One Mother to Another

Today in my daughter's blog she referenced an article about the Catholic Church's rethinking of the concept of limbo. You know limbo. It's the place where unbaptized babies and other innocents go after death. You have to give the church credit for not sending those little imaculate souls there instead of hell but even when I was a small child it all seemed unfair and unnecessary.

The church has decided to let God perform triage on innocent souls, allowing them into heaven as he sees fit. I imagine that God's desk has a new plaque that proclaims, "The Buck Stops Here." I'm sure he's up to the task.

My beef with the Catholic Church concerns decisions made to answer the questions of the reasoning faithful. Limbo must have been the result of such a question. My favorite is the "Imaculate Conception," the idea that Mary was the only human being other than Jesus himself, born without original sin. Really, I think it would have been better to establish Mary as an "every woman" than to cast her image as the purest vessel ever born.

Personally I think the imaculate conception came from the feeling that somehow women are dirty. We are the "near occasion of sin" we learned about in CCD. That means a big temptation to you non CCD raised folks. Those cardinals coulnd't imagine a woman good enough to give birth to the savior so they declared Mary to be other.

It's not that I'm a total nonbeliever. I've turned to Mary many times when I've been worried about my children. She knew the joy and pain of motherhood. She lost her son. I've lost a son. It's complicated but I'm comfortable praying to her, asking for the grace to go on that I think comes more easily from the feminine.

So a few old guys with funny red hats declared her special. She already had what no convocation of cardinals could grant her. She didn't seem to require more.

Not Quite Myself

You might have noticed I haven't been blogging much lately. I haven't written becasue I'm not myself. I mean, of course I am myself but I don't feel like myself. I'm watching me. Outside of myself.

You see, my son Matthew died in October. He was sick for a long time. We hadn't had a real conversation in at least a year. He suffered. I watched him suffer and tried to advocate for him in any way I could. Sometimes that meant making sure the doctors didn't forget to rewrite his anitphychotic medication when he went back to the nursing home from the hospital. Sometimes it meant making sure the aides put a warmer shirt to keep his tiny arms warm.

I ddin't realize he was on my mind all the time. If I hadn't seen him during the day the little nagging voice in my head would remind me that I might be his only visitor that day. I was always on the lookout for a little toy that would make him smile. Taking care of Matthew was what defined my life for almost thirty years.

And now he's gone. And I'm watching myself and waiting for the sad to come. I clean, and cook and talk to people, go to Chirstmas parties, even opened a my new store and I can't feel a thing. Sure I have teary moments but most of the time I'm so fine it's unbelievable.

It's Christmas and Mattthew is gone and so am I.

The Pope Speaks on Chirstmas

Yesterday while I was playing my new favorite game on the computer I listeded half heartedly to the evening news. Iwas relaxing after celebrating Christmas with my husband's family over the weekend. We have a couple of doctors in our family who will be on call during Chirstmas weekend so we celebrated a little early with them.

The weekend was otherwise eventful. My new store opened on Friday and my daughter brought her boyfriend to meet us for the first time. It was a great weekend for all the right reasons. Daughter and boyfriend were fun. He's just as great as she said. The grandkids laughed and played and the grown kids enjoyed being together.

The good company, the laughter and stories and good food happened in spite of my not so clean house and my undecorated Christmas tree and general unready state. And that brings me back to the evening news. The pope deliverd a Chirstmas message over the weekend. Chirstmas is just too commercial. The spirit is lost in the rush to buy presents and make cookies. We are compelled to redecorate our houses.

Women make Christmas. We cook and shop and put up the tree and plan for the perfect gifts. We have an image in our heads and hearts that is difficult to produce in real life. But we continue to try. It's the time of year when we try to match our frazzled lives with every unrealistic expectation imaginable.

Il Papa is right. We should be more mindful of the real reason for the holiday. Now I feel even more stressed trying to figure out how to accomplish that.

Our weekend was Christmas light. The Pizza was great. So was the company.

