Sticks and Stones May Break Your Bones, but Words Will Hurt You.

So, Tim, Harry, and I were talking about diarrhea at the dinner table the other night.  I don’t why. Tim and I were playing Bananagrams at the time, the usual world cup kind of game where we’re deciding who is actually smarter.  (I think the record shows that I am the smartest, but I can’t remember all that has gone before, so I’ll just say that at the moment we’re neck and neck.)

Anyway, the word, and hence the subject, diarrhea, came up and Tim said that there’s an alternate spelling of the word that's far worse than "diarrhea".  I didn’t believe him.

“ No, there’s a spelling that will make you go 'Ick!'.  It’s a different one.   I think it ends 'rrheo', or something like that.”

“You mean, ‘rrhea’. That’s how it’s spelled.”

“‘rrheo’ – or  something like that.”

“I think you mean, 'rrhea'.  That’s how it’s spelled,“ I said doggedly.

“No, it’s something different.”

“I don’t believe you.”

And this went on for a while, until Harry said “Let’s look it up!”  (This is something we do almost every night.)

So, we did. And let me tell you, Tim was right.  There is an alternate spelling and it IS different and much more visual.

DIARRHOEA

I completely spazzed out at that point:   “Diarrhoea! Oh my God, that’s horrible!”

 “I know, right?”

We kept saying the word over and over again, heaving at the “hoea” part of it.  Diarrhoea, diarrhoea, diarrhooooeea  Sputter, gag, heave.

 “It’s awful, isn’t it”, Tim said, reveling in being right for a change and gagging at the same time.

“Totally.  It’s explosive. It’s like  KRAKATOA!”

So let me say that words do matter. They WILL hurt you.  I’d much rather have diarrhea than diarrhoea.  Tim gets an extra bananagram point for that one.

In the Mind's Eye

I've been thinking a lot about getting old. I'll be 50 in a few weeks, so it's only right that I start to examine my life a little, where it's going, where it's been. I must say I've never been very good at making big plans for the future, unless it's worrying about it. That I'm good at. No, it's really always been day to day, sometimes week to week, and occasionally month to month. Taking care of the things that come my way. This is not to say I don't have a retirement plan. It just seems to fall into that immediate stuff for me: get a new job, fill out the form for the 401k, done. It's things like "Where do you see yourself in five years? Who would you like to be?" that completely confound me.

I also don't know where to go with the past. I don't long for it, that's for sure, and these days I don't really dwell on it either. Lately, though, I've been getting whiffs of feelings that used to be there. The other night, the wind was soft and balmy. It smelled like spring, even though it's November. Little pictures flashed through my mind: cut-off shorts, grass clippings, riding a bike hands-free down Winona Street. I think I was in love or in love with the promise of love. What's weird about this memory of a feeling is that it's an image in my mind. I can't really reproduce the actual feeling, but I know that it was there because I can see it. It's like some schmaltzy ad for Tampax or Accidental Death and Dismemberment insurance. (I'm free! I'm young! Look, no hands!) I'm not depressed by this, just curious. Long term memories have become pictures, but short term ones still elicit strong emotions. Like seeing my son give his Heroes of the Past presentation at school. He wore a fake mustache and button-down shirt with a make-shift cravat torn from some satin fabric. He was Tesla, talking about the discovery of alternating currents. God, I was so proud!

I wonder how to keep it all alive. You hear stories, like the old woman who has forgotten who she is and doesn't recognize her own kids, but can tell you in vivid detail about putting lipstick on for the first time and walking down the street, only to have her responsible older brother snatch her up and bring her back home. Maybe that's because she's seeing the pictures in her mind. Speaking of which, I don't like taking pictures. Not just because I'm terrible at it, but because when I do, I can't seem to take in the moment that I'm trying to capture. It's like the physical snapping of the picture replaces the memory picture that my brain naturally takes. I do love photographs, though. I just want someone else to take them.  

Where was I? (I believe this may be another sign of aging.) Future, past, present reflections on getting older. I know it's good to be present and focus on the moment, because this is how pictures are formed, but also because this is where the joy is and where the joy will be when you look back. So, where do I want to be in five years? I guess I just want to be right there: listening, seeing, smelling, touching, and tasting with open heart and mind. Taking pictures.

Ruby Remembered

We put Ruby down yesterday. She was 16 years old and failing. I miss her and all the rituals surrounding her life, even the recent ones tailored to the aging dog: carrying her outside to eat, mixing wet food with hard and adding water to soften it, holding her up to drink water. She was old, 112 in people years according to the formula (age of dog x 7). Still it sucks being the “decider”. You just can’t help questioning yourself: Is this the right time? Too early? Too late? Did she suffer more because I couldn’t make a decision? Was there still the life force in her? I think the build-up was worse than the actual event. My sister-in-law, Celeste, is a vet and a very good one at that. She was able to come over and put Ruby to sleep in her own home surrounded by her loving pack. She explained everything that was going to happen clearly and in gentle tones. I think that’s when it really hit home to our nine-year-old son, Harry, that Ruby was going to die. The hardest part was seeing him sitting cross-legged next to Ruby hang his head and start to sob. When the deed was done, it really did look like Ruby just went to sleep—there was no sign of anxiousness or stress. It was, in the end, peaceful.

