Bobbing Along

The depression always passes. On Friday morning I awakened with a normal energy level, even calling my brother to see if he wanted to have lunch. I changed the bedding, tidied the house. Completed the exam and took it to the college to be copied. Just normal stuff...nothing hyper...because that's something else. My mother used to have these deep, deep lows, where she'd cry inconsolably over some past wrong, then she'd zoom back up and she'd be on her porch, taking up the wood floors, planning to do...something. Invariably, my father would have to contact someone to come fix what she'd started but of course couldn't possibly finish.

Craziness.

This morning J decided he wasn't going to school. And he didn't. No amount of threats was going to get him out of the door. He claimed he didn't feel well. No fever. Just a stuffy nose. A claim of a stomach ache the night previous which had kept him up. I ranted a little. D did, too. J said he was sorry and I asked him to prove how sorry he was by getting dressed and getting in the car so I could drop him off at school. He didn't. He just stood in the hallway while I packed the car this morning, saying he loved me, that I was the best mom ever. I merely looked at him, letting him know I was not swayed by sweet words. I reminded him he had a choice. He chose differently than I wanted.

So he's lost the computer this coming weekend. We try to be patient. We understand there are reasons...but at some point, he was perfectly capable of making a "good" choice and he insisted on the other choice. He did eventually get dressed and showered, D picking him around 11:00 so the child could attend two of his four core classes. Oh and phys. ed.

Great.

But...but...he has improved. The medication has brought a calmness to the house that was missing. He seems more even-keeled. Last week at school was actually much improved. Granted, it was his first week of a new semester, with new teachers. We've put him into D's class - so J is getting a bit "home-schooled." Meaning, D can micromanage the work much better. The other teachers who are part of my husband's team are veteran teachers (better than the newbies J has had all year) who are in close contact with D - so they'll be able to assist more easily with the micromanaging.

Whew.

A is doing all right - he's still struggling with writing and math. He's a good reader, though. We finally found some books he likes: "Captain Underpants." What more can a boy ask?

M is...M. She's learning her ABC's and numbers. Makes me think she'll have no trouble in kindergarten. Granted, like the boys, she's got a ways to go with her fine motor skills - writing is hard for her, copying letters, etc.

So...we're bobbing along. The sun is coming through the glass windows of my office, creating a lovely silhouette of the lillies outside.

Depression

Rice in a glass canister sits on the crumb-spread counter, waiting to be cooked. Raw chicken waits in the refrigerator. Tomatoes have been chopped and left on the cutting board. Night’s more than fallen. The television blasts kid shows – has been doing it all day from sunup to sundown. Bed sheets should be changed, the floors should be mopped, and the carpets should be vacuumed. Homework’s not quite done. Dishes fill the sink. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes. Clutter fills most corners, corners and tables and chairs, clutter that looks mountainous. Shoes, toys, cooking utensils, water bottles, paper, envelopes, a sweater, shirts, books, pillows, throw blankets, DVD’s, CD’s, a State Bar Identification card on my desk that says, “Inactive.” The children clash in the back bedroom. The husband’s just called, a mile away, returning from a doctor’s appointment. Yet another $175 spent to fix the oldest. The younger kids need baths. D will be aggravated when he comes home and finds me. Finds the mess.

The computer screen stares at me and I think that when the children finally get to sleep I will climb up on a stool and get the tequila down to drink. Maybe I’ll throw in the last Vicodin for that little extra boost.

I’m so sleepy, so tired, so bone tired, I can barely type the words out. The heavy weight of depression has hit me like it’s done before, knocking me on my ass. Keeping me flat on my back like a dissected frog – hands and legs and innards pinned and tagged.

“Useless.”

“Unwilling.”

“Empty.”

The stress of the kids’ challenges has finally gotten to me. Everything depends on me and D to keep it together. Every day. All I think is that tomorrow I have to turn in a test to be copied for the students for Monday. The test is on my laptop, incomplete. The test reminds me I also have to prepare for lectures next week. More steep mountains to navigate, drainage of the little energy I have. My shoulder is killing me. Nothing takes away the pain – I made another appointment with the orthopedic doctor.

I had lunch with my sister today for her birthday. I was late getting to her house to baby sit her littlest one – not a perfect child, unlike her other two. I secretly am happy. I swallow that horrible thought. Swallow back my tears. When we go to lunch, we’re slow at eating, and I can’t think of things to say, and I have to rush off, but forget it’s a birthday lunch and leave just enough money to pay for my portion of the bill. I feel like an idiot on the way home. A cheap idiot.

The music plays and D is angry at me. He wants help getting the kids to eat. I bypass the rice. I heat up frozen chicken wings and stick frozen veggies in the microwave. I don’t eat. D and J already ate fast-food. So bad for D. I don’t care at the moment. I don’t eat. I return to the computer. I play “mommy and honey” with M. She chats and feeds me plastic food. I laugh and talk nicely to her.

D is angry that I’m not helping the kids get to bed. I don’t care. The tequila will only make my stomach hurt and the Vicodin won’t do anything because I'd just be taking the one since I don’t have any more left. J slips in and bangs on his drums, making me jump and bitch at him, “Use your soft sticks!”

He switches and bangs away, playing rock songs for me. I tell him how great it is and it is. He slips back out. D is angry at him because he didn’t do his homework like he was asked.

I sigh. Maybe wine will be easier on my stomach. Blech, I never like wine no matter how much I drink. My sister calls and asks me to go to dinner tomorrow night but I’m too tired, too weighed down by the depression. Tomorrow I’m going to take M to school so I’ll have the whole day alone but it will go by and I won’t even notice. It will be an instant between taking A and M and J to school and picking them up. The time will slip past me unnoticed. I will wonder why so much quiet time means so little.

I sigh when I hear M screaming again. My shoulder is killing me.

Tonight’s quiet time will go by barely noticed. Midnight is going to come fast and I’m going to hang on to the late night with the most incredible regret of it in the morning when I wake with bags under my eyes and skin that won’t let the makeup stick.

The goddamn depression has come to me and I’m terrified that I’m my mother and that the children will grow to hate me. That my husband will grow to hate me. That I will grow to hate me. I shake away the thought as J plays with the soft sticks, as he tries to keep a beat. I’m going to get up now, get up and get the kids to bed. Forget the bath. They're playing a chasing game and the thought of catching them exhausts me.

I hear D - he's at the office door and is saying nothing.

I’ll lay down with M in her little pink bed and we’ll just lie quietly until she falls asleep. How sweet it will be, how restful. How nice to hide in the dark room waiting for quiet time.

L.A. Funeral

The memorial service for my brother’s father-in-law, Konnie, was held in Chino, California, and most of the guests who lined up alongside the busy boulevard to greet the grieving widow, S, at the chapel’s entrance wore cowboy boots. Spanish words colored the conversations the way the pink camellias brightened the green of the shrubs surrounding the funeral home. My sister’s 18-month old daughter played peek-a-boo with the railing, her happiness the antithesis to the broken-hearted crying we could hear from inside.

My most vivid memory of Konnie took place in Maui at my brother’s wedding to Konnie’s daughter, T. We all flew out there, T’s parents, our kids and us, and a slew of friends. The lot of us stayed together in a beautiful villa right on the beach. I had just gotten dressed for the ceremony – fancy make-up, my longish hair put up in a blossom of crisscrossing locks, a dress that made my curves look more voluptuous than lazy. I had to get something from our rented van and I skip-ran down the front stairs, barefoot, past Konnie. When I returned, I looked up and there he was, watching me and smoking a cigarette. His hair was cropped short, military style – his hefty build was draped in a green print Hawaiian shirt. He leaned on the railing, a tattoo, blued with age, visible on his forearm. I smiled and waved and he waved back, saying, “You clean up real nice there.”

I laughed, said thank you, and walked up the stairs, meeting my niece, Aa, at the top. The wedding was on.

Konnie loved fishing, Model-A cars, and smoking. He was known for often using the words son-of-a-bitch (said more like “sum-bitch”) and bullshit (said more like “boo-shit”). I got to know him a little when we’d go to B’s and T’s home for barbeques. We’d all sit by the pool late into the evening, smoking and drinking and chatting. He spoke caringly about his family, living and deceased. I could see beneath the rough exterior, a truly kind soul. He had a low, quiet laugh. At the same time, it was best to duck and cover when he got crotchety. If you weren’t expecting harsh words, he could hurt you.

He and I talked only a couple of times since he learned he had lung cancer. I tried to encourage him, reminding him to take one day at a time, but he looked at me sideways and said, “I won’t be around more’n six months. I know that.” I could only pat his hand and nod, knowing I was on the outside of that journey. Just like everyone else was. There’s little to say on the subject when you aren’t facing such a certain, immediate future, like someone in his position.

“We love you, Konnie.”

The service ended with my brother getting up in front of the gathering to thank everyone. I noticed as he got up that he walked exactly like my father. I was proud of B this past week. The death had been sudden, unexpected. Konnie had collapsed in front of his house. His wife, S, was devastated, like a lost child – his daughter was stoic. B drove the two around all week, helped make the arrangements, finally, thanking everyone. My little brother…was no longer little.

We piled into our cars after the service, each of the cars bearing the orange “funeral” stickers. We turned on our lights and started the long drive to Rose Hills Cemetery in Whittier, accompanied by the funeral traffic cops on bikes and one cousin on a Harley who helped manage the unwieldy line of folks. As we drove, I chatted on the cell with my sister, both of us admiring the Harley cousin (long hair flapping in the wind beneath his black helmet, leather jacket whipping back and forth) and recalling the funerals of our parents. Got a little weepy. The ride got a tad wild on the 60 freeway when we had to deflect away from the 57 eventually to merge onto the 605 where we’d exit. The motorcycle men waved their hands frantically to get us all to the left, then to the right. I learned later my aunt had no sticker, sweating it out at the end of line like a flea hanging on to a greyhound.