Good Old Girl

I took my daughter's childhood kitty to the vet today. She's been put to sleep and we're getting her ashes to scatter in the back yard in a couple of weeks. She was a good kitty and a part of our family for nearly sixteen years.

Isabelle was a barn cat that my step daughter rescued and brought to her dad's house. She was not a cute little kitten.She seemed to be divided down the middle. Even her face was half one color and half another. She didn't like people much and I have a few scratch scars from trying to pick her up at the wrong time. My husband named her for his first mother-in-law, an eccentric woman whom he admired.

Issy was an accomplished mouser and even Oliver our dog knew not to mess with her when she was in a mood. She slept on the dining room chairs and left large amounts of hair wherever she lay. She didn'tlike our other kitty and he learned to leave her alone too.

Isabelle demanded our respect and we gladly gave it. She was a fine female and we'll miss her. The only other pet she liked was our cocker spaniel, Blondie. They used to curl up together and sleep the afternoon away. I hope when she got to pet heaven Blondie was waiting for her. She deserves a good freind and a good rest.

Books, by the Box

Today while cleaning and pricing used books for my new bookstore I got a visit from Bob the UPS man. It may have been a little difficult for him to negotiate the box he was carrying into the room because there are books stacked everywhere. My bookshelves are being brought to life by an excellent craftsman as I write.

This is the day I feel like a bookseller. Not just someone who uses Ronson lighter fuel (Thanks Rick and Joe) to clean the old gummy stickers off old books, not just someone who's been guessing at the right prices to charge for the used books and writing them oh so faintly with pencil on the first light colored page and cleaning them with diluted orange scented Fantastic.

You see, today I got my first box of new books from my supplier. It was a small box but I kept glancing at it all day thinking that I'm not just playing anymore. I have new books to sell. Maybe some of them will become Christmas presents or some kind of surprise for a friend. Oh, the possibilities!

My store already has that booky smell. You know, ink and paper and dust; the smell I have driven miles to experience myself.

Book people! Are you out there? I'm almost ready for you!

The Urge to Make Stew

Fall is officially here. The air is heavy with moisture, the leaves are changing colors, football is back and I have the familiar urge to cook hearty meals. You know, meat loaf and roast beef and stew.

Most of the year I don't have the urge to cook anything. I have to admit I am an uninspired cook. My husband contributes to this lack of inspiratio by being a really good sport about getting a turkey sandwich for dinner instead of meat and potatoes and gravy. The autumn comes and with rain and cold he gets a real diner once in a while.

So Bring on the ghastly weather, the pumpkins and squash and (gasp!) the holidays. I'll be in the kitchen buttering the cornbread and ladeling something hot and thick into big bowls.

Matty The Magnificent

When my son Matthew was about four years old his dad and I watched from the patio door as he sang a loud and nearly on key rendition of The Carpenters' "I'm On the Top of the World" in the backyard. He was wearing only his superman underoos and he was using the green garden hose for a microphone. He was bold and self assured and not at all self conscious and he gave us equal amounts of joy and aggrivation.

That lovely moment was during the before part of Matthew's life. The part that was happy and hopeful. The part before the brain tumor. Before surgery and radiation, learning disabilities and a lifetime of loss and disappointment. He didn't get a drivers' license, didn't play basketball, didn't ever go out on a real date, had few friends. We were disappointed for him, but he rarely let any of it get him down. He was the football team manager and participated in FFA and his classmates treated him well.

Matthew has had several close calls with death and we've tried to prepare ourselves for his passing as best we could. But he has always managed to get better. He's had transfusions, surgeries, long hospital stays, numerous tests and scans and labwork.

Last week while I was in California Matthew took another turn. His kidneys are failing and he's being cared for by the great people at the local nursing home and by a wonderful hospice nurse. I'm hoping he'll stay around for his birthday at the end of the month but I also want him to be free of this life. It's a strange thing to pray for death to come to a loved one.

I know I'm rambling but that seems to be how my brain is working, just roaming around grabbing onto a thought here and feeling a little emotion there. I can't get the little singer wearing only his underpants out of my head. He was magnificent.