Afterwards, in the best traditions of funerals and wakes, we ate. Harry suggested we go to “Ruby’s Barbeque” in honor of her namesake, so we did and we stuffed ourselves. Sounds a little maudlin to go to “Ruby’s”, but it’s not unheard of in our culture. We eat and drink the body and blood of Christ at communion and have the lamb of God for Easter. Maybe it’s a way of incorporating the things we love right into the heart and stomach of our very being—abstract to the physical. I don’t know. I’m just rambling here.

Let me tell you about Miss Ruby. She was short-haired pointer who was terrified of gun shots and any loud noises. A very loving dog, she would walk up to anybody and put her head in his hands. She was also a prize goof-ball. I once saw her point in perfect form—one long line from head to tip of tail—at a red bucket. Maybe she thought it was a fat cardinal. She hated the screen door. My husband, Tim, must have replaced it at least thirty times (we kept screen supplies on hand). If we were gone for more than a few hours, we’d come home to find it shredded. Oh Ruby!

She had boundless energy. It was pure joy to take her for a walk or run. Off leash, she’d take off like a deer: Whoosh—gone! She’d run a big loop around you, a couple of extra miles maybe, but would always meet up with you somewhere, usually ahead of you on the trail. Once she broke into Barton Springs coming back from a greenbelt hike. Tim called to her as they were getting closer to the Springs, but she’d found a little hole in the fence and suddenly he heard “SPLASH!”, followed by “Hey, get out of here!” Oh Ruby!

She got into a lot of trouble early on and chewed many window sills and door frames in her prime—Tim’s password used to be “RubyNO!”. There were more than a few folks who said “How do you put up with that?” Well, she was just so damn loveable: the way she would tease and prance and galumph in the yard with a ball when we played fetch, which was a joke because she was the worst fetcher ever, and the floppy dance she did when you pulled out the leash. Her ears were soft and silky, like fine pig-skin. Tim used to say they’d make the perfect coin purse. All in all, she was a good dog. Rest in peace, Rubes! We love you.

Resurrection

It's important to count your blessings, especially when your mind floats like a jellyfish in a dark ocean, thinking unsettling, bobbing, sea monster thoughts. And, of course, that's when it's hardest to be grateful for one single thing, let alone two or more. It is both awful and appealing to cast your lot with the mysterious deep, as if you had any say so in the matter. People say happiness is a choice—I've said it too to my own son—but I don't always believe it. Sometimes, you are simply drawn down—not waving, drowning*—as if searching for something in the blue waters of the unconscious mind. I don't really recommend it, but it happens to me regardless and I'm learning to live with it, if only for the catharsis I experience upon returning to the surface. I'm one of the lucky ones because I return.

Speaking of blessings, I’ve been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. She had perfect posture, big hair, and always, seriously, a twinkle in her eye. This is no cliché, she really did. And she winked a lot. It was one of those great grandmotherly things. Whenever you did something embarrassing or silly and felt like an outsider, she would give that all-knowing, I’m-with-you wink that made you feel okay again. Mamaw was very pretty too: all cheekbones and blue eyes. I don’t remember a lot of wrinkles. Better to smile than wind up with a bulldog face like some of the women in choir, she’d say. She cleaned obsessively—my grandfather threatened to bury her with a roll of paper towels—and was a terrible cook. The only thing she would make perfectly was Angel fool cake, which came from a box.

As for her sense of humor, there’s a story from the early days of her marriage to my grandfather. He was a left-handed pitcher for the UT baseball team, “Lefty” Robertson, they called him. When they were going to play in New York, she really wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t have it. It was his chance to be with the guys, they were all going to stay together in a dorm, and nobody was bringing their wives. So she signaled her disappointment in a most original way. In those days, wives would pack their husbands’ bags when they went on a trip and Mamaw was a very good wife as well as a terrific seamstress. Before packing his luggage, she carefully sewed fine frilly lace on the bands of all of his underwear and then placed them with the rest of his gear in the bag. Surprise!

I never saw Mamaw sad, although she must have felt a great deal of grief in her day. My father, her second son, gave her more than her fair share. An alcoholic dreamer, he left a trail of wives and kids for others to care for. I don’t know him enough to cultivate hatred or forgiveness for him. He disappeared from my life when I was a toddler and did the same again and again with other wives and other toddlers. Mamaw and Ondaddy (my granddad) took up the slack. My brother and sister and I spent every Saturday night with them until I was a teenager, when I didn’t want to do that anymore. I don’t have many regrets in my life but I do regret that. I drifted away from them in my young adulthood and never really came back. If I could resurrect you through thoughts, Mamaw, I’d have you here with me now. Sweet dreams, my dear. I miss you.


