heart and mind.  And none of us are immune. Sometimes, when we are feeling defeated, we just need to grab hold and squeeze. We need to chant out some hope, embrace the awkward, and accept the help that feels unnatural to us but somehow, still gets us through. There will be time for restoration and renewal later, if we just hold on. The light of promise will flicker back to life. 

Saying Goodbye

I cried when I heard the news that morning.

The tears weren’t for her, though, not really. My grandmother had lived a full, beautiful life, and this was her final prayer answered: she was going home. In these last days, her twilight days, she would sometimes ask about home, and with our worried focus on a relentless dementia, we’d be quick to reassure her that she was already there. If her eyes darted around, unsure and unbelieving, I wonder now- maybe it was because we didn’t really understand quite what she was homesick for. And she was tired. The kind of tired that comes from sowing 87 years of joy into a world of motley soil, weathering the storms of life, pollinating the hearts of others with her busy, vibrant style, all while carrying the weight of the losses the world had handed her on her straight and forward shoulders. For so long the load seemed effortless, but time has a way of revealing the weight of accumulation, and these last days, the shroud was slipping. So for her, peace was a gift, not a cause for crying.

No, the tears were selfish ones; they were for me. These were little girl tears, defiant of understanding; tears that would not be comforted, only spent. And I’m spending them still, in snitches and snatches. They slip out, unbidden, at the juxtaposition of the familiar visage of styled hair and beautifully made up face against a crisp Skip Bo card tranquilly waiting under stilled hands. The tears are pulled by longing for more of that joy she so artfully sowed in laughter and love. They spill suddenly as lyrics burst into my consciousness, escaping from doors marked “Memories to Keep,” and dance there, out of time. “Mares eat oats, and goats eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid’ll eat ivy, too, wouldn’t you?” The tears march solidly as I watch her great grandsons carrying her through cold, gray air. And they run haphazardly at times, like delighted children exploring a sun kissed Thousand Trails, anxious to share their adventures with her over a glass of Kool-Aid and a sandwich. They sound like waterfalls sparkling in the sun at Turner Falls, and they don’t taste of pure salt, but are laced with snickerdoodles- a little salty, a little sweet.

Like messengers, they come, telling her story- pouring out memories and the sorrow of loss, mingling grief with thanksgiving- for how lucky we were to be in her garden, to live in the rich soil she’d tilled and turned, to be touched by those wings. And oh, how we’ll miss her so.

Live Mas! And With Kindness, Too...

Today I was juggling many items on this ridiculous to-do list- the one that's been giving me insomnia, migraines, and heart palpitations.  Yeah, fun times!  Anyway, I rushed out the door to an appointment, with one begrudging child in tow so we could talk on the way.

Once I finished with the appointment, I decided to head to Taco Bell, taking the easy way out on at least one item on this list.  We did a u-turn at the train tracks because I don't have the patience today, and went to the Taco Bell that's a bit further away, probably saving no actual time and spending a bit more gas, but allowing me to feel better because I was actually moving.

We took our place in line with, well- the rest of the  free world, and slowly inched our way toward food.  Jasen Riley thought he'd be funny at the talky box (We've talked about this.  It's a word now) despite the impatient line behind us and my inability to deal with even minor stresses at the moment, taking forever to say what he wanted and not telling me that he didn't want a soda and was ordering his brother's choice until after I did the same.  So I had to change the order.  Yeah, it was super NOT funny.  But finally after a couple of false starts and about 5 exhausted apologies, I made my way around to the window.

This would be the window where I realized that I didn't have my purse.  I had $12 in cash thanks to my appointment before, but a $17 order, I think.  And the dread set in.  This is exhausting, stressful, and embarrassing.  Really embarrassing.

With little choice, I related my sad tale to the busy woman at the window who had already had to deal with my ordering situation and was facing a line of hungry customers.  I asked her if I could pay for part of it now and come back for the rest.  And you might guess what comes next.

I'm sure we've all encountered the harried employee who forgets customer service after having to deal with the stresses of the industry.  You've seen the eyeroll, heard the tone when you ask for more napkins, perhaps even dealt with the ridiculous employee who can't even be bothered to do the job at all- even without complications like this one.  You've witnessed the judgement and disdain that only compounds the embarrassment of idiocy exposed.

But this isn't that story.  She simply asked me how much money I had, with no trace of annoyance or even concern about what impatient person she might face next.  She spoke with straightforward kindness, not even pity which might heighten embarrassment, and then when I answered her, this amazing woman simply set to work calculating how she might be able to fix my problem for me.