Going Home

I'm going home tomorrow. It does't matter where I go or how long I'm gone. I always get a little giddy about going home. To my husband and my dog and my own bed. I'll get to visit my son at the nursing home on Wednesday and hope he didn't notice I was gone. Home to my new bookstore.

Yup, I'm opening a bookstore just when many small bookstores are closing down. I live in Salmon country so the image of swimming upstream toward a goal is familiar. It's a small store, not quite four-hundred square feet but I'm going to fill it with books and hope that people will come and enjoy the space, the books, and the company.

There are boxes of books there waiting to be priced and shelved so my fun has already begun. You see, I am an addict. I'm so distracted by books that I forget what I'm doing in my own house when I pass a bookshelf and see a book I remember reading and enjoying or a book I intend to read soon. They look good on the shelf, feel good in my hands, even have their own inky, papery smell.

When I was about fourteen I sneaked a couple of Taylor Caldwell's books off my mom's shelf and read them at night after she had gone to sleep. They were historical romance, a little steamy for that era and absolutely wonderful. I gradutated to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mark Twain in high school and in college I fell in love with Ain Rand.

I haven't read all of my books. Not even close. But I love finding them. Used, new, in stores, online. My current favorites are a few Scribner Classics for children illustrated by N.C. Wyeth. They are breathtaking.

I hope a few people of like mind find my store. Even if they don't, I'm going to have a great time with the books.

Jack and Me

I'm away from home for a week to take care of my grandson. He turned two last Monday and he's so much fun. I've bemoaned the fact that he lives far away and I don't see him often for the past two years so when my son asked me to come down I jumped at the chance.

Jack eating oatmeal in the morning is on my list of the top five cutest things I've ever seen. He scoops up big globs and carefully aims toward his mouth and once the food reaches his mouth there is very little chewing and a great deal of loud swallowing. Being with Jack is sweet.

It makes me want to apologize to my children for not noticing every little moment, not relishing them enough. I was twenty when I had my first son and had all the confidence of a new adult but I wasn't mature enough to really enjoy being a mom. I wasn't great at having little kids, and I had four of them in eight years. As they grew, so did I and by the time they were teenagers I had relaxed enough to be present with them. They all turned out great and I'm proud of them. Hell, I even like them.

The last few days with Jack have reminded me of those days twenty-five or thirty years ago when I was a stay-at-home mom. I'm rembering how long the days were and how lonely I sometimes felt. My husband worked twelve hour days and we moved four times between 1970 and 1979. I'm not complaining. I wanted to stay home with my kids but it was difficult at times.

In the spirit of gratitude I'm glad for those days but I'm also grateful for the freedom I have now and the bonus of having grandchildren. Finally, I'm grateful for the little things, like onesies and Quaker instant oatmeal.

The Evil Grandma

I guess I'm really in hot water. I've been outed in my home town and now everyone knows who the evil grandma is. I guess someone googled my home town and dance and came up with my very first posting. The one about going to my grandaughter's dance recital. The one about how I had a really crappy attidue about the recital.....and how I went and really was converted. But that's not how the posting was taken.

I admit that my comments about the dance teacher were a little harsh, even rude and I sincerely apologize for that. She is clearly a great teacher. Those kids were amazing. I called her a flake. In my lingo that's not such a bad thing. Some of my best friends tend towards flakey. That's why they're so much fun.

I stand by my feeling that the recitals should be at home where the entire community can enjoy them. I could bring my mother who lives in the local nursing home. I'm by far not the only one who thinks the recitals are a bit extravagent for a small town troop.

Before my posting was printed and passed around at the fair and the football games I'm certain that only two people had read it; my husband and my daughter. I guess I should thank the resourceful googler. You've increased my readership by about a thousand percent.

I was trying to tell a good story, one where the main character is somehow transformed from one state of being to another. If I hurt anyone, I'm really sorry.

