Behaving Badly

One Day, Two Examples of how To Be or Not To Be, Three Thoughts...

Scenario 1. A car is pulled over on the edge of a busy four-lane, with no shoulder to speak of. The emergency blinkers are on, but this is a dangerous place to stop the car, with traffic having to move over to get around her. WTF??
As I move past, I see the middle-aged driver, in office attire, is shepherding a mamma duck and her babies down the narrow sidewalk. If her stopped car was a bad location, this duck family was in the worst spot ever - between a concrete wall and traffic whizzing by. I watched in my rear view mirror until I could no longer see her; that woman walked the ducks clear down and around a corner to safety.
Score one for caring! What a great lesson to those of us zipping by!

Scenario 2: A young woman, in the car ahead of me at Wendy's drive-through, is ordering food. It looks like there are three small heads in the car, and a lot of movement. Moments, then minutes, go by. The chitlin's are apparently changing their mind about what they want, or don't want, to eat. The voice on the other end of the order line is calm, but after some minutes go by there is a controlled tone of exasperation. Cars are piling up behind us.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard.
By the time the woman pulls up to the window, seven minutes have gone by, and eight cars have accumulated behind her. She is apparently oblivious to the fact that she is sucking up lot of time and energy in the drive-through line, and the children are totally unaware of the wait their indecision has created for others.
Likewise, the food delivery is not smooth. Several items go from the car back into the delivery window. There is nary an adult-decision-to-speed-this-up nor a glance backwards to the traffic jam this indecision has created. Nor, in all likelihood, any use of the teachable moment as to how our choices and activities impact others around us. Probably not even a notice of the numbers of customers, let alone restaurant workers, who have been inconsiderately inconvenienced by these choices.

We are, as some have said, "all in this together". Every unconscious or conscious decision made throughout our days has the potential to impact others. Driving slow in the fast lane? Notice that car coming up behind you, and move over. Waiting at an intersection? Pay attention for your turn. (I've seen a disturbing increase in the inconsiderate practice of "If I Stopped Then I Can Go", irregardless of whose "turn" it is!) See a car coming? Get out of the way! Another disturbing trend, observed particularly in young people: Not Having Enough Sense To Get Out Of The Street. Have you seen some young folks just, slow as molasses, saunter across a street or parking lot when the automobile obviously has the right of way? Staring at the patient driver as if you've committed Murder One while you are awaiting their tedious passage? OMG. How incredibly inconsiderate. These children must be the progeny of the woman in the Wendy's line debacle...

Got a person behind you at the grocery store who has just a few items to your thirty? Wave them through ahead of you. See a person or animal in distress? Lend a hand. In the street with a car coming? Move out of the way! See an article of clothing or a product on the floor in a store? Pick it up. Walk past a piece of garbage in a parking lot? Give it a lift to the nearest canister.

That tome about Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarden has some validity. If only we had all passed Kindergarden! Think about it, folks. We are all in this together. Make Nice, Make Your Day, and Make Someone Else's.

Half of Aunt Agnes

In the mail today I found a card with telltale script -- like the kind of writing they used to inscribe the year on your Christmas ornament at Daytons; done with that odd battery-powered wobbledy-pen. The lines were stretched out; the pressure varied. As if I couldn't tell, "Ms. Agnes Schipansky" read across the return label.

My heart leaps when a letter comes from Great Aunt Agnes. My very first memory of her is stamped into one of those 1960's square color photos; a picture of myself and another young relative, grinning broadly and holding armloads of kittens in the summer sun. Agnes always had cats. For years, whenever it was my birthday, a card would arrive - like clockwork - with a little note and a dollar. Always a dollar.

When I got to be a cynical teenager, I'd just shrug at the dollar - what on earth could you do with that? But mom would "tsk" me and I'd end up writing that thank you note; the obligatory one that you had to have done before supper. And I did.

Even on into college, Aunt Agne's cards continued to arrive, sometimes with a few dollars, sometimes even with a five. By that time, I'd begun to appreciate the persistent recognition that this distant relative offered my small life. I'd begun growing past my teen disinterest in anything family.

