Random Observations

Around the corner from Winco is a billboard. It's huge, and I see it often. The picture shows two attractive women, smiling big, looking good and really joyful. The message is printed below their picture.

SCHEDULE YOUR NEXT MAMMOGRAM PARTY TODAY.

Yeah, last time I went for a mammogram it was a real party.


Election time is fast approaching. Lots of campaign signs on the street corners. My favorite: Elect Sue Chew


The other day I heard a woman read a scripture about the "condensation" of Jesus. Oh dear.


I had a diet, caffeine-free Pepsi yesterday. Pepsico makes three claims about that drink. I make one.

Theirs:
no cal
no carb
no sug

Mine:
no good

The Poem I'll take to Evelyn

See today's The Widow's Chronicle


Apricot Burial

Dear Mama,
I'm down here canning apricots.
It's a thankless task--fingers get thick,
spongy, back and legs aching stiff--
and I'm not sure anyone will eat the fruit.
Still, the tree hung heavy, I couldn't stop picking,

jars I have plenty, might as well fill them--
waste not, want not--and it's somehow
good for the soul.
I said I'd give one full day to the job,
one day in the kitchen, dawn
to dark, dream it again all night.

You would have let them go a day or two,
thrown in pineapple chunks, cooked them down
for jam, fruit and sugar boiling on the stove all day,
apricot steam making its way to every corner of the house,
drifting out the back screen door. We went to school
trailing it behind us.

I'm not boiling jam today, Mama. I scour, cut, pit,
fill each quart jar with twenty-four apricot halves--
turned inside center down, as the book shows--
pour hot syrup, slide in a knife blade
to release air bubbles, tighten lids,
some old song stuck in my head the whole time.

Six loads times thirty minutes in the hot water bath,
then down the basement steps to line them up,
bright as jewels, on shelves made from our old wooden bed.
(Aren't you proud of me?) I should have
got the kids to help, I guess,
for the sake of their souls.

After a few years,
I'll likely dump the fruit
with some regret.

I remain your daughter,
Carol

My Father's Story

Of the two it was my father I thought I might see again. He would come back in dream or vision to tell with a nod or by celestial appearance—the restoration of his hair and some sort of ageless look—the truth of all I’d staked my life on. Why I thought it had to do with how I perceived him in life. A man of childlike faith, no guile, no biting tongue or sour wit, no deceiver. Which is not to say he had no sense of humor—I learned to tell a joke from him—not to say he never frightened the child who peaked in, fingers curled around the door, and heard him yell at Mama in the kitchen, and not to say my mother might just stand and take it. But that was the fearful part, and why is it so to a child’s ear? That mother and father fighting noise. But this is not about jokes or occasional domestic discord. I must begin again.

Our lives are encapsulated, each of us carrying with us the world we inhabit, the world of our own making. Knowing little of anything else, we think a dead parent might have time or inclination or ability to find our small sphere and bring a message to it, that the dead parent might not simply be at rest, the veil pulled shut between us, or simply dead to go no more anywhere. And that’s the thing I feared the most and is what this is about because he did not come back.

Here is my father’s story. His mother was afraid to die. A pretty, delicate-looking woman in the one small photograph I’ve seen, she did not want to go alone, long before her husband. And my father sat with her one night and prayed that God would take him instead of her because he had just divorced his family, as he put it, and thought he had nothing to live for. He would die, he said, to go before his mother and meet her when she came. But God would have none of that plan and took his mother Margaret that very night, as if my father’s prayer made up His mind. All of which assumes God takes those who die, that some kind of life persists beyond this one, and that we can find someone we love in that large place, if there is that place.

My father wept, and he grieved long because she was so frightened, until one night he dreamed his mother back. “Oh mother,” he said, “how glad I am to see you.” His mother Margaret embraced him, then spoke. (Could he have heard her actual voice?) She told him not to grieve, not to worry. “It’s all right, Wilford. Wilford, I’m all right.” Many dreams seem reality, only to break our hearts when we awake, but not this one of my father’s. For him it was real enough to live on sixty-one more years, never doubting. It should be clear why I might expect to see him, why I would want to so I could live the rest of my life never doubting.

But it was my mother who came, and though my sleep was filled with dreams of her for years after her death, this—if it was a dream—I dreamed while awake. I saw her. She stood in the aisle next to the church pew where I sat, head bowed, while my husband held my baby girl up front to give her a name and a blessing. My mother looked young, with blond hair, though she wore the black dress she loved in middle age. She stood, listening, then reached out her hand and touched my head.

I think our first inclination is to believe, we human beings, at least mine is, and then we set our minds to work, start thinking things over, begin to doubt. That’s what I do, anyway, and I could say that such a vision cannot be believed. These things don’t happen, or I wanted it so much I dreamed it up. And after all, if they do happen, it was my dad who would do such a thing, not my mother. She was not the kind to come back. Perhaps we do this kind of thinking and doubting so as not to appear too childish to others or to ourselves. I will put that more accurately. Perhaps I do this kind of doubting so as not to appear childish.

Today as I write I say the easy thing is to doubt. It is more acceptable, more sophisticated. To question is good. And I have done it all my life. If I had dreamed my father here, I would have questioned it, too, because I do that, because I am likely not the one he would have come to. But the purpose of questioning is to find answers where or if they exist, and if we find them, ought we not to accept them? So here I write the answer, the truth for me. She came. I saw her. She touched my head. Now it becomes my mother’s story, my story.

Dr Irritant

I've been to see the dermatologist again. This is a yearly thing, you know, unless something on my skin requires surgery. Actually, I'm waiting to hear the results of the three biopsies he performed yesterday.