The Screamers, The Dreamers and Me

When I was sixteen my Aunt Mary took her daughter Judy and me to Seattle to see the Beatles. Judy was a huge Beatle fan. She had posters and scrapbooks, and piles of magazines with Beatle pictures and stories. I liked the group well enough. I understood their importance and was mildly attracted to Paul in the most casual and far removed way. It never occured to me to think in terms of the Beatles and me. After all, they were British and old beyond the boys my mom allowed me to date.

The night of the concert, August 27, 1966, Judy and another cousin Bobby, who lived in Seattle and I found ourselves in the Seattle Colliseum with 15,997 other people. Two thirds of my home town could have fit in there and I was in awe of the crowd. Bobby was a Seattle kid and I was glad for his big town confidence.

Bobby Hebb was the opening act. You remember him. "Sunny, Yesterday my life was cold and gray.........You gave to me your all and all and now I feel ten feet tall. Sunny, one so true, I love you." He was really good but I was distracted by how many men in white dinner jackest were standing in the aisles. They were big guys with serious expressions.

When the big moment came and John, Paul, George and Ringo came onstage the noise level in the room increased by at least a thousand. Girls all around us were screaming so hard that the three of us just looked at each other in amazement. We knew the fab four were playing music but we could barely hear it.

After about five minutes we realized why there were so many guys in white dinner jackets. It was their job to carry out the girls who had fainted or were about to. In our section alone five girls just lost consciousness. Since I couldn't hear the Beatles anyway, I let myself be distracted by the blue glow of white jacketed ushers scurrying around the place rescuing over-excited females.

The Beatles were onstage for about thirty minutes. I thought the screaming would decrease after a while but the noise prevailed. Judy had her hands over her ears but she was smiling. At least she could see the Beatles. Bobby just sat with his mouth open for the entire thirty minutes.

Judy and I went to the restroom immediately after the boys left the stage. I learned something about myself in that bathroom that night. Girls were standing at the sinks sobbing and we could hear others vomiting into the toilets. I thought I was an over-emotional person until that night. I was from a small eastern Washington town and I knew nothing about the culture of celebrity. It never occurred to me to cry or make myself sick over people I would never meet. In that moment I knew I wasn't a sophisticated city kid. I was a small town girl who had common sense and realistic reactions.

I don't think I even told my freinds at home that I'd seen the Beatles in concert. It didn't seem like a big deal. My kids are slightly impressed. Judy still has her program. And her scrapbook.

Lessons of Katrina

Okay, I really chickened out of writing about the disaster last week. I just didn't know what to say. It was all so sad and horrible. I hope that after we all donate to the cause, pray for the victims, and generally do everything we can from a distance, we consider our own vulnerabilities. It has always been so easy to be a little condesending about earthquakes in Iran or other disasters in unfamiliar countries that end in istan. We've listend to the reporters warn of diseases like cholera or malaria and smugly thought that could never happen here where we are so techno enlightened.

I don't feel so smug anymore. I live near the Pacific coast, in earthquake country, near a major river. And I don't have a supply of potable water on hand. Neither do I have a first aid kit, a battery operated radio or any of those other things the experts have been telling us to hide away for years. But I'm going to have them all tucked away in the storage room in my garage by the end of the week.

It's easy to blame the mayor or the governor, or God knows, George Bush for the grossly inadequate response to the disaster but blaming doesn't change anything for the victims. Make another donation. Make a monthly donation. Then go out and buy some candles and a little water for the garage.

Do You Really Need That Rocky Mountain Goat Head?

Last night my daughter and I attended our first auction in Portland. We arrived early so we could peruse the items up for bid. There were two cars, including a pea green Jaguar parked on the curb outside, furs, jewelry, lots of furniture, several mounted hunting trophies, art glass, paintings, and more.

The hottest items of the night were Japanese Samauri swords and knives and Native American art. Oriental carpets were also poplular. Most of the itmes in the auction were the property of a wealthy Portland couple and I was more fascinated with the story the collection told than by the items themselves. What can one assume about people who own five writing desks, Steuben glass and Tiffany Lamps as well as original watercolors and several fur coats?

They were obviously wealthy and had good taste and they must have owned a large home with a double garage. It made me wonder how I would feel if all of those beautiful things belonged to my grandparents. Bits and pieces collected over the years parted out and sent home with stranges.