I felt honored to be in the procession – honored to be taking part in such an old tradition. There’s this wonderful sense of importance in that line as you roll through stop signs and stop lights. The dead need us as they make their way to their place in the deep dark.

Once there we stood watch on a green hill spotted with flat, granite headstones, the remnants of an ocean’s wind kicking up, chilling me. The sky was a bright stone’s blue, downtown Los Angeles clear and steel grey in the horizon. In between here and there are miles of suburbia and industry and commerce. So much so we even have cities named City of Commerce and City of Industry.

We didn’t go to the follow-up dinner. Instead my sister and I took our grandmother to lunch at a local fish house where we talked over beer about the dirty dreams we have in our old age, making my grandmother laugh and laugh, saying, “Sin vergüenza muchachas!”

I think Konnie would have laughed, too.

Just found this...

I hope this isn't just one more lost liberty in a long line of many.

Image from Jesus' General. Thought it was quite clever.

Lying

Near ten last night, I pushed open the pocket door to my office to see what J was up to on the computer, hoping to urge him gently to bed. Usually when he’s on the computer, he listens to his music, making and remaking play lists, he reads drum websites, band websites (a risky venture), and chats with friends. D and I always float in and out of the office to monitor his activity as best we can without breathing down his neck. We can’t catch everything even with our filters in place. I’ve considered a snooping type program, but haven’t had any luck with the test downloads.

At the sound of the door sliding open, J immediately shut down the browser, setting off my internal alarms. I bristled and questioned him, moving him away from the computer, but he popped back into the seat, opened the browser again, and before I realized what he was doing, he deleted the history.

I breathed. Counted to ten.

We argued. He went to bed in a huff. Quickly I searched the drive for web pages and lo and behold, there it was, J had recreated an account on MySpace.com even though we specifically prohibited him from having one until he brought his grades up. Our plan had been that he’d have to attain “C’s” in order to continue getting free-reign access to his drum set rather than on a very restricted schedule, and “B’s” to get access to time-sucking MySpace.Com. I didn’t think it was that strict an approach to take. I thought it was simple, clean, uncomplicated. That was before the possibility of BP. We’d decided to stick with the plan because I was very afraid he’d take advantage of the “excuse” (he’s very shrewd in that way). More importantly, I didn’t want to rock the boat – I wanted him to know that life was the same, that this “diagnosis” didn’t change anything. No big deal. Just like any other medical condition. We’ll treat it, move forward.

Well, apparently, he believed the grade situation to be so hopeless that he decided to go ahead and get the MySpace.com account. It was easy to do…he’d do it quickly behind doors…he’d delete history…he’d deny he had an account…if he got caught looking at an HTML page at MySpace.com, he would use the excuse that he was helping a friend out with their account. No problem. No struggle. Total satisfaction.

So, we caught him red-handed. So, deleting the history didn’t work since I decided to test-drive a snooper program (still doesn’t record chats, though).

He lied.

Lied, lied, lied.

D and I remained calm in the face of the BIG LIE and grounded him. But…as much as I want to maintain consistency, we do have to deal with the problem of discouragement. Fact of the matter is that getting good grades at his particular school is a problem. Indeed it may seem to him an insurmountable problem. We might have to adjust our simple approach to something more complex – something layered that will still allow him to reach the longer-term goals of “B’s” and “C’s”.

Life cannot remain the same. I don’t want my beautiful child to give up, to learn that lying gets the same results as successfully meeting a challenge.

***

Which brings me to James Frey, a writer who took easy outs in order to sell a book rather than take on the challenge of selling his story as one of significance.

I read the book, A Million Little Pieces for myself, not wanting to depend on reviews. I found the book interestingly written – I’ve always enjoyed books that take literary leaps, stylistically speaking – the story was touching in places, horrifying in others. I had the advantage of knowing the controversy when I picked up the book so when I came to the part where James Frey pleads not to be sent to a maximum facility I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I kept imagining this conversation where he’s pleading not to get the electric chair (Please GOD not “Yellow Mama”!) while people around him are confused, assuring him he won’t get the chair for having an open bottle of beer in his badly-parked car.

But then…I think of my own memoir-type writings and that in order to create a story out of a snapshot memory, I had to alter some things. I mainly altered conversations because I can’t remember what was said. All I have is my impression of what happened, the essence of what happened. A few alterations therefore…might lead to a lot of them in order to fill in a lot of blanks. Not to mention the driving desire to sell books in an increasingly hard-boiled society.

I admit…I shrugged the lies off. I wasn’t reading an historical autobiography but something that was definitely literary in nature, an example of what is commonly known as “creative non-fiction.” The "true" story was presented in a decidedly, traditionally fictional manner. I was surprised by all the hoopla. I was surprised as hell that Frey took the brunt of criticism when in truth the publishers were ultimately responsible for marketing the book as “memoir/literature” without adding a disclaimer. I don’t believe for one instant that Frey, a debut writer, would have walked into the Doubleday offices with his well-worn manuscript and had the run of the house. I don’t believe for one instant the publishers were at the mercy of Frey.

The Los Angeles Times published an article addressing the question of “memoir” and truth-telling:

Such a question gets at a deep and dirty secret of the publishing industry: There is little vetting of the facts. "Publishers in general will check only for libel," says Wolfe. "For the rest they accept the author's version." Pulitzer Prize finalist Tim O'Brien, author of many books, including the 1973 memoir "If I Die in a Combat Zone Box Me Up and Ship Me Home" (one of the earliest books to be labeled "creative nonfiction") says that when his memoir was published, "I wondered if anybody would vet it, to see if I had been in the Army. But nobody ever did. I could've just made it up."

"Publishers," argues Michael Hoyt, editor of the Columbia Journalism Review, "have abandoned their role as gatekeepers. A publisher who says it doesn't matter, well…." He trails off in disbelief.

I recall a much-mocked memoir written by a famous basketball player and one written in a similar vein by a well-known reporter, both writers detailing amazing sexual exploits, the number of partners rising exponentially as the books wore on. I “knew” such details couldn’t possibly be true and yet…I don’t recall any fuss made about the obvious exaggerations. And what of the other “tell-all” books that have become so popular, the other stories of suffering and criminal lifestyles? What, they’re all “true”?

How odd it really is that Frey’s book has garnered so much attention for its falsities considering the packs of lies that are published on a routine basis without so much as a peep. And they’re not even vaguely titled, “memoirs/literature.”

Oprah filleted Frey on her show this past week. I watched about twenty minutes and couldn’t take another second of Oprah’s self-righteousness, couldn’t take her very public flogging of this writer who sat through most it looking like a proverbial deer-in-the-headlights. I found the assault unnecessary and selfish. As a note, the book has not been removed from her “Book Club.” Meaning Oprah wasn’t that incensed. Meaning Oprah isn’t interested in “truth” as much as she is interested in additional publicity.

Frey may or may not survive the backlash – I hope he does. I hope he’ll embrace his fictional abilities full throttle. I hope from now on he won’t be at the mercy of anyone or anything.

I hope he won't...lie.

Windy Nights

The wind is blowing frightfully hard here in the Los Angeles suburbs, pressing against the windows, reminding me of how terrifying this same kind of wind used to be when I lived in Pasadena with my parents. The wind was so strong once that it literally blew down a massive pine tree in our front yard, blew it down so all 90 feet of it crashed in between our house and the one next door.

We had been watching that tree in our darkened kitchen for all the electricity had gone out. My father stood at the sliding glass door with my younger brother next to him. We were talking about what would happen if that tree fell, that beautiful, pine-needle-sprinkling tree that certainly saw the development of our neighborhood back in the late 1800's. I was 18 years old and you'd think my constitution would have been stronger, way past the time when I was afraid of the dark or the boogie man. I was sitting at the kitchen table when all of a sudden my father yelled out that the tree was falling, get out! Time seemed to have stopped for me and I heard the tree literally being yanked out of the ground and crashing downwards. I had stood and turned to get out only I tripped on the chair and crashed, too, right down on the floor, imagining the house was coming down around me. My father pulled me by the arm, dragging me away from the kitchen, until I could get up and run with him outside.

I stood outside, the wind whipping around me and the tree...the tree down on the ground, huge and helpless, branches punched through the neighbors' roof, conveniently though lying right in between our two houses. Safely fallen. Miraculously fallen.

For many nights after, for years after, whenever wind blew hard against the windows, I would be overcome with an overwhelming sense of insecurity. Never before had there been a more perfect metaphor come to life for what I felt about living in the Pasadena house what with my parents' constant dramas.

When I married and moved, only when my father was near death did the wind scare me again. The fear faded only to be reinvigorated with my mother's passing. The fear receded once more. Until tonight. I'm in my office preparing for tomorrow's lecture and I'm scared of the wind as it presses the glass windows, as it makes the vent in the garage whirl wildly.

I don't wonder why I'm feeling this way, however. Last week we learned why J's behavior has so intensified, why for the past couple of months he's been making horrific choices when given options - such as choosing to shoplift a trinkette in a store when visiting the mall with a church group - such as choosing to disappear in the neighborhood with friends when making a trip from right next door back home - such as choosing to self-destruct with regard to his grades, dropping from the cursed D's to F's, even in the face of losing that which he loves most in this world, his drumset. I took him finally to be evaluated and the doctor said he's presenting classic symptoms of bipolar disorder, just like his brother, just like my mother.