She gave me a senior discount (I was having a senior moment, so that's fair, I guess), and when that still left me  scrounging through my change for the rest, she decided to comp me the 2 soft tacos as a "promo," getting my total to $13.15 and us on our merry way.

Perhaps that train sent me exactly where I was meant to go, so that we could pick up something more important than a quick lunch.  I left Taco Bell today with the food that would help fill my boys' bellies, but more importantly, with the simple act of unearned kindness that has filled our hearts and spirits.

A Tale of Two Balloons

He had me tie the yellow balloon to the red one, in the young, optimistic hope that the red balloon, still high on the helium of balloon life, would pull the yellow one up and help it to float.  But the yellow balloon didn't rise much.  No, instead its drooping weight pulled, dragging the happy red one down.

"Cut it off, Mommy!  At least the red one should float," he exclaimed with the simplistic, albeit fickle, certainty that five year olds are so blessed with.  And so I cut the yellow balloon loose and watched as it quickly sank, releasing that red balloon back to its full potential.  He cheered.

But I felt a twinge of sadness, thinking about how many people are like those two balloons.  How often some joyful soul finds itself tethered to a negative weight that just drags it down.  How much more complicated it is when contemplating the cutting of those strings.  The choice is never so sure and easy with people, and yet the illustration seems sound, and so very tragic.  Why should that red balloon be pulled down, potential lost?

But if the ties were to be severed... What of the sad, yellow balloon?  It is sinking under its own weight, but why?  Is it solely to blame for being the way that it is?  Were there influences, predisposed conditions that the poor yellow balloon just could not overcome?  What of history, family, love?  What about obligations, vows?  Responsibility and guilt, deserved or otherwise, are invisible strings, harder to really see, much more difficult to sever.  But if they are not, how long before the joy and life is drained of them both?

He just came to see me again as I pondered these questions, the now-deflated yellow balloon slack and shriveled across the small palms that carried it reverently.  "It died," he said softly, sadly.

But after a single, grieving moment, he was off- running toward his room, red balloon streaming behind him proud and strong, soaring high on a five year old whoop of joy, helium, and the breath of hope.

That's Vanilla-bean-scone-tastic!!!

So none of us like to leave the house looking less than our best.  It seems like that's when we run into every single person we know, or want to know, or end up on tv... But it turns out that every once in awhile, when you find yourself out and about despite your raggedy appearance, it can really pay off.

The last few days I've been feeling pretty blah.  Headaches and insomnia have been uninvited guests that are free to move on at any moment (no seriously, go away!!)  Every time someone mentioned leaving the house (ok, my bed) my response was pretty much: 😒.  But I had to pull it together and take my nephew home this evening.  So I brushed my teeth, exerting the most minimal grooming effort possible- while averting my eyes so the mirror couldn't remind me about the hair situation, lack of makeup, or the weary expression reflected there, and headed out.  On the way home, my presumptuous car just drove itself over to Starbucks, and after I got over the utter surprise, I decided, what the hey- I needed a pick-me-up anyway...

As I pulled up to the talky box (yes, that IS an official term, just not everyone knows it!  Now you do, so you're welcome.) I ordered my coffee frap and, with much anticipation and hope, asked if they had any vanilla bean scones.  I love these.  So naturally, they almost never have them.  And predictably, disappointment ebbed out of the talky box, "No, I'm sorry, we don't."  I confirmed it would be just the coffee then and pulled around to the window.

The barista at the window slid open the panel of glass and automatically asked me how I was doing today.  Then she glanced up and said, "Oh, you look tired."  I confirmed that looks aren't always deceiving, then turned the conversation back to more important matters: "Do you guys ever have any of these scones left at the end of the day?  I'm guessing you don't since most of the time you're out when I come by.  I'm so sad..."

And she paused, pity in her eyes for this literal Raggedy Ann, then told me that she couldn't make any promises, but she would go check in the back for me.  I tried not to get too excited.  And yes, I realize this is sounding pretty sad, but I mean... vanilla bean scones, people.  So as the seconds ticked by, I tried to distract myself by opening Pokemon Go (the parking lot with SIX pokestops is just across the street!) with a little success, when suddenly she reappeared at the window.  