I was there to look for a couple of tables for my bookstore and I know there were antiques dealers and collectors there who were after a little art glass or an unusual lamp table. But why would anyone want an old bear head or a muscrat wall hanging or the most ornate guilded fruit bowl I've ever beheld?

The most enthusiastic bidder of the evening paid four hundred dollars for a Rocky Mountain Goat Head. Are goats predicted to become the next decorating rage? Will we all need one for the foyer?

Acutally I don't have a foyer. Everyone comes into my house through the garage and I have no collectables other than books. In spite of the fact that we all have too much stuff, and maybe some of us have too much money to throw away, I really enjoyed myself last night. Watching people bid on itmes I would hide in the attic made me realize how much I appreciate eccentricity, though I don't practice it much.

I came home with a wonderful oak library table. It was the only item I wanted in the entire collection and I paid too much for it. It's lovley and sturdy and perfect for my store. It makes me happy just to look at it standing in my garage.

I only hope the goat head lady is as happy with her purchase.

Mea Maxima Culpa

If you're the mom of grown up kids you know how awkward forging the adult to adult relationship can be. I've had to learn that no matter how much experience I've had. no matter how I want to cling, no matter how much money I loan, er give them, I can no longer control my kids. For a long time when they were young, control felt like love and concern. But maybe I'm just twisted. No matter.

I asserted a bit of control a couple of weeks ago with my oldest daughter and now I must apologize. It was a silly thing to do and she didn't object but she must have wondered if I still have all my marbles. Her car was in the body shop getting beautiful after living in the city for a while so I let her drive my Audi for a couple of weeks. That may not sound like a very big deal, but I love my car. Her name is Pearl and we've been together for seven happy years. She has a few scratches and one badly repaired dent but I love her in the way one loves a great old pair of leather loafers that cost way too much.

My daughter has a dependency problem. She must have music at all times. Her musical taste varies and her knowledge of local bands and artists is extensive. I like some of her music and some of it makes my hair hurt.

The truth is, I really didn't want to loan out my car, but my girl was starting a new job and I couldn't see her driving to work in our old 89' Chevy pickup that only starts half the time. So to keep a little control over my darling Pearl I informed my daughter that I dind't want her to mix up the cds in the changer in my car. I wanted the car returned to me with Roxy Music in the number two position and my soundtrack from Garden State in number five. She was a very good girl and used her ipod instead of my cd changer the entire two weeks she drove Pearl.

It was only after daughter number two told me how funny the joke was, the one about me insisting that the cds be in the right order, that I realized how silly the request was. The truth is that I only listen to two of the six cds in the changer. I was just hanging on to a scrap of control. Over Pearl. Over my daughter. Over anything in my life.

I'm sorry. It was silly. I'm so proud of you. I'm letting go. Gradually.

There's Still Life in the Old Man

My husband is a few (ahem) years older than I. Anything over ten years older qaulifies for the ahem. He's a vibrrant, funny fellow who never rests when there is teasing to be done. He knows current events, is a professional man who owns his own business and he reads at least three books a week. He has only one serious flaw. He's losing his hearing.

At times his hearing loss makes him seem a little obtuse. I watch in fear because my hearing aint' what is used to be either. Without any discussion we' ve worked out a few hand signals that come in handy in the car where the noise makes it impossible for him to hear my whimpy voice. I have to admit that it is more than exasperating to try to be understood, especially when a timely lane change on the freeway is involved.

I accompanied hubby to a well known cataract-laser surgery center today. He was having surgery to correct his near sightedness and astigmitism. We arrived at the center thirty minutes early as we were advised. This took some doing since we live three hours away. They took us from room to room doing measurments, asking questions, giving information about the surgery. All very pleasant, very professional. One of the assistants had a very soft voice and Hubby had a difficult time understanding her at first. When she left the room I made a comment about his hearing. She must have heard me.

