It happened again last night, and it keeps happening. The feeling like I have rocks in my throat when I try to swallow. It waits until it's quiet, usually when I'm finally resting in bed. And my eyes burn. It's a weird "I'm about to cry" sensation, like I used to get when I was embarrassed as a little girl...but I don't cry. Instead, I think. Thinking is way worse than crying. Thinking leads to more thinking, which leads to things like...wishing...regret...but sometimes, something good happens. Sometimes thinking leads to prayer. I have, for as long as I can remember and even as a little girl, wondered what happens next. Beyond next as in the expectable "next up" situation. I mean next...in life. So I evaluate. I evaluate that I've had a weird past, which is not really weird to me, because I remember it all and I can piece it together just fine chronologically, but my life now is not anything like it used to be. And it's hard to show people the pieces of me that I used to be. It's like...people who meet me now wouldn't even know that the old me existed. And I'm oddly enough bothered by that. The other day, I was speaking of my life "pre-kids." Of the years I sold houses in Savannah. Of the time I was accosted in the project house down on MLK. How my hair was really blond, which is why the guy called me "Blondie," but how it didn't matter a minute later when I was spraying mace in his eyes. As I was telling it, I thought about how Sarge used to go with me everywhere. Never on a leash. Always happy, his dark brown fur a compliment to his dark brown eyes.He was my sidekick, I didn't imagine needing anything beyond his companionship. Even about how I didn't worry, after that incident on MLK...because soon after I began carrying a .38 special in a purse holster. And I even got a license to do that. Anyway, I think about that life, before...and then my life now...and I realize how generic my life must seem to those who don't know me "pre-kids, pre-Indiana, pre-proverbial-housewife." Which is even funnier since I'm dressing up as a 1950's housewife for Halloween, as if it is my inner desire to channel this June Cleaverish existence. So I wonder what's next. I wonder, to the point, apparently, of getting the rock-like sensation in my throat, which may mean, to some, that I'm worrying. And that'd be correct, too. I feel a little stuck in my current life. I don't know if there's any adventure left for me. Not that I need a purse holster to feel adventurous...but it's just that...there's more to me than this. Alas...just trust that even if I don't make sense to you...I do to me.
Additionally, to add to the patchwork mix of thoughts unspoken, I feel the need to touch on my son's progress in life. Isaac, in particular. I attended my first ever parent-teacher conference yesterday. It was enlightening, for sure. It's Kindergarten, people. I always think, when I see these moms who are so obsessed with their Kindergarten child's progress - Oh, Ian is soooo smart, he knows all of his sight words and all of his numbers to 200 and..."- that every kid catches up to the basics sooner or later, so don't go banking on a Nobel Prize. And then I see my kid's progress report. And I see this pattern. When it came to testing, he did awfully. He rushed. The teacher says to me "I actually watched him test. He looked at the computer screen for 2 painful minutes, and then spent the rest of the time plugging in answers, just to get done, because he obviously hated it." Isaac does what he wants. When he wants. Horrid, right? Well, here's the thing. When he wants to, he does amazing work. The stuff his teacher showed me that represented that situation was unreal. His artwork was somehow "deeper" than stick-figures and scribbles. It meant something. Like the one picture he drew of himself sitting on the ladder to the pool, Yukon (our sled dog) watching him from the deck box, and Jesus watching him from somewhere in the clouds. And when I pointed that out, he shrugged like it was nothing out-of-the ordinary, and said "Well, yeah." They were supposed to draw their favorite summer activity. Many kids drew themselves swimming. Isaac wasn't swimming. He was sitting on the ladder, looking at the water.
His answers to questions were thoughtful, imaginative. And, although his math testing scores were deplorable, his math work in the classroom was probably better than I would have done. He not only answered questions, but he drew images of "why" he came to certain conclusions. So, he puts on this hard-core, "I do what I want" front. He annoys people. Often me. People think I don't get it, maybe, that my kid is irritating. And then I think of my aforementioned "previous life" and it makes me wonder what this stage is in his life. Because I have seen, on numerous occasions, that this kid is exactly like me. I can only imagine that he will soon be able to harness his own wants and become more agreeable to being flexible with what other people want. I also know, however, that if you are not a flexible person, it is best to not allow many people in your "circle." Perhaps this is a thought for later years, though...so strike that.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that he's a kid, he needs to roll with the punches, right? Yeah...but he has a "previous life," too, when I think about it. In six years, he's moved 1100 miles,lived in 3 homes, he's lost his real dad to the Army-life, he's struggled with feeling like he has no dad, he's struggled with a step-dad, a little brother who can't identify with that situation because he was too little when it all happened, and now, a little sister who simply has no idea that his "previous life" existed. So, maybe he feels kind of like me. Minus the epic failure part, I hope. The only constant this kid has had is...me. Yeah, so, people say he should learn to roll with the punches. People, however, say that as a way of dismissing a situation. A situation too complex for them to take the time to think about. It would take too long. It's not their life. But, see...he's my kid, so I do think about it. And I blame myself, mostly, because I'm the one who kept shifting around and adding patches to this life-quilt, and son-of-a-gun if I'm not laying in bed at night, rocks in my throat, thinking of how I could change it again. I really wish foresight was 20/20, instead of hindsight.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
George
Since I'm trying to use writing as an emotional outlet, I thought this morning, I'd share a story about a man named George. I didn't know this man until he was already quite old. He was born in 1912, and I in 1981, so you see, there was already a big gap in age. By the time I was born, he had already fathered 7 children and grandfathered several grandchildren.