Maybe it's because of this type of tradition that I so love the arts of paper and pen. Having a mother who writes in her diary every single day - still even at age 89; who made me write thank you notes and enjoyed sharing the written notes and letters of family and friends, and having those lifelong missives from Aunt Agnes -- these have formed my love of news, my contentment at the sound of the pen scraping on the paper or the keystrokes tapping across the computer screen.

I pulled out the card: Two cats, illustrated against a backdrop of a Christmas tree, presents, and fireplace, with another cat hanging in Christmas stocking. "The Humane Society of the United States" on the back. On the biggest cat, scripted in that controlled ink scrawl on the white of his chest "Happy Birthday!". On the littler cat: "Me Too!" Agnes' playful spontaneity is so exactly like that of a cat.

Inside; lines mostly straight and solid, running the same quirky script with capitol letters sometimes emphasizing particular words:

Dear all the people and kitties and Betsey and Gamaches - Monday March 1

Today I got the long juicy letter from Betsey reminding me it is Birthday time and I forgot but I can blame everything on that old age -- have B. cards somewhere but can't find one when I need em. Can't believe all the bad things Betsey goes thru and still comes up smiling. Hopefully we had the last snowstorms ? of the season. March is usually so windy and that's cold - O ya one for my Granson has a birthday tomorrow (15) Nicholas my Nick's dad is baby sitting me tonite - the big shots say I must not be left alone and Mark is working nites this week. Thankful he still has a job! O yes the Heart arrived safely I read it twice can't believe (something illegible) well thanks for all the goodies and cooking etc. its sure appreciated when u r down and out.

the old Granny

I can see Agnes sitting there at her kitchen table in Michigan; light peeping into her 1950's kitchen; a cup of coffee next to her, her parrot chirping behind her and one if not two of her kitties sitting on her lap, making a Christmas Card into my B day card and writing me that letter. My heart just fills with love for this tenacious woman, who has remembered me for 50 years of my life.

Agnes turned 100 on December 6.

I shall have to write her a letter tomorrow. I've got to let her know I'm getting over my flu and there's some places where the snow is all gone in the backyard now; that Mom is fine and Barbie and Laurie are in Florida. I'll send her some pictures of the kitties.