The next person who came in the room was a doctor whose role in the process wasn't explained. She introduced herself and I couldn't believe what came next. She got right in hubby's face and started talking really loud. That was okay but she talked to him like she didn't expect him to understand. Like you'd talk to a four year old who was about to go outside to play. "Do you understand why you must wear a jacket, Little Johnny?" He glared at her, not because he couldn't understand. He was readying to tell her to shove her condesention up her little butt. She was the one who didn't get it.

I was burning but I didn't say anything. I wondered if she treated everyone that way. Hubby was clearly miffed and embarassed.

I have a solution. Maybe on one of the ten forms the patients fill out for eye surgery they could ask if the patient has problems with hearing.

Seems simple. Unlike my hubby.

How Do They Do It?

I spent the day on Thursday running errands with my best friend. She is crazy busy so one of the few ways we can spend time together is riding in her car picking up and dropping off. We talk and ride and then talk some more. We mull over our children's situations, complain about a couple of particularly obnoxious businessmen in our small town, and generally unload until the next time.

One of our errands involved my freind getting her fingernails repaired and filled. She's the nervous sort and she had a really bad night on Wednesday so she picked the acrylic stuff right off every nail on her left hand. The Asian nail technician tut tutted over the damage and told her it would take at least an hour to repair so instead of picking up a magazine I decided to "git me some" of those purty fingernails.

I chose "Solar Nails" because I like the look of a french manicure; no polish, just a lovely white tip and pretty pink nailbeds. The process took an hour and involved files, and sanders and a dremel tool that reminded me of a dentist's drill. The whirring nearly made my knees weak. One sniff of clove oil and I would have started sweating.

I've had the new inproved nails for four days and I think I have become disabled. Just to show you what I mean I'll type a sentence without backspacing. I cfan't pick up a penny off the counter at work and I have to ask strangers to open pop[ cans for me. See what I mean?

How do women function with fake nails? I've been fignthing the urge to soak them off all day but the forty dollars I spent getting them keeps calling out to me. My hands are lovely. I could offer my hands to photographers for bridal hand shots.

I'm sure the camera guy wouldn't mind opening my can of Diet Coke.

Two Days and Counting

Let the Harry Potter games begin. J.K. Rowling's newest book will hit the shleves and the mailboxes on Saturday. I love HP and the gang because they completely take us out of our world and into another. There will be a party at every children's department in every bookstore worth its salt this weekend and in Novemeber we'll get to see another HP movie. Despite my admiration of Rowling and my general enjoyment of the hoopla I have a dirty little secret about the HP books.

Gulp. I keep ordering the books from Amazon and loaning them to my friends and grandchildren, but I quit reading them a long time ago. They're imaginitive and clever and they allude to classic tales and characters but honestly, they just don't hold my attention. Don't know why. I've read everything from Janet Evonovitch to Victor Hugo but I can't read an entire Harry Potter book.

Maybe I'll give it one more try so that I can cry at the demise of Harry's Godfather with my daughters and stay on speaking terms with my oldest grandchild. Maybe I'll read Les Miserables again instead.

Oliver Rufflebottom 

Thank You, Bangor Maine

Last week in our local paper a woman's letter to the editor seemed as if it was written just to illicit a reaction. In the letter she described those little magnetic yellow ribbons expressing support for our troops as useless. She suggested their only purpose was to decorate carwash floors. I agree most carwashes could use a little decorating help but I disagree about the value of those little patriotic ribbons.

My son is a Marine Corps officer. He returned from a sixth month deployment in Iraq just yesterday. Those tacky little magnets meant a lot to me when he was there. It meant that someone else was holding our troops in thier heart if only for the moment it took to place the ribbon on the car. I think people want to do something, anything to support the folks who chose to serve. A bigger, bolder gesture may be appropriate for some people, but those small acts of respect and gratitude make a difference.

I think people do what they can to show support and according to my son, the folks in Bangor Maine did thier part last night to welcome fifty marines back onto American soil. Even the late night hour didn't discouragae the thirty or so people who showed up to thank the marines. They offered hospitality and free cell phones to call home. I know one marine who was really touched by the welcome and I thank you, Bangor.

Dancing girls