Two on my face, one on the base of my neck. You probably don't want to know that part. But I have to say that you don't want some guy named Brian to numb your nose. It requires a needle, you know. Brian is new. I don't know what happened to the other guy, the Asian.

Before the biopsies, Dr Irritant shot my face with the freezing stuff. Nitrogen, I guess. He said, "Do you want these brown spots gone?"

Duh.

So he said he would freeze them off "as a courtesy."

I assume that means no charge.

He is a nice guy, no matter what I call him. A very nice guy. I think (hope) he is also a good doctor.

Now. As to his demeanor. He hugged me again. I could live without it, but it's just the way he is. He said, again, that I have such a beautiful face and he hates to mess it up. (That, I am sure, he says to all women patients.)

But here's the news. He did not call me kid. That was VERY noticeable. Believe me.

This time he addressed me as lady. I hardly knew what to think.

And I wonder, is that some kind of graduation? I've moved to an upper level in his affections? Maybe. Or maybe he looked at my chart and saw my age.

His nurse did call me Hon.

My brother

Today is my brother's birthday, Anthony Wilford (or, as we know him, Bill). He is 76. I have thought of him all day, all of last week, actually. Don't know how to contact him--long story, don't ask.

But I love to see him, and that happens less and less. I don't watch daytime TV and so I miss those Liberty commercials where he talks about getting your diabetes testing materials delivered right to your door.

Once in a while I'll see that a movie he was in is on TV, and I own The Firm and Absence of Malice. So I could watch them again if I wanted to. I think those are the best, although China Syndrome and Cocoon (the first one) are also good. There are many others--The Thing, High Road to China, In and Out, Stone Boy, Electric Horseman, etc., etc., etc.

I have wondered if his TV show, "Our House" shows in syndication anywhere. I'd watch it. At least occasionally.

The Firm is hard to watch, actually, because he gets kicked to death by Tom Cruise at the end, but he's good in it.

This is the brother who took me to high school one day, let me off near a group of about 15 black students, shouted "Long live Governor Faubus," and drove off fast. Did he think what I might face? What those students might say or do to me? Obviously not.

They did say something as they approached me en masse. They were not pleased by what he had shouted, and they wore a threatening look--down to the last one of them. And I had to talk my way to peace and safety. Good thing I was known by some of them. Good thing I'm a good talker.

Anyway, that was more than fifty years ago (can I believe it? fifty years!), and I love my brother Bill. Today I wish him well and a happy birthday.

A Poem I wrote and still like

The Wall

Bobby holds your wrists tight

to keep you next to him, wrenching free

you run but know he'll catch you. You like it,

though you're afraid. Father stands

just inside the back screen door

rubbing his hand over his bald head,

watching for you, wondering

why you're so long coming home from school.

What will you tell him? It can't be smiling—

Bobby held my hands, his eyes are blue,

he likes me, Daddy. It can't be that.

There's some kind of shame in love at age eleven.

You tell it this way, never saying Bobby’s name.

A boy held me hard against a wall, Daddy,

he grabbed my arms, wouldn’t let me go.

It isn’t all a lie. You wish Bobby wouldn't

follow you home. You know Father will yell at him,

frighten him away. You can only hope

Bobby will come back and love you after that, love you

three more years and kiss you by the wall.

Philosophy, Mine, For now

My friend, school nurse just now retired, called today. Her last daughter to marry did marry two weeks ago. I went to the wedding in Utah, although they live in Middleton, Idaho.

While there I asked the groom why they chose to marry in Bountiful, Utah. "We just wanted to." Good enough reason. I was glad they didn't "just want to" get married in, say, the Philippines.

Beautiful bride, handsome groom. Truly. And so on. We spoke of their bright future.

Then we spoke of her last unmarried child, the boy who just last month broke off his engagement to "an absolutely perfect girl." I have no reason to doubt that the girl was perfect. My retired nurse friend knows stuff--and people--and she told me many things this girl had done that helped her son, made him a better person. And so on.

Me: Well, why did he break up with her?

Retired Nurse: Because he's an idiot. And he says she doesn't make his heart pound.

Me: Oh. Too bad.

RN: But I think it has to do with the fact that she wouldn't let him paw her and, you know, climb all over her.

Me: Oh, yeah.

RN: I told him a girl who has dated lots of guys gets to feeling like a piece of meat.

Me: Well, maybe he'll find someone who makes his heart pound, and maybe she'll find some really good guy.

RN: She has gone with some good guys, but when it comes time for marriage, they don't want to marry her.

Me: Why? Is she ugly?

RN: No. She's adorable.

So then I gave RN part 2 of my philosophy about beauty and ugliness. I know it's out of order; part 1 should come before part 2. But part 2 seemed to fit here.

Me: I believe there are very few ugly people in this world.

RN: Maybe, but there is a really ugly man who would come to the school, bring his kids to drop off, and he was so ugly that my gag reflex kicked in when I saw him. I couldn't help it.

Me: Wow.

RN: And his voice and his smell. I didn't want to be in the same room with him. His wife is nice looking, volunteers often. I could not understand it. Thinking about being married to him made me gag all over again. He was so ugly. In every way.

I was getting the picture. The man is ugly.
So then I gave her part 1 of my philosophy.

Me: An ugly man can do all right in this world, but no one loves an ugly woman.

RN: Ain't it the truth. Oh yes, that is so true.

Me: But I may have to make adjustments to this philosophy because I had not entertained the thought that someone might gag at the sight of an ugly man. I'm not sure that we can say an ugly man is "doing all right" if the sight of him elicits gagging.

RN: (Laughter)

Of course, we spoke of many other things, but this is the part that stays in my mind because it made me wonder if I will have to change my philosophy. I just don't know.