that's me, by the car
original photo 3/9/05
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
on the good foot
Apparently, no one told him he is a white Episcopalian from New England.
I toss James Brown’s Greatest Hits onto the CD player and “I Feel Good” shuffles onto the speakers. I turn to see Brendan, my blonde six-year-old, instinctively knows something about funk. He props his hands on his hips and nods his head, coolly, in time to the music. He struts slowly around the room, chanting the lyric, and I can practically see the glittery cape flowing behind him, the invisible entourage of backup singers. His face forms a mug that announces he is in charge. And he dances.
This boy has never seen James Brown on television. I have to remind myself he knows nothing of what James Brown looks like, because it fully seems as if the white Episcopalian New Englander is channeling him, for a few minutes, as well as any six-year-old can. The track switches to “Make it Funky.”
And then it’s back to Brendan, the Question Man. I believe he asks a question every three seconds for every waking hour, and most of the time he genuinely is curious about the answer. He is not the kind of kid who forgets the question he just asked—he’s the kind of kid who will ask the same question twenty times in twenty different ways if he feels he is not being satisfactorily answered. He also chants questions in the manner that we chant Psalms in our church, if he feels we have not heard him adequately. It’s a question trance, relentless quest of information. And I see the strut end, so I know the questions will start.
“Why does he yell to his baby so much? Does the baby like to be yelled at?”
“Some people call people that they love ‘baby,’ even when those people are grownups, like I call you ‘honey.’ Does that make sense?”
“So he’s calling out to his honey, calling her a baby! That’s so funny! Why is he so loud?”
“I think he’s a lot like you—he’s loud when he’s happy, when he’s upset, when he feels strongly.” The next song comes on.
“Why is he saying ‘I’m black and I’m proud?’ How can he be black and why is he proud?”
“You know Boris? And Marjorie. Their skin is dark. Sometimes dark-skinned people call themselves black people, and black people have a long history in this country, all their own.”
“That’s so funny! Boris is not black! He’s brown.”
“It’s sometimes important to call people what they want to be called. And that sometimes changes.”
We cover pride a little bit, too, with Brendan wishing to be something and be proud, but it’s a tough subject, and he really just wants to dance, so I’m lucky today. There will be so much more to unwind, over time.
I jump at the CD player to skip the next track which is called “Sex Machine”—there have been enough questions for the day! We move on to “On the Good Foot,” and “Night Train,” blissful nonsense, and all our feet are the good foot, this time.
I toss James Brown’s Greatest Hits onto the CD player and “I Feel Good” shuffles onto the speakers. I turn to see Brendan, my blonde six-year-old, instinctively knows something about funk. He props his hands on his hips and nods his head, coolly, in time to the music. He struts slowly around the room, chanting the lyric, and I can practically see the glittery cape flowing behind him, the invisible entourage of backup singers. His face forms a mug that announces he is in charge. And he dances.
This boy has never seen James Brown on television. I have to remind myself he knows nothing of what James Brown looks like, because it fully seems as if the white Episcopalian New Englander is channeling him, for a few minutes, as well as any six-year-old can. The track switches to “Make it Funky.”
And then it’s back to Brendan, the Question Man. I believe he asks a question every three seconds for every waking hour, and most of the time he genuinely is curious about the answer. He is not the kind of kid who forgets the question he just asked—he’s the kind of kid who will ask the same question twenty times in twenty different ways if he feels he is not being satisfactorily answered. He also chants questions in the manner that we chant Psalms in our church, if he feels we have not heard him adequately. It’s a question trance, relentless quest of information. And I see the strut end, so I know the questions will start.
“Why does he yell to his baby so much? Does the baby like to be yelled at?”
“Some people call people that they love ‘baby,’ even when those people are grownups, like I call you ‘honey.’ Does that make sense?”
“So he’s calling out to his honey, calling her a baby! That’s so funny! Why is he so loud?”
“I think he’s a lot like you—he’s loud when he’s happy, when he’s upset, when he feels strongly.” The next song comes on.
“Why is he saying ‘I’m black and I’m proud?’ How can he be black and why is he proud?”