For months now, J has become the primary focus of the family - becoming a mini-tornado in our home, causing disruption wherever he is, from the moment he wakes up until the moment he goes down at night, always later than we want, always in defiance.

He's made me extremely insecure.

So the wind is blowing, I'm scared and I'm grasping once again to those little things in life to make me...happy. Moments of simplicity, or peacefulness, or joy.

Sitting in my grandmother's kitchen, eating chilaquiles and drinking instant coffee, while the sun pours in from the window right onto the table, warming the both of us, warming us as we talk about the family.

Driving in the car, coming home from dinner and a visit to the car dealership, D and I talk about how good it is that we found a new car for a price that won't kill our budget, that it's all going to work out just fine. We are practically giddy.

Picking up A from school and watching him lip synch Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire". He knows all the words and it is so funny to "see" such a deep voice singing about passionate love coming from such an angelic, smiling, still-a-baby face. We both laugh and laugh all the way home while Sassy sticks her head outside the open window, lapping at the breeze.

Walking around Barnes & Noble, deciding I'm going to spend $40 on books I'll never finish. I'm joyous.

Talking about movies and television with my friend, happy...happy. Isn't Keifer a beauty? Isn't it great the Shield is back on and smokin'? Doesn't every reality show suck, suck, suck? Yes! Wasn't King Kong great and how in love am I with Juaquin Phoenix? I'm relieved for the simplicity of it all.

Thinking about writing a post on Ray's Market, the treasure trove down the road. How it looks through my children's eyes, how it will look in their eyes when they look back on it as adults. How wonderful!

The wind is pounding our trees, the windows really take it well. I'm certain no trees will fall this night.

Back in the Saddle

Ahh well...the vacation ended and I was truly sorry to see it go being that the five of us seemed to be in a nice groove, where the kids were pleased to be playing, hanging out with friends, and above all, doing homework at their own schedule as opposed to someone else's.

I end the last paragraph on a last positive note about school because boy are we back into the swing of things.

A is crying on the floor because he doesn't want to write any more descriptive words ("ankle heel" is all he will write about a foot and "artistic" is all he will write about his teacher) nor will he read another word, silently or aloud. And he refuses even though he's lost all priveleges the more he cries. We're pretty much down to water...he's allowed to drink water.

J is in his room working on some missed assignments. Well, that's what he tells us. If we question him, we're shot with, "I KNOW!!!" If we remind him that he now has two and half weeks to get "C's" in class (let me repeat...C's...C's!!!! Come on!!!!) or else we're packing up his drumset and sending that to his uncle to be put in storage until he gets those fucking C's, he says, "I KNOW!!!!"

M...ahh...little M with her curly hair and fingers in her nose and mouth, with her striped stockings and pink shorts and green shirt...she's in front of the t.v. in my room, still sleepy from her nap at school, with a chocolate milk at her side, a chocolate milk in a Sponge Bob cup that's making a ring on my cherry wood nightstand (remember those days of being newly married, walking in an expensive furniture store in Orange County, buying that set, never even dreaming that there would be a plastic cup with a talking sponge on its face marking forever that beautiful reddish wood?).

D is on the phone to our insurance company, arguing that the guy who made a u-turn in front of him is at fault and thus responsible for the $3-5,000 worth of damage to our poor 12-yr-old BMW. Our insurance company agrees...except the guy has completely lied, happy (no, thrilled) there are no witnesses to the event. We might end up in arbitration.

Me...ahh me, I'm waiting patiently for 6:00 p.m. when I have to leave for school. Thank goodness for night classes! D, of course, will have to put children to bed, a misery, yes. I will wear over my professional outfit a scarf, hand-crocheted by a student of mine in appreciation. So sweet! So considerate! Tomorrow, I have a doctor's appointment with an ortho-type doctor because I've hurt my shoulder. I hurt it months ago and it's getting worse, surely something's injured. Loathe as I am to see doctors, I'm glad to finally get it looked at. Hopefully it's not some horrible, joint-eating, spine-metastasizing, liver-consuming disease or other. Unlikely, you say, yes...but it might require many weeks in a lush sanitorium, maybe by a beach. Can't wait!

Sassy, oh Sassy. Bless our little black beast, she is hiding under some pillows, chewing on a McDonald's plastic toy. She's waiting for the moment one of the kids finds her, pulls the toy away and runs, runs away with the toy, waving it about like candy.

M is at my side now, whining about something, blue nail polish I see on her fingernails, pointing to a toenail that's torn. "Aiiiii!" she squeals, followed by another sound, motioning to something else now, disappearing into the den. Oops...oh, fallen off the couch now, crying. "I hurt my fingie!" Her cries are a tad muffled by her fingers in her mouth and by Daddy's shoulder as he hugs her.

I'm off...back into the waters of suburbia. I think we're doing McDonald's for dinner, or maybe Burger King, or perhaps that free cooked chicken from the supermarket with a side of veggies.

Sadness in the Bliss household and extended Bliss family...

Damn that Vince Young! What a loss.

Okay, back to regular programming.

Happy New Year!

The rain has come, raining for the first time on the Rose Parade in fifty years. I was sorry to see that so many stations dropped coverage of the beloved parade - made me wonder about its future. I grew up in Pasadena, see, blocks away from one of the corners of the parade route. One of my earliest, most vivid, memories includes walking with my mother and small crowd of people on a typically bright January first morning to watch the parade - I can recall the height of everyone around me, the energy in the air, the peddlers of balloons, horns, cotton candy, programs - party stuff that looked so wonderful to a five-year old. The crowd I was with had been overnight guests who'd awakened in our Caltech home following a wild party thrown by my parents. Imagining back...the hangovers must have been profound. Amazing that so many would be willing to hike up Sierra Madre to Colorado Boulevard for a parade. Just goes to show the value of this particular parade. The corner that was "our corner" was towards the end of the route, meaning many floats would be in the throes of being towed. Didn't matter. The flowers and the smiles and the bands were still brilliant and captivating.

So the parade this year was rained down on. Colorado Boulevard never looked so dramatic.

Our New Years' Eve, this year, was spent with my sister and brother and their respective families. We chatted, drank, played poker, and watched the kids and dogs and woweee...we yelled a storm when 2006 hit, everyone outside, the children especially whooping it up, finally at the end of their night. The streets were busy when we drove home, the rain starting again. The kids fell asleep in the car, the hour near 1:00 a.m. when we got home. I sat awake a while longer in my pajamas, watching some mindless t.v., thinking about my resolutions, my objectives, the house blissfully quiet.

****

Clean up my office.

Be happier.

Enjoy the children more.

Write more.

Organize my pictures.

Exercise more.

Get angry less often.

Read more.

Cook more.

Spend less money.

Spend more time preparing class lectures.

Create a website for school.

Breathe deeper.

Nap more often.

****

The last day of the year was lazy. We all seemed to be moving from couch to bed to the kitchen and back to couch or bed. In the afternoon I settled into new sheets and a new, huge comforter, cuddling cozily, with M next to me. She wasn't sleeping, though, she was playing with a doll, playing doctor, wrapping my wrist with a ribbon (a bandage), putting clips in my hair, and talking softly in a doctorly voice. For at least an hour I closed my eyes, relaxing, napping. Coming to the conclusion and complete awareness that this is my favorite way to nap.

I imagine this is the way I want to live - my life a perfect blend of self-care and parenting. I hope the year brings more napping.

Happy New Year to everyone...may this year pour good fortune on all.

Happy Holidays!

Yes, yes, I know, no "holidays" with the "happy." Well, to me it is "Happy Holidays" because Christmas in my life has always been, and is now, a conglomeration of celebrations. My mother's birthday was on the 24th, M's birthday is on the 28th, Hannukah this year begins the 25th, Christmas of course is on the same day. Then there is the idea of these weeks being a secular celebration of life, light, consumerism (Yay Target and Wal-Mart, oh lovely Nordstrom's!).

This past week has been a busy one, having attended no less than three (3!) Christmas programs at each of the schools of the children. M's was the most chaotic by far, being at the pre-school where the students start at age 2. The result wasn't so much a group of angelic children on stage singing Christmas carols, but rather an explosion of running and crying children in pajamas racing to their moms and dads in the audience. Only the most mature kids (M being one of them) managed the long walk from the entrance to the stage. There was also the delightful moment where little Johnny was throwing the hay out of Baby Jesus's crib all over the set. No one interrupted him. Perhaps it was because he looked so, so very happy.

A's program was a mass of singing as well, with a performance or two on the recorder. Imagine the sound of thirty-five third-graders puffing away on their black and white plastic recorders...such harmony, such sweetness!

J's program was the pinnacle of performances in which he played the bass drum for a few songs and the snare for several others, the show a total of 35 songs by a minimum of 350 children occupying the chorus and the grand band. What a night! Junior high in its true nature. The many, many girls in the chorus looked so caught between worlds, not children, not grown, a strange set in short skirts and overly-done make-up during one string of songs, followed by a shift to pajamas, jogging arm-in-arm and throwing candy to the audience. At intermission, the girls giggled in the front of the gym in frighteningly intimidating cliques. The boys on the other hand gathered behind the gym, putting each other into trash cans and rolling the cans down the grassy hill, their wildness equally as intimidating. How amazing that they all returned at the right time to finish the program.

Busy, busy, busy! In between the programs, we attended Marie's funeral, battled awful head colds, entertained out-of-state company, attended a family reunion, and shopped and wrapped.