Rabbitidy

I looked to my left in the yard yesterday only to realize that I was being acutely observed by a bunny. Wildly camoflauged to last fall's maple leaves, she stood motionless as I cooed in her direction. She did't appear to be afraid, or perhaps it was more of an "if I move you might eat me" scenario.
I noticed she had dried grass in her mouth.
"Odd," thought I, will all of the birthing green nearby. "Why DRIED grass?"
Some time later as I came up around the raspberries, I noticed an area of the still-winter-buried garden where the rich black loam was bare, as though someone had moved a pot recently. My first thought was that perhaps someone had swiped a container of some sort; but what was there last fall? As I moved around closer it became apparent that the soil area had a pocket going down; about five inches across, and lined with dried grass. Right behind the old tansy stalks.
Pat and I are going to be grandparents, of sorts.
The rabbit, who has since been dubbed "Miss Bunny"- no offense intended to anyone who does not condone rabbit sex before marriage - hung around much of the evening. By then, I'd snuck over to the tree nearby and laid out carrots and a pan of water. Are we suckers, or what??
This morning, I brought Pat out to show him. The bunny bassinet was completed camoflauged over with dried grass, like those traps you see on old Tarzan movies. If I had not known it was there, I would never have suspected.
Perhaps I've got some karma going with rabbits.
The other spring, while heading in a rush to a curriculum meeting, I noted a huge raven swooping down into the grass. As I slowed to watch, he picked UP something; then dropped it back down a few inches from the ground.
With scarely a glance behind me I pulled the truck over and lept out. The raven was prancing circles around the dropped prey now, and off to the side 25 feet or so, a rabbit watched.
"Git!" I hollered and waved my arms at the bird. "Get outta here!" The raven reluctantly lofted off. I quickly scanned the grass. A tiny, tiny rabbit lay, breathing fast. I carefully scooped him into my hand, where he lay still, looking at me, breathing hard; a tiny rivulet of blood on his lip.
I looked over to the edge of the woods, where the other rabbit still watched on. Mom?
Now, realize that all of this happened within, oh, about 90 seconds. Here I am, vehicle pulled erraticly to the side of a busy residential street, standing in an open field in my work clothes, holding a neonatal rabbit in my hand (aren't you NOT supposed to touch the babies?), late for my curriculum meeting, raven scolding overhead, me trying to figure out what the heck to do...Why do I always get myself into these situations?
A fire department van pulled up behind my truck, and an officer got out and walked over. My brain had perilously little processing time; the first thoughts were 'I've done something wrong' and 'BUNNY paramedics? Hilarious!' He noted that a resident had seen me pull over quickly and thought perhaps there was a medical emergency. "Well, sort of" I laughed, sheepishly explaning the scenario; brainstorming outloud while marveling at the tiny bunny ears. The little guy was wholly enclosed within my palm, his life warm in the spring air.
God bless this fireman, because I'm sure there would have been ten others who would have laughed their butts off! He brainstormed with me; and the concensus was: Find a very sheltered placed to put him, back in the woods where the raven can't fly in easily, and maybe - just maybe - his mum would retrieve him. Or not.
I ducked and poked through the brambles nearby, noting yet another rabbit a few yards away, and finally found a hollowed birch log on the ground, blissfilly pre-filled with pine needles. The perfect place. With one last, careful touch, I gently tucked the little guy in. He was still breathing, perhaps even a little slower, and still held me firm in his gaze. His wild little body felt as soft as a peach. Any bird would have a hard time getting in here.
I quickly noted the number of steps to the edge of the woods and zoomed off to the meeting.
Just before dark, I arrived back; a bag of slightly overripe carrots in hand. Should I have interfered? WHY did I interfere? Should I have let nature take it's course? Or, as my colleague and science teacher friend asserted, DIDN'T I let nature take it's course - as I am a part of nature? What about the raven babies? It's just a rabbit, for God's sake. The carrots seemed a suitable peace offering/memorial to the event into which I had allowed myself to participate.
I found the tree, counting the steps back in, and bend down. I fully expected to see a rigid little dead bunny, or perhaps blood generated from a cat extracting that little morsel. Almost to my surprise - nothing. No bunny. No blood. No sign of a feast.
I left the carrots scattered about nearby. I even saved a few for the open field, where the ravens could have their fair share.
Rabbits and fish: they both look at you like you own them something...

Damn You, Martha!!

OK, I admit it. I get Martha Stewart's magazine, which is titled 'Living'. Kind of a presumptuous title but oddly off-putting all at the same time, isn't it? I mean, how can anyone argue with 'Living'? It implies simplicity - basic and to the point. It's apparently worked marketing magic on myself, because I actually subscribe to the magazine even though I will probably, realistically, never actually have the time to make my own cheese.
For the Easter edition, Martha's food-porn centerfolds included chocolate -- lovely close-ups of chocolate being chopped, stirred into a melting pot, tempered (the title of the photo said "cooling chocolate" but I KNEW, from the movie 'Chocolate', that it's called "tempering" - one up on ya, Martha!) Enter visions of Johnny Depp as the swarthy river-rat from said movie. Johnny Depp and fine chocolate. Need I say more?
The last photo in the series showed a rack of eggs, each sitting up straight in it's carton-hole, being piped with chocolate...WAIT! YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN CHOCOLATE EASTER EGGS! WITH REAL EGGS! Exit the photos, enter the text...
No one but Martha has the power to allure with such perceived simplicity; "perceived" being the operative term here.
I had a dozen good reasons why making my own chocolate eggs was a fab idea. Of course, one piece of REALLY GOOD chocolate is worth more than 10 pounds of the crappy stuff. The fact that I would hand-make these little treasures; that would make them extra-special to my loved ones. And it just looked really fun. (Enter images from 'Chocolate' again; I am the female lead adeptly whisking sheets of molten bliss across the table, to a calypso rhythm..)
I could go into great detail here, but suffice it to say that, had someone photographed MY process of making blown-out, sanitized, dyed (organically of course) chicken eggs refilled with fine chocolate and love, it would have been the food-porn equivalent of a slasher flick.
My back hurt that evening. The kitchen, including the wall, was splattered in $10/lb Dutch chocolate. Chocolate crept up my arms, seeping into my elbow creases. There was chocolate on the counter, the breadboard, the stove, and the floor. There was no Johnny Depp to lick it off of my elbow. There was a good deal of chocolate in the sink. There was chocolate on the cat. There was probably cat hair in the chocolate. There was actually, perilously, only a small amount of chocolate in the painstakingly-prepared chicken eggs. Martha's admonition that "each brand of chocolate requires differing tempering procedures and temperatures" certainly proved true. Unlike the shimmery stuff showing through the holes on her eggs, mine looked milky and lumpy.
Did I get a few good eggs out of the endeavor? Yes. Was it worth the $42.87 and six hours of time, not counting cleanup? Really, No.
Have I learned a lesson from this? Will I ever allow myself to be seduced into anything like growing, preparing and gifting my own Japanese-style poached pickled Daikon radishes with Hoisin raisin extract? Unfortunately, the jury's still out on that one.
Damn you, Martha.