“You know Boris? And Marjorie. Their skin is dark. Sometimes dark-skinned people call themselves black people, and black people have a long history in this country, all their own.”
“That’s so funny! Boris is not black! He’s brown.”
“It’s sometimes important to call people what they want to be called. And that sometimes changes.”
We cover pride a little bit, too, with Brendan wishing to be something and be proud, but it’s a tough subject, and he really just wants to dance, so I’m lucky today. There will be so much more to unwind, over time.
I jump at the CD player to skip the next track which is called “Sex Machine”—there have been enough questions for the day! We move on to “On the Good Foot,” and “Night Train,” blissful nonsense, and all our feet are the good foot, this time.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
serendipity
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I find myself unexpectedly with an open hour, close enough to my children’s school that it makes no sense to go home. I consider my options: it’s too cold to merely sit in a parking lot and wait the time out. And then it comes to me: my favorite Starbucks is merely five minutes away! Should I spend the money? Should I consume more caffeine? I remembered tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and my husband and I are giving up sugar and dairy products for two weeks, to begin the Lenten season. And that seals it: yes, caffeine, with milk and sugar.
I fully recognize that Starbucks can be completely annoying, and this Starbucks, especially, can be completely annoying. But it has saved my life a few times, too, a living room that is not my living room, with no one needing me. Last week, I read a book there, cover to cover, without moving except for my friendly barrister putting up the chairs around me near closing time.
“Do I need to move?” I asked.
“Nah, not til you get to the last page,” he answered. “How close are you?”
“Three pages,” I answered.
“No problem. Read on.” This is the guy I see here on his day off, too, working his way through graduate school at the seminary down the road. We’ve discussed Kierkegaard—we are like old pals, now.
This Starbucks can be a little strange, as it is often populated with seminary students. It is not unusual to overhear students preparing sermons, holding a Bible study, praying out loud in that earnest evangelical way. It’s endearing and somewhat homey to me, as I have some seminary coursework and spiritual focus in my background. And it’s a little weird, when contrasted with most conversations at most Starbucks, which I think are unlikely to be centered on subjects of theology, nine days out of ten.
So I walk in, and miraculously, there are seats available. I order a giant caramel macchiato in a mug, and just as the barrister calls my name, the cushy seats by the fireplace open up. And just as I sit down with my steaming mug, and pull out my journal to note some notes, Aretha Franklin begins playing on the sound system, “You’re a no-good heart-breaker,” All this and Aretha, too? If God was pleading with us to return to him, he would sound like Aretha, like we are no-good heart-breakers that he cannot bear to lose. That’s my kind of theology, the kind I feel in my bones.
Did they know I was coming? Did they know I needed respite, power, caffeine and the breath of the Holy Spirit? “Kiss me once again my darlin’, don’t you never, never say that we’re through, I ain’t never… never… never loved a man the way that I, I love you.”
I put away my journal, my pen, my reading glasses and prop my feet up by the fire. I close my eyes and skip all pretense of doing anything constructive, and sip my coffee slowly and deliberately, meditating on one pleasure after another, sweetness, darkness, bitterness, warmth, gifts, and my favorite thing about Starbucks: the feeling that I am utterly unnecessary to the functioning of the world, for a few lovely moments. My only work is not to sing along at the top of my lungs, for the sake of other customers.
“You really know this song,” the barrister-Kierkegaard fella says.
“Aretha,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s a soul mix,” he says. So it is, for me, too.
I fully recognize that Starbucks can be completely annoying, and this Starbucks, especially, can be completely annoying. But it has saved my life a few times, too, a living room that is not my living room, with no one needing me. Last week, I read a book there, cover to cover, without moving except for my friendly barrister putting up the chairs around me near closing time.
“Do I need to move?” I asked.
“Nah, not til you get to the last page,” he answered. “How close are you?”
“Three pages,” I answered.
“No problem. Read on.” This is the guy I see here on his day off, too, working his way through graduate school at the seminary down the road. We’ve discussed Kierkegaard—we are like old pals, now.