George was a community icon. Not because he drove a flashy car, or had a grand house, or built some corporate empire. Nope. When I was younger, he had a boat of a car, a red Chevy Malibu, actually, a cozy little three bedroom house with a garden, and a monthly pension check from years of working in a foundry to support his family. Yes, when I met him, his face was already wrinkled, but the wrinkles could not disguise the charm in his blue eyes, or the fact that his good looks once made girls swoon. He had a habit of clearing his throat loudly, and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He walked "up town" (this is back when people still referred to it that way, because this town was hardly the metropolis that most are, these days)every day, he put jam on his bologna sandwiches and butter on his cookies. He didn't watch his weight, and every time I stayed the night at his house, he had a brandy nightcap. He chewed tobacco, and strangely, I cannot recall it ever bothering me. There was a stash of cigars in his top dresser drawer, in one of those old White Owl cigar boxes. I have one of them, that he gave to me to put my "stuff" in, when I was little.
When I was in elementary school, he picked me up every day. He'd march right into the school, with his brown knit gloves and his newsboy cap, all the way to the door of my classroom, and even if it was 15 minutes early, my teachers would nod and say I could go. They all knew him. I spent my summers in the cozy little house, whiling away the hours, twisting around in the maple trees, making up games with the neighbor girls, and sitting out on the picnic table with heaps of cold watermelon to eat. George would come outside and show me how to pick a ripe tomato from the garden, bite it like an apple and then sprinkle it with salt as I ate the rest of it. He liked to rock in the swing in the back yard, and I'd sit by him. We'd beckon the little birds enjoying their bath. They'd always come curiously close, and George would smile and speak "bird" to them. When the ice cream truck would come down the block, George would walk to the curb in his polyester pants and black "clodhoppers," even though the summer heat was brutal, to open his wallet and purchase ice cream sandwiches for all of the kids who had also congregated there, knowing George's track record for generosity. In fact, any time he even spoke to a child, he'd be reaching for his change purse, asking "ya gotta pocket?"...which inevitably meant he'd pull out a quarter and conclude "go buy yourself a bar 'a candy." I almost wish I'd saved all those years of quarters. Perhaps I wouldn't have as many student loans today.
You see, George was just that kinda guy. He wasn't boastful or proud, but just good down to his soul. And his soul is exactly what I am rejoicing for, today, because I know that my Father opened his arms and welcomed him last night, as he passed from this life at the ripe old age of 98. I also know that my beloved grandma has been waiting for him, too. Because if you haven't caught on, George is my grandpa...and he's missed her since she left this earth in 2004. He has been like a lost sheep, with a lot of substitute shepherds trying to herd him around, but no one who could take care of him like she did. So in essence, it's a life story of love, of humility...of humanity. I know there are a lot of good people in the world, or at least I hope there are. It's just that we're down one today, and as much as my heart is happy for his new, eternal life, I can't help the selfish sadness I feel because I know I'll never get to look at those smiling blue eyes, or shake his soft, wrinkled hand again.
George was a community icon. Not because he drove a flashy car, or had a grand house, or built some corporate empire. Nope. When I was younger, he had a boat of a car, a red Chevy Malibu, actually, a cozy little three bedroom house with a garden, and a monthly pension check from years of working in a foundry to support his family. Yes, when I met him, his face was already wrinkled, but the wrinkles could not disguise the charm in his blue eyes, or the fact that his good looks once made girls swoon. He had a habit of clearing his throat loudly, and adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He walked "up town" (this is back when people still referred to it that way, because this town was hardly the metropolis that most are, these days)every day, he put jam on his bologna sandwiches and butter on his cookies. He didn't watch his weight, and every time I stayed the night at his house, he had a brandy nightcap. He chewed tobacco, and strangely, I cannot recall it ever bothering me. There was a stash of cigars in his top dresser drawer, in one of those old White Owl cigar boxes. I have one of them, that he gave to me to put my "stuff" in, when I was little.
When I was in elementary school, he picked me up every day. He'd march right into the school, with his brown knit gloves and his newsboy cap, all the way to the door of my classroom, and even if it was 15 minutes early, my teachers would nod and say I could go. They all knew him. I spent my summers in the cozy little house, whiling away the hours, twisting around in the maple trees, making up games with the neighbor girls, and sitting out on the picnic table with heaps of cold watermelon to eat. George would come outside and show me how to pick a ripe tomato from the garden, bite it like an apple and then sprinkle it with salt as I ate the rest of it. He liked to rock in the swing in the back yard, and I'd sit by him. We'd beckon the little birds enjoying their bath. They'd always come curiously close, and George would smile and speak "bird" to them. When the ice cream truck would come down the block, George would walk to the curb in his polyester pants and black "clodhoppers," even though the summer heat was brutal, to open his wallet and purchase ice cream sandwiches for all of the kids who had also congregated there, knowing George's track record for generosity. In fact, any time he even spoke to a child, he'd be reaching for his change purse, asking "ya gotta pocket?"...which inevitably meant he'd pull out a quarter and conclude "go buy yourself a bar 'a candy." I almost wish I'd saved all those years of quarters. Perhaps I wouldn't have as many student loans today.
You see, George was just that kinda guy. He wasn't boastful or proud, but just good down to his soul. And his soul is exactly what I am rejoicing for, today, because I know that my Father opened his arms and welcomed him last night, as he passed from this life at the ripe old age of 98. I also know that my beloved grandma has been waiting for him, too. Because if you haven't caught on, George is my grandpa...and he's missed her since she left this earth in 2004. He has been like a lost sheep, with a lot of substitute shepherds trying to herd him around, but no one who could take care of him like she did. So in essence, it's a life story of love, of humility...of humanity. I know there are a lot of good people in the world, or at least I hope there are. It's just that we're down one today, and as much as my heart is happy for his new, eternal life, I can't help the selfish sadness I feel because I know I'll never get to look at those smiling blue eyes, or shake his soft, wrinkled hand again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