Today, I wrangled my kids for a photo for cards that I'll pass out at the upcoming parties. I suggested we take a walk down to the creek for a natural backdrop. That was when all hell broke loose. M wouldn't change out of her shorts and tank top. J fought like a bulldog to keep his blue gym shorts on, A was at his wit's end because M was copying him and wouldn't stop fighting for Sassy's leash. Sassy (because she is SO much a part of our family) was literally out of her mind with excitement at the prospect of a walk in the woods. Then there was D and I, griping at the children, getting a little loud, threatening spankings and groundings and a gift-less Christmas or a party-less birthday.

And it was so that we made our way across the street and down the very thick brush into the woods, noisy, crabby, with me carrying a tripod and camera, D with Sassy pulling him, the kids still fighting, refusing to cooperate. When we hit the bottom of the hill and I set the tripod down and tried...oh I tried...to take that first shot, I started to laugh at how we all must have looked. At just how noisy our walk was through the peaceful woods. Once I started to laugh, the kids caught on to the silliness and laughed too...oh yeah, it's Christmas at last!



Merry Christmas, my dear friends, and Happy, oh-so-happy Holidays from the entire Blissful Family of the Suburbs!

A Passing

We had a loss this past week - D's mother, Marie, died in her sleep following a stroke. She was 95 years old, and had lived a sweet, modest life, originating from Nebraska. She was deeply and innocently religious. The only book she read as a rule was the Bible. Her favorite verse was John 3:16, for God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

D is more than okay with her peaceful death, having been ready for this moment for a long time. Marie lived in a nursing home, lived mainly for sleeping and eating, and sometimes didn't recognize those around her. But she seemed to always know her boys, D and his brother, along with their older sister, MW. Whenever any of them came through the doors of the home, her face would light up with the most obvious joy.

For someone so inherently sweet, she had a few surprising instances of crabbiness that I keep with me, which always make me laugh for their sheer oppositeness of who she was. First were those times in public places when she'd say in a very loud voice (thanks to her being unable to hear very well), "My, she's fat!" or "She better lose some weight or who knows what will happen!" Then there was the day I was visiting her after the death of D's father, Bill. They'd been married many years but were not very close once they moved to the nursing home. I'd been feeling sad about Bill's death and I asked Marie if she missed him. Without missing a beat, she said in a calm voice, "No, he really was an old grouch." In the same vein, D's brother WS told us of what she said when he told her of Bill's death. Instead of crying or acting distressed, she smiled, put her hands together, and said, "Now the money's all mine!"

Marie wasn't educated, having ended school in her eighth grade year to work at her father's farm in Hastings, Nebraska. It was there that she met Bill, D's father. The two married and drove out to California to make a home. Bill made his living in the cattle business, having a side business as a butcher...but not the kind of butcher that works in a shop. He was a slaughter-man, the one who walked onto properties, shot the cow and cut it up into the requisite sides of beef. The man was strong to say the least. D remembers him as serious, brooding, and short-tempered. So his mother made up for it while Bill traveled.

Every week, despite Bill's warning not to spend money, Marie took her children to the Baptist prayer meetings at their church, followed up by dinner at a local diner, Betsy Ross. D remembers those dinners lovingly, because that was how she stood up to her husband, that was what she did to counter his rougher ways.

Monday, we'll have the funeral. It will be modest like she was, a graveside service, flowers, where she'll be laid to rest next to Bill...like she wanted, like he wanted.

Off you go, Marie, onto your next journey. May it be filled with the light you imagined.

A Blissful Christmas Season

Final exams are here now - too late for some to ever catch up with the demanding assignment roster. A student who hadn't been in class for weeks showed up for the exam two hours after the official start time of 7:30 a.m. What could I say when her list of work done was so woefully skimpy?

"It's probably not worth bothering with the exam - you don't have the points to pass, even assuming you ace the exam."

She sighed and sorta smiled, agreeing, turned on her heels and left.

It's a drag to not show up for your own life.

The past week has been hectic as usual, my little angelic M being anything but angelic (as a side note, she's taken to wanting to be called, "My little Angel" by the family and I suspect she's basing this newfound saintliness on a song they sing at the Christian pre-school she attends). M seems to be on a rampage, short-tempered, poking the dog to get her attention, screaming at everyone.

I think what she's suffering from is: Pre-Christmas Jitters. The school is preparing for a Christmas program, the boys keep talking about Christmas presents, we keep threatening the lack of Santa's visit if they all keep misbehaving, the commercials are Christmas-heavy, the house is decorated, the tree is laden with ornaments...my God, Christmas is coming!

Yes, I'm saying it, my minimalist Jewish upbringing sets far behind our mostly-secular celebration of Christmas. But...I rather love it this way. How wonderful to sit in the darkened den, the lights on the tree coloring the room with color, the scent of the tree, the coziness which eases the children into sleep. I look forward to the dinners and the gifts, the winter which will come, too.

For this, I'm more than happy to show up.

Slides on a White Sheet

Saw a great movie this evening - "Walk the Line" - really good, I was moved by the love, the journey, the pursuit of an artistic dream, the wish for safe simplicity.

Where have I been this week?

Thanksgiving was relaxed - two dinners on two days - sisters-in-law each doing the turkey, letting me do fun stuff like deadly-sugared yams and alcohol-drenched stuffing. Oh and the pumpkin pie from Marie Callendar's with luscious whipped cream. On Saturday, the day of the second dinner, my brother dragged out old slides, from when we were children, and we watched our own young faces in photos taken by my father...watched my parents' 30-something faces flash by, clicking by with no music, without the benefit of a sexy computer program to entertain us by crumpling pictures or pixelizing them as the show moved from slide to slide.

My dad loved photography and he took wonderful pictures that absolutely captured the era, their beauty, our sweetness. How well those pictures covered up the pain, the drama of their real lives, of what came later when their marriage finally blew up, emotional shrapnel whipping through all of us. B, my brother, and A, we all laughed and approved and mocked and sighed as we sat in the darkened living room, watching the shots against a wrinkled white sheet hanging along a set of drapes. The light of the projector and the sounds of the slides dropping into the lit pocket of the machine drifted throughout the room, like something ethereal, like the memories of the pictures themselves.

I left the dinner missing my father above all - missing his humor, missing the mystery of him. Among the pictures were images of a friend of theirs, JB. I recall him vividly. He lived next door to us - I remember him one time vigorously brushing his teeth, in his bathroom in his small cottage, five-year-old me watching him and asking him questions. I remember him riding a bike. He had reddish, curly hair, he spoke Spanish, and he was kind to us. I believe he loved my mother. I believe she was not averse to him either. But I don't really know the details...I wonder if it's true. What else did he see in my mother, other than the obvious? What did he think of my father? What does he remember...tell me anything, everything.

I searched for him on the internet, a quirk I have in that I know his real name. I'm tempted to write him, to ask him, "Do you remember us, do you remember them then?" I did locate him, where he works now (a professor of course at a technical university). I almost felt as if I was looking for my father...as if I'd actually found him. I was reminded of a fantasy that haunted me for the longest time after his death - the one where he never died, but had simply left, run away to start a new life. Time and time again I'd "see" him passing me by on the road in his favorite sports car, I'd swear he'd be at street corners or in the mall. I remember a time staring at the hands of a client because the hands looked so much like my father's I could barely hear the needs of the client. A trust, I think, a trust for the client and his wife. Look how he puts his hands together, look how he plays with the watch band...the hair on his arms...the cuffs folded over...

I was in a weird place on Sunday - not depressed, not sad, not peaceful, no, I was filled with a kind of anxiety that had no outlet. Something simmered within, making me impatient.

I know I'll never contact that man because to do so might destroy the fantasy that Papa is working, working well and successfully, accomplishing his dreams.

But I have to ask - why do I continue to grieve these parents of mine? Why do they lurk constantly in everything I do...I don't know.

*******

Wednesday afternoon, A lost his temper, ending up in a bit of a breakdown at the prospect of homework. Took him an entire hour to gain some self-control and calmness and once he did, it was as if nothing had happened. Earlier, his teacher just shook her head at my query as to how he was doing, "It's so hard to get him to write anything or do any math."

"Can you e-mail me...I feel like you're not keeping in good contact--"

"We have a parent-teacher conference, next week."

"Oh right...okay, we'll talk then."

Useless, helpless me.

That same afternoon, M clung to me when I tried to leave for class near six. J fussed and argued against our efforts to get him to study for a quiz. By the time I arrived at school, I felt drained, empty of anything to offer my students. Listlessly after an uninspired, thankfully-short lecture, I handed out an in-class assignment and walked the room, helping where I could. The students raised their hands for help and I went to them, answering their questions, correcting their work to better prepare them for next week's final exam. One woman called me over and kept writing as she asked me a question. An older student of Hispanic descent, she wore largish, stylish frames, and with soft hands, wrote in a halting and unsure style(how familiar those hands looked to me!). Then I noticed the skin beneath her eyes was moist, as if her eyes had watered with the hard work. I realized quickly, no, she's crying.

I put my hand on her shoulder and leaned down a tad so I could better see her face. The tears began to really flow then.

"Oh dear," I said, "You're really having a hard time, aren't you? Oh no..." I sat down immediately and went over each question with her. I'd wanted to go home but there was no way - we stayed later, late, after everyone left, and another student and I looked at a take-home assignment with her, going over everything, assuring her that she was on the right track. I helped where I could...told her she just needed more experience and that she'd get it in time.

"I can't seem to get past this point..." And the tears bubbled over once more. I felt so sorry for her - I knew that hurt - that feeling that everyone else seems to "get it". Useless, helpless me. For some reason...she reminded me of my mother. Only a few times did my mother's real-life tears move me...and this lady's tears...well, they moved me.

Back to the parents again.