This Starbucks can be a little strange, as it is often populated with seminary students. It is not unusual to overhear students preparing sermons, holding a Bible study, praying out loud in that earnest evangelical way. It’s endearing and somewhat homey to me, as I have some seminary coursework and spiritual focus in my background. And it’s a little weird, when contrasted with most conversations at most Starbucks, which I think are unlikely to be centered on subjects of theology, nine days out of ten.
So I walk in, and miraculously, there are seats available. I order a giant caramel macchiato in a mug, and just as the barrister calls my name, the cushy seats by the fireplace open up. And just as I sit down with my steaming mug, and pull out my journal to note some notes, Aretha Franklin begins playing on the sound system, “You’re a no-good heart-breaker,” All this and Aretha, too? If God was pleading with us to return to him, he would sound like Aretha, like we are no-good heart-breakers that he cannot bear to lose. That’s my kind of theology, the kind I feel in my bones.
Did they know I was coming? Did they know I needed respite, power, caffeine and the breath of the Holy Spirit? “Kiss me once again my darlin’, don’t you never, never say that we’re through, I ain’t never… never… never loved a man the way that I, I love you.”
I put away my journal, my pen, my reading glasses and prop my feet up by the fire. I close my eyes and skip all pretense of doing anything constructive, and sip my coffee slowly and deliberately, meditating on one pleasure after another, sweetness, darkness, bitterness, warmth, gifts, and my favorite thing about Starbucks: the feeling that I am utterly unnecessary to the functioning of the world, for a few lovely moments. My only work is not to sing along at the top of my lungs, for the sake of other customers.
“You really know this song,” the barrister-Kierkegaard fella says.
“Aretha,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s a soul mix,” he says. So it is, for me, too.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
my mother's tools
When angry, my mother liked to wield a tool. She rarely chose the tools favored by her feminine counterparts: my mother was most comfortable with a hammer. She always said a garden hoe allowed her to survive her first few years of parenting, while she and my father lived in a shack in the middle of nowhere—snapshots of my older brother and I playing near the crank-wringer washing machine in the backyard show a little hint of vegetable garden, well-weeded. She didn’t really care whether there were weeds between rows of beans, but she needed something to swing at.
By the time we were living at the house I remember, in town in Farmland, Indiana, my mother and father ran a part-time upholstery business, and they were good at it. My father handled the skeletal parts of the furniture, the wood and webbing, the springs, and he generally tore the furniture apart in a way my mother could reassemble it—if you have ever taken something apart into it’s elements, you know this orderliness is crucial. They were good at analysis, customer relations, expert craftsmanship. They were not good about charging a fair price, their only real downfall.
If Mom ran out of other peoples’ objects to hammer, she always had a few pieces of our furniture to repair, also. We would watch for her eyes to hone in on a chair or couch when she was restless, and we children would cling to our favorites, begging her not to take them. “It’ll just be a week!” she would say. But then a customer would walk into her shop, see the favorite wing-back chair on the saw horses, and make an offer. Mom would walk into the kitchen counting her new wad of cash, and we would slump into the living room dejectedly. More than once, she actually sold a couch from our living room, and we would arrive home from school to find an empty space and a freshly vacuumed floor.
My mom probably saw her body as a tool, too, more often than not—something to be swung and wielded until it yielded the desired results. She ignored pain and small injuries, and eventually she ruined her hands and arms by simply using them too hard, yanking the webbing for the chair cushion just a little tighter, adding a little more fierceness to the pull of that button cording, until her hands began to go numb and she had no predictable strength at all. After hand surgery, my mother had to sell most of those upholstery tools because the temptation was too great for her to ruin her hands all over again.
So my mother started a new career—she went to work at the local hardware store in her early fifties, and she went at it the way my mother does, with gusto, her eyes big as saucers with curiosity and a good ear. Mom laughed about the ways the owners, half her age, and the male customers assumed a woman would not have the kind of good sense a man would, regarding plumbing and woodworking and ropes and door locks. She told me she learned something new every day.