When No One Answers The Phone

It happened again yesterday. Pat and I drove down, on a beautiful glitter-snow day, to check the cabin; tromping in through thigh-high snow in whirling white. And I called Mom.
Mom's 88 years old; in full possession of an amazing brain, and despite the arthritis, fibromyalgia, high blood pressure, back issues, and pacemaker; does pretty darn well. She lives in her own house and visits elderly friends. She drives; though driving to Duluth now is out of her range, by choice. She is fiercely independent and continually amazed by life and learning. "That's so INTERESTING!" is a frequent mantra.
I've always had a fear of losing Mom. Perhaps, because my father died when I was 13, that sudden loss was so inscribed on my emotions that I've constantly held the reality of death out there, so as not to be caught off guard next time. I wear the anticipation like a raincoat in the desert; anticipating that rare time when it might actually rain.
For years, and especially as she's aged, I've envisioned and rehearsed the moment of losing her. It happens like this: "She's not answering the phone. What if she fell? What if she has had an accident? What if???" There will be an obligatory call to my sister, or my nephew, with the issuance of a casual "Is Mom with you?" that belies my anxiety level. A flood of relief if the answer is "Oh, she's right here! She forgot her cell phone!"; and eternal moments of more dread if it's "No. How long since you've talked to her? Ok, I'll stop over there and check..."
So, as I stood wrapped in blissful sparkly woods, calling both phones for the second time in an hour, the thoughts streamed out - like turkey vultures rising up on the thermals. Where IS she? She should be home from church by now. What if she forgot her cell phone and went out after church? Is she with Barb?" I dialed with pudgy mittened fingers.
"No, she said she was going to her own church today" my sister said. "How long have you been trying?"
"An hour."
"Sometimes she forgets to turn her cell phone back on, and she doesn't always get the buttons pushed right."
Quite airtime as we both contemplated the scene...
"I'm on my way home", my sis offered, "I'll stop by there."
"Call me!"
"I will."
Snow glitter faded in the sun; and I noticed a deer ribcage, gnawed, on a bed of tracks.
Moments ticked.
I looked at my watch. Why didn't I go down today? I could have visited this weekend.
Hiked more through oppressively deep drifts.
Looked at my watch again. We still haven't finished her family history...
Noticed thin blades of dried grass, carrying seemingly impossible snowballs; bent but not broken.
Looked at my watch. One good summer at least, God. To be together. I'll spend the time. I promise.
Trudged a few more yards.
Felt myself staying UP on a snow crust layer in places; in others, breaking through to the very bottom.
Looked at my watch. How peaceful it would be to die in one's own bed. Am I selfish for wanting to be there when it is time?
The electronic interruption of the cell sounded strange in the white. "Yeah." I answered, almost before I'd pressed the button.
"Well, I'm here," drawled my sister, with no apparent urgency in her voice. I felt my back unknot.
"She's not here, and her car is gone" Barb said. "I think she might have gone to Target or something."
"Good." I offered. "Yeah, good." she repeated, softly. We both know, each time this rehearsal occurs, that one time it will not be rehearsal.
Though only minutes had passed, life was different. Though my location had not changed appreciatively, my position had.
A few minutes later, the cell broke through again. "Hey!" I said, "Where've you been?"
Mom's voice read "irritation", a tone I've known well since childhood.
"Well," she said. "Bernice and I were having lunch at McDonald's, and here comes your sister! What a surprise! She said you were looking for me."
'We both were' I thought - but didn't offer this aloud. We've become accustomed to being the 'fall guy' for one another on the Mom front. "Just wanted to make sure you're OK." I said, brightly. After some extended chatter on how hard it is to get her cell phone on, we ended agreeing to talk a little later.
Rehearsal over, for now. God bless you, Mom. We sure like having your here.