The tearful student left near 10:15 p.m., still sniffling as she headed down the walkway to her car. The assisting student then asked to perform a poem for her speech class, "A power poem for a woman who works, who loves, who lives," in practice. I smiled and listened and offered praise for her hard work, for a very challenging project.

Home at 10:50 p.m. The house is quiet. The rooms are darkened with sleep. Sassy is wagging her tail at me, having met me at the door.

Sometimes, I find myself disappearing into my parent's old drama and I'm small and helpless again, waiting for them to remember me.

*******

When I was a child, my world revolved around the drama of my parents. As an adult, my world revolves around the drama of my children. All of them seem louder than me, more demanding than me. I'm sandwiched between layers of seeming, suffocating chaos. How strange that is.

*******

Christmas is coming and D put lights up on the house. We'll have a Christmas tree, we'll spend a little more money, money we don't have. Sometimes D infuriates me - little things, annoying things. I hate that we're so disparate in our artistic likes - in turn, he doesn't read what I write, other than the occasional once-over and his response is always lukewarm.

But I didn't marry him for our artistic "symbiosis." I married him because together we'd create a home with a proverbial picket fence, a colorful Christmas tree in the window, and a dog barking in the backyard. I married him because together we'd not be dramatic. And so it is relievingly mundane that in the evening we sit, legs and feet intertwined on the couch, watching a television show, or lie in bed, reading our books, or sit in a booth in a suburban restaurant, eating a steak and veggies dinner and talking about our children...how funny they are, how smart they are, how aggravating they are...did you see M with her hair in a bow and those mismatched clothes?! How much is the bill? Is this a POS...no let's use the credit card...I want dessert though. Let's be adventurous and order a Tiramisu! USC is playing UCLA this weekend...we going to Auntie's? Is that the bill? How much is it?

How funny it is we created drama out of our desperate need for simplicity, a generation beneath us.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I hope everyone has a wonderful, joyous day, whether alone or with family or friends. Today is the day for a collective sigh of relief...the day is sweet with love, with warmth.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Quickie

Harry Potter at eleven p.m.
For just J and me.
Running to the car at 1:45 a.m.,
Shivering and laughing
and saying, that was the best one,
Don't you think?

A meeting with J's teachers to talk
About improving his school life,
English teacher asking,
"How soon are you getting him on meds?"

"Make an Indian Drum" day, today,
For A which translates to
"Pull the trigger now,
Not another written word."
Done. Finally. On his own.

Let's go to dinner.
I don't want to go.
My CD doesn't work!
If anyone cries, or fights,
We're not going.
That's it. We're not going.

We're going to dinner,
Everyone's in the car,
M has her purse and is
Waiving about her hard-collected
Money.

The housekeeper is gone
To pay for doctors.

Walking at night, the dog,
The two, A and M,
Scooter together in the dark,
Lightened by my flashlight.
Together, laughing and
Shivering.

Is the risk worth the legal gymnastics?

I hope the Democrats fight like hell against the confirmation of Justice Alito.

The right to privacy with regard to abortions is too important to risk on an extremely conservative judge who may or may not overrule Roe v. Wade and progeny, not to mention the potential for an even further, frightening slide of our government towards the right. I won't argue legal technicalities a la Althouse because, while such legal gymnastics is admirable, uber-attention to academic case-law-speak seems to lead to a real loss of soul, a loss of practical reality when it comes to abortion. Losing the right to have a medically sound abortions in the many states across the country will be devastating to women. Period. The bigger picture must be taken into account first and foremost, second to Alito's allegedly sound though outrageous positions in several cases. I'm not willing to risk this loss, just so a few can be proven accurate in legal analysis skills.

Sure, federalism is fascinating and oh-so-thrilling as a means to show off one's higher education, but in doing so, you've lost the fight for basic American rights. Particularly, women's rights. Is getting Alito on the court based on tearing apart his critics for their failures of technical legal smarts worth the risk of losing what women have fought so hard for over the past twenty-five years?

Is fighting for Alito worth this loss?

Self-Portrait

Thanks to Richard, I read some amazing posts today written by Tamar and Jean, blogging about self-portraits, mothers, ourselves.

I've always approached the self-portrait from a visual perspective and it has always been a photographic journey I hated – I don’t like pictures of myself, never like what I see, because in those pictures is a person who, in my opinion, will never be as beautiful or as striking as my mother. No, worse...I've often used the ugliest words when I see those pictures...ugly, she whispers. Self-portraits always stir the pot filled with insecurity, fear, longing, self-pity, anger, and sadness. Oh what a witch’s brew that is!

So I take another self-portrait, and another, and just one more, always looking for “me,” always hoping to find that perfect picture, the one of a perfect beauty, the one who dances in the middle of a crowd, a person with whom people fall in love. But…but…

“Why don’t you wear pretty shoes?”

“Mija, let’s cut your hair.”

“Let’s straighten your hair.”

“Look at that hair, you’re Medusa!”

“I never went back to Mexico because of you. How could I leave? But now I feel like a transplanted plant, underfed, undergrown…dying.”

“Wear a dress, why don’t you ever wear dresses?”

“Why do you like that girl? You need more friends.”

“You shouldn’t stick to just one friend, it’s not healthy.”

“You’re just like your father – such a nasty sense of humor.”

“Why don’t you have any boyfriends?”

“Doesn’t your school have any dances? Why aren’t you going to any of them?”

How terrible that these messages stick to a girl, stick to her and guide her every choice, every womanly decision. How desperate I search for a beautiful girl in those cursed self-portraits! How desperate I am to find a self-portrait in the glancing eyes of strangers, in the words and support of friends, in the touch of my husband, in the affection of my children.

Today I relaxed on the sofa with a book, and M sat next to me with an old toy of hers in her lap, a toy that has “piano keys” that when pressed, produce tones. The keys are laid out in front of a plastic rise decorated with animal figurines and colors. M tapped away at the keys and said to me, “I’m a mommy and I’m working on the computer, honey.” I say, “Okay.” She reminded me not to say her name, but say, “Mommy.” She will call me “honey.” She was patient when she spoke and loving when she looked at me, staying very busy, very focused on her work. As we played, I paid attention to every detail, wondering, is this how I am? Is this how she sees me?

Later, when I asked J to do something he didn’t want to do, he got sassy with me, downright nasty, and I wondered, is that how you see me? Do I do that with you?

As I cooked in the evening, I griped to D about our money situation. I said, “We can’t live on our savings, we’re running out. Something has to give, change. Like…now!”

“Don’t you think I know that? Every month we go through this…look what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done? What do you mean, what I’ve done?”

“I mean what we’ve done.”

“You didn’t say ‘we’ve’, you said, ‘you’ve’. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I wonder, is this how he sees me? That somehow all by myself, I created this family, I created our circumstances by not being a working lawyer, and I spent our money.

When I checked e-mail later, after the stewing (of dinner and at my husband), a student had written to me, saying how I've changed her life, that one afternoon she heard me say, I love you, to my son on the cell phone (an unexpected interruption) and that little moment moved her to change how she related to her children. Not to mention, she added, that she will change her schedule to have me as a professor every semester she can. I laughed and reflected on the many times students have said complimentary things about my classes. I wonder, is that how I am? A good teacher, someone they will remember?

A friend wrote to me, suggesting a writing contest that we should participate in. I recall my successes...and I ask myself? Is that who I am, a writer? Someone who can write? Is that how people see me?

And what of the love of so many important people in my life? At times, I can hear my father say proudly, "My beautiful lawyer." How I cleaved to those words! I hoped that was how people saw me, too. Beautiful, smart, successful. My sister says on occasion, "you're too permissive as a parent." My brother said to me one late night at the beach, marijuana scenting the air, coloring our senses, "You were important to me in those months after Mom died, you affected me, helped me." I recall being left by a lover for another woman and I remember the pain, my destroyed ego, the message that I'd always believed in, deep inside. It had actually come true. There in real life someone said, "I do not love you - there is someone out there better than you, someone I'd much rather be with."

Lastly, I feel my mother's warmth when I'm afraid, how safe I felt when I ran to her bed...even as an adult. I do hear when I want to, my own mother's voice saying, "I love you, mija." Words which seem to erase all the hurtful ones.

Sighing deeply now, I sit in front of the computer with a Diet Coke at my side, a Butterfinger wrapper on the floor, kids waiting for baths and books and extra time awake, undone homework on the kitchen counter, ungraded papers in my backpack, my make-up rubbed away, my salt and peppery hair sticking up in places it shouldn’t, my jeans stretched out and tired, my brother’s old sweater that I nicked from my mom’s house after she died now speckled with sauce that splashed from the skillet…

I wonder about my self-portrait. In the end, in the quiet of a day done, I realize self-portraits are ever-changing, ever-fluid, a blur of history, memory, possibility, people, passing conversation, playful instances, other photographs, otherness, togetherness, aloneness, regret, and all the emotions that accompany life. My self-portrait cannot be done.

Sunday Morning Breakfast

Morning came gently - the bedroom was warm, yellow light seeped in from behind our heavy drapes, and M's little body next to mine reminded me I wasn't dreaming. Before long, the rest of the house woke, too. Sassy came pounding up onto our bed, the boys made noise, flipping on the television in the den and bickering about...something. Our conversation was quiet, so as not to wake D. But he did and after some more sweet talk, he soon got up and M and Sassy followed, leaving me happily in my bed. I flipped on the news and decided a movie was more fun than reality.

After some time, D brought me coffee, adding to the laziness of the morning, not suggesting I move from my cocoon. But that wasn't what "made" the day for me.