"I have good news and better news," she joyfully exclaimed, holding up a box filled with vanilla bean scones.  The good news was that this box was in the back.  The BETTER news was that it was filled with day old scones- the ones they donate or allow employees to take home to friends and family.  And then this barista, the most AWESOMEST barista IN THE WORLD, held them out to me, offering me the entire box for free.  It might have been a reflection from the tear in my eye, but as I drove away, I could swear a saw a little glow above her head where a halo would be.

Blood May Be Thicker Than Water... But You're Still Cleaning You're Own Room!

Just living here is chaos.  But I found it even more exhausting when time after time, I would give my boys a job to do around the house and they would come to me with their serious cherubic faces, charlatan claims bouncing off their deceptive little tongues: "all done!"  So I would stop what I was doing and go take a look, only to discover that they weren't even trying to fool me really, they were just hoping I wouldn't check.

Or wait, no- that can't be the whole thought process because soon enough they learned that I would be checking their work before they were released to the freedom of play, and yet they would still come in a zillion times more, the progress meter inching grudgingly to 5%, 12%, 37%, 50% completion- driving me crazy and keeping me from getting anything else done!  Perhaps they just hoped they would wear me down.  Not a bad plan, really, except eventually, I'm bound to have the stamina to really hang in there...

So, finding myself unready to yield to that life-sapping idea,  I decided to instruct them to have each other check the work before bothering me. Which was fine, except those little buggers are sneaky!  If they wanted to get along and play together, they would just approve of the most ridiculous results- out of loyalty, I suppose.  Afterall, blood is thicker than chore-sweat, right?  The bro-code is serious business.  Not to mention, with the right incentives these children of mine are easily bought.  And soon I found myself frustrated at two or more children each time I asked for something to be done instead of just the one original little slacker!

And then, finally- one frustrating, head-pounding, hair-wrenching day marked with much weeping and gnashing of teeth (mostly mine)- like a ray of sunshine bursting through thick menacing clouds... it came to me.  An idea so delightfully simple that I couldn't believe I didn't think of it before!  They HATE it. So, naturally I love it.  And while I can't claim a miracle cure for every day and every chore, it has truly worked wonders.

Here are the guidelines for my little "slave-labor" quality controllers: Check the work. Check it thoroughly. Check it knowing that if I come in after you've approved the work, and I disagree with your analysis- YOU will be the one finishing the job!

Suddenly, it's a brand new game!  It is truly nothing short of amazing how their observation skills have improved, to say nothing of how much more I can accomplish during chore time these days.  The price for fake stamps of approval are so high now that no one can afford them.  And it turns out that a brother's love will take you far, my friend, but not that far.  Clean your own room!

  

A Lingering Winter Lament

Red River families are no strangers to fickle weather.  The long-standing joke holds that if you don't like the weather, wait a minute, and it will change.  Having lived most of my life here where Mother Nature loves to indulge her whims, I should be prepared.  I know; I get it.

But this?  This goes too far beyond what we bargained for!  Week after week, spring has danced the Texas two-step with a clinging winter that adamantly stalks us as we attempt to flee into the freedom of capris, shorts, tank tops, and flip flops.   The sunshiny days tease, and each time we fall for it, happily packing coats and mittens away, only to be stung by the whip of icy wind like the mischievous snap of a towel in the locker room when we weren't looking.  Enough already!

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the wonder of winter.  I adore languid days spent cuddling with my boys before a crackling fire, or watching merriment and chill paint their little cheeks red as they find each breath puffing out in smokey wisps they can see.  Giggles echo from the happy memories of snow missiles zipping past screaming, laughing, exhilarated bundled up boys as they face off in hand to hand snowball combat.  Snuggly sweaters, hot cocoa, and fun winter hats- I adore them...

But hello!  It's April!  And as momentarily amazing (when not weeping at the fate of the poor plants who bravely pushed their way into this madness) as it was to find ourselves living in a Photoshopped world of blossoming trees captured in ice above rich carpets of green grass, I'm over it.
Bring on the sweet breezes, the promise of warmth for a time.  Give us the renewal that the seasons promise, that hope of spring we all depend on to help raise our spirits after winter's dark chill.  It's time for brightly colored sidewalks with scattered remnants of chalk, for the jubilant squeals of children racing back and forth on their bicycles and scooters. I'm ready to hear them sweetly beg for just five more minutes of playing under blue skies with the melody and aromas of spring swirling around them.

Maestro!  Change the music!  We've grown tired of the two-step, at least for now.  Summer will soon be upon us; let us finally waltz into spring.