Will Trade Woodstove for FireWood

There's a section in our local paper's classifieds called "Swap Shop". Though the wordcounts are sparse, the stories seep in from the edges...

"Will trade woodstove for firewood..." Hmmm. Moving out of doors?

"Will trade firewood for 20 lbs of ham." OK, let's see. A logger is suffering from a severe lack of salt, and his doctor recommends increasing the amount of ham in his diet. Ham is expensive, but the poor guy has an unlimited supply of wood....

"Swap five and a half year old Siamese cat for dog." Perhaps a couple split, and the man got the house and the cat. He'd prefer a dog. That damn cat is as cranky and whiny as his ex....

and the next week:

"Will swap five and a half year old Siamese cat for $15." Maybe no suitable dog was available for the value of the cat. But how do you place the value of a five and a half year old cat at $15? Is there some calculation based on lives? And how did this ad get past the editors - doesn't the "swap" of $15 make this a bonafide classified??

"Blowdart gun available for paintball setup." After nailing his kid in the eye, the guy's wife forced him to switch hobby weapons?

"16" tires will swap for boat trailer." But boy, it's gonna be hard to drag that trailer without any tires on the truck, eh?

I suppose the Swap Shop appeals to the Mexican-market-bargainer or the Garage Sale Markdown shopper in all of us...but hey? Who can pass up that kind of deal, huh?

HiStory and the New Year

To some tourists, I'm sure, Custer's battlefield looks like, well, a field. If it weren't for the pictures on the books for sale in the gift shop, it'd be hard to distinguish this chunk of rough land from any other. A good tour guide - and some basic interest on the part of the tourist - can help one hear the horses coming over the ridge, sense the sweat as tensions rose, and see the bodies, curled in dusty cloth, on the ground. And so on.
That sense of history, and the power of STORY - of what was, is and will be - gives value to a myriad of places, things and people in our lives. It truly gives us our humanity. Do you see that oddly shaped hole in the ground? That's where the UFO came down... Do you know that man over there? His great-grandfather was came from Germany... Do you know where that hotel is? There used to be a gorgeous old mansion there...
As we leave Christmas behind and are gently tugged into the new year, I can't help but recall the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. I grew up thinking "manger, field, stars, quiet, earthy"- recreating in my head the 'real' version of the Nativity from the skit we kids performed at the front of the church each year. Visiting 'the site' in real life twisted the story in my head like a wet towel, wringing it damp and setting it out to dry! That very old church - the oldest Protestant church in the world - bore no resemblance to the historic account. The church is ornate, evoking the Rococo; a small fireplace like area gaudily bejeweled bears the "gold basin where the Infant laid his head". So much for the "lowly" birth! With it's geological significance crusted over in gold leaf, the 'original' Christmas has slipped away from history, living on in the telling of the story. In this case, it's even difficult to reconcile the site with the story; as the site bears tales of its own. What plotline do we follow from the site? The dirty manger, or the gold-lined bowl?

My friend Yoshio, in Toyota-shi, Japan; annually sends his emailed greeting. It always features colorful artwork of the animal symbolizing the New Year; 2009 is the Year of the Ox. He regularly quotes messages of peace, hope and change. This year, his quotes were from Jesus, Buddha, and Obama! He listed his resolutions of last year, as well as the progress he made on them. Yoshi is not shy about adminitting failures; for one resolution, he merely stated "did not make progress-too lazy!" He then listed his resolutions for 2009, including some that still needed work from 2008. Yoshi is telling his stories, rewriting, and revising them.
Stories weave and collide; they rhapsodize together; they face off and fight.
What stories will we follow this year? Which will we rewrite or reread?