Just when the wife learned her long-thought-dead husband was alive, M came in with a breakfast plate for me. She'd made it herself. Red grapes dotted a plastic "Maisy" plate, a Nutrigrain bar huddled beneath one-eithth of a flour tortilla, on top of which sat five or six Wheat Thin crackers. Roundabout that were some Cheese-its and colored fishies. Next to all that was a plastic cup of applesauce. M's smile was shy and proud and with just a hint of worry. I kissed and cuddled her, saying thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Breakfast in bed! How very wonderful!"

I say, I think that was the best breakfast I've ever had.

Desperate Housewife

I am desperate for love. I am a desperate housewife in need of love and affection that doesn’t leave green and red washable-marker prints on my clothes…so I dress myself up, pulling on a dusty negligee, a silky robe that my mother bought me long ago. I put on lots of makeup, remembering my younger days when I was single and on the prowl. I tease my hair into a wild puff and spray my skin with perfume, with one, two, three kinds of perfume. Shoes…shoes, oh no, my feet are too worn for stilettos, so I slip into my pink, fluffy slippers, the ones with the shredded heels because our dog thinks they are mice that need to be killed. But oh they feel so good on my tired feet. Now I drink to you, to me, to the possibilities that lie in front of us. Kiss me you fool, because…

Please, oh please, I am so desperate for love.

Jenny Madder,
Suburbia, California
Halloween Eve.

*****

I laugh a little when I look at that picture of me, on Halloween Eve, playing a “Desperate Housewife.” The first thing my brother said when I walked into his house was, “Mommy!” He was referring to our mother. I laughed…a little.

In fact, when I was in my bathroom slathering on the makeup and smacking on the lipstick, when I was hooking the silvery costume jewelry, I did think of her. A remembered a night when I came downstairs to spy on a party my mother was having. She’d invited her boss, some friends. My father was with her. She was drunk and had decided to read Tarot cards to her guests. She had changed into a silky robe that had slits up to her waist, choosing to wear next to nothing beneath. I saw her languishing and playing a sexy witch in dim light, titillating her company, infuriating my father. I only watched for a little, but I cannot forget her absolute obliviousness to her own desperation. I saw it then…I felt it later in her life, when she was older, when she’d look into the empty space around her, dreaming maybe, wondering maybe, what had happened to all the time passed, as she cooked something for me, something for my son A.

Today, I had an appointment with my son’s doctor to update his medication. We had a good meeting, made some logical decisions, and discussed his progress. We got a plan together regarding my oldest son, deciding to deal with his issues now, now that we have A managed. The meeting had been in Pasadena, the city where I grew up. The building we met in is an old one, from the 20’s at least. When I left the meeting, night had already fallen and I was walking down Colorado Boulevard, hugging my black blazer a little tighter to my body, feeling the edges of a winter’s cold. Traffic was a blur to my right and to my left I saw a rare-books-bookstore. Ahh…a kind of heaven to me.

I stepped into the place, walking slowly, listening to classical music. The owner was on the phone, talking in soft tones, leaving me to my suddenly-lonely thoughts. I wandered into the fiction section and saw my beloved William Faulkner and George Eliot and James Joyce and…and…

For a moment I was transported into a world I once had, a place of books, words, ideas, the possibility of a professorship maybe. I was someone else – I was where my heart wanted to be always. For a moment, I remembered feeling good about myself, living in those books, in literature, living for what I could reveal about those books. I saw across the aisles, a ghost of idealistic love that I had been searching for but was always comfortably beyond my reach.

I suppose in those few moments standing in the bookstore, I felt the comfort of a future, of looking forward.

Turning on my heels, I walked out of the store and headed for my ride, the SUV that defines who I am now. As soon as I locked the doors and started the engine, my cell phone rang. D asked me to pick up some Motrin for A because he had a raging fever of 102. I tried to talk about the appointment but D got aggravated, resorting to a pitiful whine, something to the tune of, “What’s wrong with my kids?”

“Oh shush,” I grumbled. Off to Target I went, battling the traffic of Pasadena, cramming my car into a tiny space in the parking lot of what once was Robinson’s.

What a shock the transition from classical music and the aroma of old books to Target, to the crowd of people with no expressions on their faces as they wandered the floor looking for…what? I made sure to grab a book for myself before I left, made sure to have a something of my heart before I got onto the freeway with the medicine and a toothbrush and the Star Wars DVD. I made sure to look at the cover of a favorite author’s book as I moved closer to home, doing only 15 miles per hour, surrounded by other SUV’s and people rushing home with their bags of goodies, with cell phones jammed tight to their ears.

What a transition. How quickly the feel of the bookstore disappeared. I wonder if my children will think of me when they're dressing desperate for Halloween…

“I remember the look on Mom’s face when she touched the new book she’d just bought. How far away she seemed to be…”

I wonder...tomorrow is November 2, Mexican Day of the Dead. I'll thinking of you, Mom, thinking I'll be setting out your favorite foods, your stuff, outside in the garden, sending you these things upwards, up, with white sage smoke, sending you a bit of my heart, to say, yes, I think I understand a little more of you, just like you said I would.

Just Another Cold Day

I've been dreaming about love lately, late in the night. Yesterday, I saw my mother and she was in love with an ugly man, the kind of ugliness that always reveals kind-heartedness. She told me how special he was to her, how well he treated her. I tried to see him in the way she did, the vision of him attempting to morph into skin-deep beauty but the picture wouldn't budge. Finally, the scene fizzed away and I was left alone in the room with only a memory of the man.

The other night it was me who was in love, in love with a younger man, strong-bodied and hairless. He was on my bed and we were touching one another, comfortably. Each one of my family members came to me and asked about him. I told them his name, a moment of blankness because in truth, I didn't know his name. But he was beautiful. Even D was a little enamored of him. We all were. How lucky we were to have this beautiful stranger in our midst!

The other morning, in my waking life, I received an e-mail from a long-ago friend. Someone who I once loved with everything in me. He was kind and complimentary of my photo gallery which he came across when googling my name. Googling my name? You were thinking of me, I wanted to write specifically. You were always too "good" for me. Always a bit of a dream for me. It was a sweet moment that carried me through a morning of lectures. I remembered the anxiety, the loss, the highs. I missed that particular love.

Our days have been dull, routine being the name of the game. The homework battle with my middle son is exhausting, the struggle with my oldest son to eke out "C's" is emotionally draining, and my youngest's rudeness and head-strong attitude is maddening. I wonder if I escape in my dreams, escape to a place that is relieving, curious. A place where there is easier love than the love between growing children and their parents.

***

There have been so many things I've wanted to blog about, hourly I think of things I want to talk about, to tell about - I come here and find the entry page - I prepare to write. The ideas fade. I end up moving to CNN and reading about the Bush-Administration problems, which only serve to irritate me. Especially when I read about the dissatisfied "right". They put him in office, they've expressed an almost-god-like admiration of him and his ways, denouncing ANY critic as a "unpatriotic liberal," they've dominated our politics, they've tried to control (and often accomplished it) our media for six years, they've ravaged social justice and hope to ravage the constitution. They deny the lies. They won't admit "we" were right.

But they complain.

Please, I say, shut the hell up.

***

Halloween is coming, Halloween is coming! I don't have a costume. Perhaps I don't really need one. I'll just show up in my pajamas, tease my hair into a crazy disaster, pick up a television remote control with one hand, a margarita with the other. I'll call myself a "suburban mother".

***

Students cheated in my class the other day. I lectured the whole class about morality and maturity. The two students, after my lecture about cheating, sat for roll and then promptly left for half an hour, missing about half the class. They came back in, sat down, and then giggled over pictures on a cell phone. I stopped them at that point, having already marked them absent. After class, only one of them stayed seated when I made a beeline towards the two, the other bolting out the door and then peeking in to see if I'd released her friend. I told the remaining girl that she had to be in class, in lecture.

"Are your parents making you take this class?" I asked.

"No, I have a baby and I want to become a paralegal."

"Well, then, there's even more reason for you to be in class. You're in no position to be skipping lectures and chatting when you are here. If you want to succeed, you need to be here. Otherwise drop the class. Find a program better suited to you."

"Okay."

When I looked into the eyes of this girl, I worried I was looking at my children's future.

***

The afternoon is cold, but the house smells of flavorful, roasted chicken. My son J smiled happily and said he loves when the weather changes.

"Isn't it so cozy, mom?"

Oh it is, it really is.

A Poem of Firsts

How funny it is that I can’t think of a first sentence,
For once,
For this.

A story popped into my head, yesterday.
More of a poem maybe,
A poem made up of all those
First sentences that follow me around like lost puppies.

A woman with salt and pepper curly hair
Sat at her computer day in and day out
Playing Scrabble with cutesy names like
Pimpdaddy, Joker12 and Jonesingforwords.
She ate nothing but peanut butter sandwiches.

My grandmother told me a story, yesterday.

I have a memory, she said, of a girl
Standing by a footman’s horse
Wondering if he was ever going to return.
An enchanted lizard stared at her a few feet away,
She didn’t dare move. She didn’t want to be kissed.

The phone rang, but he didn’t answer because
Gilligan’s Island was on, the new one, and
He didn’t dare move because if he did,
Gilligan wouldn’t save Maryanne from loneliness.

There were five dogs in the family –
Bumby, Lady, Oscar, Dandy, and Abby.
Only two of them lasted, the first three
Run over by a car, swept away in wind,
Returned for being too wild to handle.

Love never found her when she wanted it to find her,
Leaving her in a constant state of intense
Anxiety.

Order can be made out of chaos,
So long as you have
Imagination and desperation.

Both of which I have, had, yesterday.