When my mother contracted cancer in her final year of life, she moved to a small rental home from the property she had managed for fifteen years. She hated most to give up her tools: two five-foot tall cases on wheels, filled to the brim with every tool a homeowner and landlady could require. She argued bitterly with my brothers over the desire to keep those tools. “They only let me keep one hammer and two screwdrivers!” My brothers chanted in unison, “If it takes more than a hammer or a screwdriver, you need to call the landlord! That’s why you rent!” But somehow she snuck into her rented closet two entire sets of Drimmel tools, in case of any sudden urge to carve designs into wood. It was a little sort of insurance for her, her potential hobby should she find herself cured of cancer and with some time to fill. These toolcases made me sad, and they made me smile at the same time. Two full sets. Excess, until the very end.
I wish I had my mother’s force of will to bend the world into place, to hammer and hoe and carve it into what I need it to be. I wish I had her deep love for tools. In some small ways, I echo this—I love art supplies, office supplies, all kinds of fiber arts and all the sets of tools to manipulate wax, dye, fabric, paper. I have just a hint of my brother’s love for cooking tools—a handcrank pasta maker, an apple peeler, just the best food processer, the best camping grill. But my toolbox is small and easily carried, and I suspect, a bit sadly, that it will stay that way.
By the time we were living at the house I remember, in town in Farmland, Indiana, my mother and father ran a part-time upholstery business, and they were good at it. My father handled the skeletal parts of the furniture, the wood and webbing, the springs, and he generally tore the furniture apart in a way my mother could reassemble it—if you have ever taken something apart into it’s elements, you know this orderliness is crucial. They were good at analysis, customer relations, expert craftsmanship. They were not good about charging a fair price, their only real downfall.
If Mom ran out of other peoples’ objects to hammer, she always had a few pieces of our furniture to repair, also. We would watch for her eyes to hone in on a chair or couch when she was restless, and we children would cling to our favorites, begging her not to take them. “It’ll just be a week!” she would say. But then a customer would walk into her shop, see the favorite wing-back chair on the saw horses, and make an offer. Mom would walk into the kitchen counting her new wad of cash, and we would slump into the living room dejectedly. More than once, she actually sold a couch from our living room, and we would arrive home from school to find an empty space and a freshly vacuumed floor.
My mom probably saw her body as a tool, too, more often than not—something to be swung and wielded until it yielded the desired results. She ignored pain and small injuries, and eventually she ruined her hands and arms by simply using them too hard, yanking the webbing for the chair cushion just a little tighter, adding a little more fierceness to the pull of that button cording, until her hands began to go numb and she had no predictable strength at all. After hand surgery, my mother had to sell most of those upholstery tools because the temptation was too great for her to ruin her hands all over again.
So my mother started a new career—she went to work at the local hardware store in her early fifties, and she went at it the way my mother does, with gusto, her eyes big as saucers with curiosity and a good ear. Mom laughed about the ways the owners, half her age, and the male customers assumed a woman would not have the kind of good sense a man would, regarding plumbing and woodworking and ropes and door locks. She told me she learned something new every day.
When my mother contracted cancer in her final year of life, she moved to a small rental home from the property she had managed for fifteen years. She hated most to give up her tools: two five-foot tall cases on wheels, filled to the brim with every tool a homeowner and landlady could require. She argued bitterly with my brothers over the desire to keep those tools. “They only let me keep one hammer and two screwdrivers!” My brothers chanted in unison, “If it takes more than a hammer or a screwdriver, you need to call the landlord! That’s why you rent!” But somehow she snuck into her rented closet two entire sets of Drimmel tools, in case of any sudden urge to carve designs into wood. It was a little sort of insurance for her, her potential hobby should she find herself cured of cancer and with some time to fill. These toolcases made me sad, and they made me smile at the same time. Two full sets. Excess, until the very end.
I wish I had my mother’s force of will to bend the world into place, to hammer and hoe and carve it into what I need it to be. I wish I had her deep love for tools. In some small ways, I echo this—I love art supplies, office supplies, all kinds of fiber arts and all the sets of tools to manipulate wax, dye, fabric, paper. I have just a hint of my brother’s love for cooking tools—a handcrank pasta maker, an apple peeler, just the best food processer, the best camping grill. But my toolbox is small and easily carried, and I suspect, a bit sadly, that it will stay that way.
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