Fiction: Betraying Art

I wrote this piece some time ago and actually got it published in an online journal. I was so proud of myself. Like so many other journals, it went under and now my little moment of pride is gone. I'm posting it for Edge who said he was missing my fiction, who always has something interesting to say on his blog, who seemingly enjoys photography as much as I do.

Speaking of photography, I've added a link at the side to my photo galleries - there you'll see the kids, the husband, my sister, my brother, my grandparents, nieces and nephew, me, our world. I'll get back to my regular blogging soon.

*********

Betraying Art

“How much for the naked girl?”

The lascivious tone in the stranger’s voice caused me to open my eyes, an undesired response since I was catnapping. Like the last painting I offered for sale, I rested on dead, summer grass and was propped up against a chain link fence. The art festival was almost over and I had yet to unload “Lady in the Sun.”

“How much are you offering?”

“No more than a c-note.”

He cleared his throat and sniffed arrogantly, eyeing me before returning to the golden-breasted woman in front of him. The wool coat he wore was too heavy for the spring weather and a bead of sweat slid from his temple, disappearing into the thick folds of his neck. If it wasn’t for the cologne he wore, he’d be rank.

“How badly you want her?”

“I can give another fifty.”

I grappled as to whether I should hold out, glancing across the field filled with hundreds of other artists. I didn’t like the way the stranger shifted his weight. He had no legitimate interest in art – he was going to use Lady, abuse her. Above all, he’d commit the highest of creative crime: he’d misunderstand her.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Lemme think about it.”

I suddenly felt dishonest, disloyal. No doubt, I reacted to Lady’s features. She’d been brushed with colors of untruth.

The model had been a neighbor who needed cash so I suggested she pose. While I painted her, while she sat nude for me, she told a story of an adored necklace she’d lost. Her father had given it to her for her eighteenth birthday. But she’d been careless, wore it despite a faulty clasp, and one day the necklace vanished. Diamonds, sapphires, gold…gone. She’d looked at me with such helplessness, with such profound guilt, I found myself unwilling to reflect her pain on the canvas. I betrayed my own vision. Lady ended up confident and daring in her nakedness. Unlike my model, a similar loss for Lady would have been intentional. She would have thrown the precious item into the trash, mocking the giver.

“Where will you put her?”

The man wiped perspiration from his forehead with a red silk handkerchief. “What’s it to you?”

“She’s like a sister to me.”

“Artists…you’re all alike. It’s a picture – no more, no less.”

“Maybe I like the picture. Maybe I’m gonna be famous. I can’t just let her go for a measly one-fifty.”

Silence flowed between us, common viewpoint lost in the current. Lady lied to all her observers. Her history was invented, created, imaginary. I smoothed my exposed legs, the skin dry and uncared for. Paints, brushes, canvases, jars and rags waited for me at my apartment. Bills piled high waited, too. I couldn’t decide which held the bulk of my loyalties: Lady, a symbol of compromised artistry, or my stomach, a manifestation of raw need.

Before I could decide, two hundred-dollar bills fluttered to my feet. The stranger had flung them at me, an act of contempt. I grabbed the money and stuffed it into my pocket.

“Take her,” I said. “She’s all yours.”

Tag!

Ahhh...tagging back from Carolyn's post, here's what I found in my 23rd post, fifth sentence in:

I chuckled a little because from my place at the desk, I couldn't see any flowers.

Not very exciting a sentence, I'd hoped for more, I'd hoped for depth. Instead it's a fragment. Maybe that says something.

Here are the rules for the tag:

1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

I'll suggest Lori, MatzahNacho, Barbara, Nappy40, and the Butcher.

Just jumping in for a moment...off my usual topics...

I will come back and respond to the sweet notes in my last blog when I have more of a moment to myself.

In the meantime, help me! I'm drowning in a sea of conservative blogs regarding the latest Supreme Court nominee - I am frustrated by the abortion question, by the seeming disconnect between the lawmakers and the women who will truly be hurt by a loss of abortion rights. Certainly, no doubt, Californians are safe, New York, too, but what about the Southern states, all those "red states" just chomping at the bit to reduce liberty in our country? Who will be hurt there? The poorest women who cannot afford to travel to "blue states" nor hire their private doctors to do their abortions (as the wealthy will continue to do just the way they did back when abortion was illegal). If Roe v. Wade, its root cases and progeny are overturned, the ones who are clamoring for the change will not be affected, will not be hurt in any way. They don't get abortions today, they won't get abortions tomorrow. These people are so far off the ones walking into the clinics, I don't know what to do or say.

I know their response, but the response continues to be disconnected with reality.

I can only hope for "conservatism" - I can only hope the U.S. Supreme Court will continue to recognize the importance of legal medical intervention in a procedure that women will continue to want and get.

Until tomorrow...buenos noches.

I miss blogging...

I miss reading all my favorite blogs. I feel my little "family" has disappeared and of course, it's my fault for being so absent, so neglectful. A couple of weeks ago, Tamar wrote about her cave. She spoke about it so beautifully, in a positive way, describing a personal space, "hours of alone time, time to think, reflect, feel, understand, and, especially, time to write."

How I want that cave!

At the same time, I do feel a little withdrawn into another type of cave, one not so wonderful - I find myself anxious, tired, worried, bored even though I have something to do at all times of the day, sad. I miss writing, I'm always about to write something. Opening sentences hang on my fingertips, about to be typed, but disappear with my inaction. I sometimes feel the loss of "art" and find myself mourning the things I'll never accomplish. Like that novel of mine, like all of them.

Certainly, things are plodding along. J so far is handling school all right, no problems so far. He seems to like the classes and the teachers. M is very happy attending three days of preschool. She definitely needs a year before kindergarten - I'm hoping she'll be ready for it. Today we learned (not unsurprisingly) that A is below grade level (3rd) so he's been put into an "intervention" program. We start next week...he has to be in school at 7:00 a.m. three days a week. I don't think I need to tell you how much I'm dreading that. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad he's getting the attention, but I feel a little hopeless about it since we had him in a morning class last year and neither his handwriting nor his maths skills improved. I'm thinking some of what he's in intervention for requires him to get older before his skills will advance.

Is it terrible to be sad that my child needs so much help? Is it terrible to be a little envious of parents whose children have no difficulty? I keep wondering what I've done wrong. In my darker moments, I'm convinced my husband has bad genes. Yes, yes...it's all D! Damn him!

Thank god for mindless video games and television, oh and my books. Whatever would I do without my books?

Hugs to everyone. Thank you for being you, for being steady and reliable and uplifting.

Shhhh....

It's real quiet now, everyone's asleep, Sassy, too. I could probably say anything I wanted, get away with curse words, maybe a dirty movie. Yes, yes, I'll write something erotic...

Nahhhh...

We've moved onto September 22. The 21st slid by, a class in the a.m. A quick lunch on the couch in front of TiVo, a soda in the SUV on my way to pick up A and then M, Sassy tagging along and marking up the passenger window with her nose. The kids are finally in the car and the dog's jumping from seat to seat, her red, inherited-from-Abby-our-other-dog (R.I.P.) leash getting tangled. Backpacks thrown on the floor next to shoes and loose papers and my purse. Some internet browsing while the kids snacked on oatmeal cookies and a peach. An e-mail answered, notes printed out for class in the p.m. Homework. M has her own pre-school pages to work on and she's so proud. Every page she did. A did his, too. He does so much better when I'm not there breathing down his neck but I have to because he must make those letters the same size with spaces in between words...he has to make his sentences readable. I sort of laugh at myself, at how simple the writing is and yet how difficult. Well why should he put spaces? Everybodyknowsyoudon'ttalkwithspaces. Therearen'tspacesuntiltheendofthesentence!

My mother died four years ago on the 21st. I say that with spaces clearly audible. My sister focuses on the time passing. Ten years since Papa. I told her that I'm still not beyond the shock of them both being gone to think of the calendar. Mom has been on my mind. Yet today in class I told a story about my father and his absent-mindedness as a way to explain to the students to not be offended that it will be May, 2006, and I will still be asking them their name when giving them grades or checking for their presence for the roll sheet. I ate pickled okra as soon as I got home to remind myself of my parents' refrigerator back when life was never-ending and I'd never be independent and never get away from that tension-laden place in Pasadena. I used to sit on my bed beneath my open window, pink paint peeling off the window frame, reading some classic literature book, wondering why-oh-why didn't I go away to college. Dying to get out. I know that my oldest son is beginning to think similarly. I know he'll be bolting the moment he can. My little man, the one with the glasses and the tuxedo, sleeping in my arms in a wedding in Las Vegas. The one with the long hair and glasses-free brown eyes and what will be a very cutting wit.

In the afternoon after homework, I closed my eyes as I stood in my room next to the sliding glass door, a breeze coming in through the screen and I wondered when I'd be independent - I felt sad there, feeling autumn coming towards me. I don't know what it is about this time of year but the change in seasons puts me in such a state. Sure, maybe it's the obvious - the illnesses of my parents, losses of lovers, people leaving to go back to school, a shift. The sun doesn't warm me during these months - Sassy rubbed her body against my legs like a cat. M pulled me away from my thoughts, M in her red stockings, magenta boots, green skirt and matching shirt, a shirt that says in glittering pink letters, "Supergirl". Her hair is wild and big because I brushed it earlier to get tangles out. She has the finest freckles across the bridge of her nose fading into her cheeks. And the slightest overbite.

A friend of A stopped by and this little boy had a dog on a leash, a cute cocker-spaniel. Immediately A got Sassy on a leash and the two boys, both 8, went walking their similar-sized dogs around the neighborhood. We're so proud...Sassy didn't jump at the other dog or try to wrestle. She's a member of the family now, so yes, she has these little imperfections. We're working on them. Why should she be any different from any other member of the family? Seeing A with Sassy on a leash at his side thrills me, warms me. He's so happy with his dog who sleeps with him on his bed, all night, who licks his face and makes him smile.

When I packed up and left to school, I could see in the mirror M and D waving at me. I need a laugh, I said.

D gave me what I needed when I got home.

While I was away:

M [excited, at the dinner table, a un-bunned hot dog in her hand, pointed towards the floor]: Daddy, look at me!

D [turns to look while he's fixing himself some ravioli at the counter]: What do you want to show me?

M [moves her hand to show D the hot dog and is shocked to see that Sassy has eaten half the hot dog, the sight of which sends her into a fit of screeching]: Ahhhhhhhh!!!!

D [immediate leaves the ravioli]: Oh no Sassy!

M [sobbing]: I don't want her to die! Daddy, don't let her die!

A [very impressed with the stealth-like capability of Sassy]: She's going to die all right, she's going to die tomorrow.

D [admonishing A using his full name]: A, no, don't say that. She's going to be fine, honey.

J [looking up from his drumming magazine]: Who died? Your friend died?

D: Nobody died!

M [getting off the chair and hugging Sassy who's very happy with the hot dog treat]: I love you, Sassy! Don't die!

J: Hey, M, are you going to eat the rest of the hot dog?

****

Sometimes I think my children have absorbed my death anxieties.

Sunday

Ten o’clock and I’m sleepy-eyed, the kind of sleepiness that pulls you under while mid-sentence. When the boys were younger and demanding of stories while I lay beside them in the dark, I would begin one sentence and finish with another. J was always so in tune with my tales that he caught me right away, waking me, pointing out my out-of-sync words. A on the other hand never noticed. M doesn’t let me tell stories – we sort of tell them together, her little voice leading me along.

Me: Once upon a time there was a Princess—

M (in a scary, ghostly tone of voice): No, Mommy, there was a witch and she saw a dog named Sassy and she walked the dog in the woods.

Me: The witch—

M: (same scary, ghostly voice) Then Tinkerbell came and saved the dog from the witch.

Me: And they flew together—

M: (same scary voice) They walked to a castle with no locks or windows. Tinkerbell took the broomstick (pronounced “brum-stick”) from the witch and gave it to the dog.

Me: And they—

M: (excitedly) Theeee….end!

And so with M, I’m not given much opportunity to drift off into other-sentences.

Today, we celebrated J’s 12th birthday and I found myself desperately wishing for memories to flood me of when he was small and cuddled with me in my arms – how easy we forget those times even though while we were there, the hours, the days felt eternal, endless. How I wished for him to be just a little bit older, just a little more independent. How I wish now for him to be just a little less independent, how I wish he’d not shoo me away when I try to hug him.

Dinner was lively, at our local Chili’s. We opened gifts and had cake at home – J was thrilled to get all stuff for his drum set. A new crash cymbal, jazz drumsticks, a bag to carry his growing collection of drumsticks.

J’s feet are now bigger than mine.

I consoled myself by lying this night with M and hugging her close to me, memorizing the feel of her warmth and her easy acceptance of my cheek-kisses.

This morning though, J’s birthday seemed far away. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched HBO’s In Memoriam: New York City, 9-11-01. I found myself near-sobbing at the tragedy of it, at the limitless horror of the images. I felt almost as if I was seeing it for the first time because it’s been so long since I dared to watch anything on the event. In fact, when it happened, my mother was in a deep coma, one she would never wake from. I remember those 9-11 images on the television, I remember being shocked and saddened and afraid, but mostly I remember turning to my mother who lay silent on a hospital bed and weeping because I knew I’d never hear her stories again, I’d never lie with her again in her bed. I remember what felt like the most private, ignored grief as the country consoled the 9-11 victims.

Red-faced, swollen-eyed, I shook myself off when I shut off the television, burying the pain. I drifted into the kitchen were we put balloons and streamers up. I tidied the house, made the beds, kissed A on the top of his head as he played a video game. I watched him play – computerized cars zipping along a computerized track, speeding faster than any sort of reality.

“Look at the boost, Mom!”

“I see that…” Sassy whimpered at my feet, ready for a walk, ready for the day to get on. M cried for me to put her socks and shoes on, A ran from D, not wanting a much-needed bath.

I was glad to drop away from the scary tale to other-sentences, to today-ness, to a birthday.

The Free Moment

At last I sit here at the computer in my overtaken office, at last a free moment to "blog". School starts for the boys on Tuesday - M began preschool on Friday. They seem anxious to start, to get the beginning over with. How funny that in these last days of summer vacation, we're all enjoying morning walks with Sassy, afternoon bike rides, and noontime swims in our community pool, all as if we have weeks left before our days will firm up with the school schedule. In hindsight, I'm sorry that the boys spent as long as they did in summer school. It's my sincerest hope that they'll do well in enough this coming year to skip summer school. That really took a huge bite out of the break. Next year I hope we do more than we did.

Hurricane Katrina occupies my thoughts - I flip on CNN, MSNBC, or BBC whenever I get a chance - I'm praying for our citizens who've lost so much. I'm sorry I don't live in a place where I can volunteer because giving money seems so...empty. But, it's what I can do.

I also plan on working for the Democratic party next election - I don't think our domestic infrastructure can take another four years of the Republican party. If Katrina hasn't revealed who's been hurt by the current conservative government, I don't know what can. How well-hidden the growing, impoverished class has been! How low on the totem-pole of W's priorities they've been sitting - the abandonment breaks my heart even further. I feel like shouting, "The Emporer has no clothes!"

My grandparents just left our house - an impromptu lunch. Earlier this morning my grandmother called me, letting me know she'd bring by KFC chicken, that she wanted to give J a little something for his upcoming 12th birthday. Mama Nana and Papa Úl looked good considering their advanced age (late 80's) and recent health troubles - Papa probably shouldn't be driving but he is and he won't consider giving it up. I'm pretty certain it will take a driving test to get him off the road. I hope one will be required soon enough. On the other hand, I know how terrible it would be for him to lose that independence. So...until then, there will be more impromptu lunches.

While Mama Nana was here, we talked about Katrina, about the lagging response times, moving on to immigration. Papa Úl, a long-time Democrat, a WWII vet, a son of Mexican-born parents, railed against Arnie, laughing at the rants about the flow of Mexican citizens into the U.S., "His father was a Nazi! Who is he to talk about Mexican people working in California?! My God!" A note...don't bother arguing with Papa Úl, you will get a smile and swift shake of his head and hand at you, followed up by more digging in with his position. In other words, there is no arguing with my grandfather. Today, I agreed. I even threw in that Arnie himself was rumored to have been a Nazi Youth member. Just to liven up the conversation. My grandmother said that was a true fact. D looked at me and said on the sly, "He couldn't possibly have been..."

I shot a look at D and with my eyes, told him to never mind.

Because my grandmother was once an immigrant, because her sisters, her children, her mother, and many friends emmigrated from Mexico, her perspective is always interesting and the images she evokes of her own youth are wonderful. She believes there shouldn't be the problem there is because Mexico is capable of being a stronger force in the world than it is. She blames the Mexican government and illusory, stubborn beliefs.

"Life here in the U.S. is not what they dream about," she said, "it's harder here than in Mexico. Those left behind have plenty of dollars in their wallets but the family is divided. What happiness is that?" She painted a picture of meadows, hills, and skinny dogs. "We were happy," she remembered. "The struggle here to survive isn't worth the loss."

Perhaps. I'm reminded of a winter holiday I spent in Mexico City with my mother and sister, spending a few weeks in a great-aunt's multi-story apartment. I can still feel the cold tile floor, I can still remember my imaginings over the recent death of another tenant in the same building who rolled out of his window and fell three stories down into the courtyard to his death. "He fell asleep in the wrong place," according to my elderly aunt, Tía Margarita, who told the story in a highly judgmental fashion, blaming the man for his own demise (the story was told as a warming to us to not venture near the large, open windows with no railing).

I recall in particular an amazing day trip to a nearby national park, ten of us crammed into an ancient sedan, our favorite cousin, Juanito, driving (Juanito had had a stroke and we weren't 100% sure of just how much he could see out of his bad eye - some suspected he was mostly blind but that wasn't enough for the family to intervene because he was great at bribing the highway police and everyone rather risked a car accident than getting delayed by a speeding ticket). People sat on laps, sitting on still someone's else's lap, no joke, laughing and chatting the hour drive. My mother prayed that we wouldn't get hit - she laughed and chatted, too, but in a clearly distracted manner. We did get there, had a great picnic and an exhausting, beautiful hike. The day had been blissfully fun. Throughout the holiday we ate from street-side vendors (really one shouldn't do it) and played cards with the kids our age (we taught them "Pig" - according to my mother, for years after the trip the kids played the card game and always played thinking of us). The funny thing is that my sister and I didn't speak Spanish. We learned a little down there and must have learned enough to communicate because in my mind, I can almost believe we all spoke the same language. I know we didn't. What happened was that children can "talk" to one another in special ways.

My memory of Mexico is one of joy mixed in with hardship - life wasn't easy, money didn't come easily, but you always had family to celebrate with. I can see that living in the United States robbed the transplanted immigrants of that particular enjoyment of life. My extended family here...doesn't have that unique joy. It's this loss of joy my grandmother spoke of.

Today, the temperature has risen to 90 or so, maybe more than that. The heat reminds me of being in that stuffy car - I think of the heat in the drowned, wrecked Delta. I hope for a quick return of joy.