*This is from a Stevie Smith poem

I am the Dreamer and the Killer of Dreams

I’m drawn to details. When I sit on the porch, I like to watch the insects emerge from the fallen leaves. When I dream and draw, I sketch small, intricate things. I love botanical drawings and Maurice Sendak etchings. I don’t really sew, but once I tried my hand at making a quilt. Each square was a different flower, small pieces of silk cut out, arranged by pins, and meticulously hand sewn, petal by petal, to make a poppy or a heavenly blue morning glory.

I remember song lyrics too, sometimes down to the preposition. My husband never gets them right. He’ll start singing:

“Everybody’s talkin’ about me …”

I mutter from the kitchen “at”.

“What?” he asks, “Did you say something?”

“At” I reply, “It’s ‘Everybody’s talkin’ at me”.

It drives me crazy, but he thinks it’s funny. Humor is the salve that can heal all wounds, but only if you’re laughing too. I need to lighten up sometimes.

Like today. I was the opposite of light—a heavy dark troll that wanted to kill Christmas and drink its blood in big sloppy troll slurps. Bah humbug a million times over. Thanks, sweet Scrooge! I don’t know what had gotten into me. I usually can’t wait for this time of year: the lights, the carols, making cards, seeing friends, decorating the tree. I LOVE decorating the Christmas tree. We have a hodgepodge of ornaments, some from childhood, some given as Christmas presents, glittery things that Harry made, pictures, colorful string—anything that is meaningful (and shiny) goes on the tree.

Today I couldn’t have cared less. When I passed the pathetic fake tree with its little squeaky lights in Welch this morning, I think I actually said “Jesus Christ!” out loud in disgust.

I’ve been impossible to live with. When my husband suggested we go see The Invincible Czars do “The Nutcracker”, I pulled out my long detailed list of things we had to do that day to get ready for the next week.

“Harry has to finish his home project by tomorrow we need to get groceries there’s no food in the house I haven’t done any Christmas shopping yet and then there’s his birthday party next Saturday I hope it’s not too late to order the cake …”

Well, guess what? I ruined that afternoon!

I, the Dream Killer, was in this state of mind driving home from the University. But then I saw a dirty dusty car with this drawn on the back window:

It was so juvenile and enthusiastic, kind of sweet really. I laughed so hard, but I didn’t look at the driver. I wanted to preserve the picture in my mind of ebullient youth, reckless, happy, and free. If the driver turned out to be an unshaven old man, I would have been crushed.

So now, I’m kind of excited again about Christmas. Hopeful even. You never know what the Guardian of the Universe, whoever you are, is going to throw your way, but today I’m grateful for whatever works.

Color Hell

Hell isn’t the color of lava or fire. It’s Spice Delight PWL-81 from the Behr catalog or Dynasty Celadon PPL-80. It doesn’t really matter the hue. Milton said “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” Color can do that too.

“I’m not afraid of color.” That’s what I told Paul who was going to paint the inside of our house. I was so sure of myself, cocky even. My expectations soared! I had looked at remodeling magazines with pictures of warm family rooms, golden retriever asleep by fireplace. Color can create that. Ruddy walls with white trim? An artist lives here! Pale blue next to butter yellow? A woman at peace with herself. Now this, I thought, is going to be fun!

The workers had done such a beautiful job: the walls were so smooth you just wanted to eat them. No texture, just clean and white, a wedding cake. But beware the blank slate. It’s possible to over think things.

“What do you think of Scotland Road? It’s a pretty green.”

“Ooo, yeah, with a white trim. Very nice. Soothing.”

“But is it too dark?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. What do you think? Depends on where it is. Let’s get a tester.”

"What about cornmeal?"

"Nice! Too yellow, though?"

"Get a tester."

"Blue agave?"

"Tester!"

And so it went on and on until the swatches were slipping from our fingers and we needed to get a cart for the testers.

My son, Harry, didn’t have that problem. He walked straight to the Martha Stewart section, picked the color “Calabash”, and said “I want this one”. Done and done.

There is always something to learn from your children. Harry went from the gut. He didn’t hem and haw over how this color would make him feel, how it would go with other colors, whether it was introverted or extroverted, uninhibited or solemn. It pleased him, so he chose it. And it looked great.

We, on the other hand, painted little squares of testers on every wall of the house, labeling each with a light pencil, until the whole house looked like a quilt made from the loving hands of home. Our confusion began here and it only got worse. We brought in other people, looked at more books, thought about color, talked about it, painted more colors, and repainted over them. And our disappointment grew.

Describing color is like describing taste. You compare it to something else, an image or a feeling, like poetry. I’ve always loved that scene in Brideshead Revisited where Sebastian and Charles are tasting different wines and after having had a few begin to describe them in loftier terms:

“It is a little, shy wine like a gazelle”

“Like a leprechaun”

“Dappled, in a tapestry meadow”

“Like a flute by still water.”

“And this is a wise old wine”

“A prophet in a cave.”

“And this is a necklace of pearls on a white neck.”

“Like a swan”

“Like the last unicorn."

We wanted the last unicorn and, damn it, it wasn’t there!

In the end, my husband left town.

“I trust your sense of color. You pick them.”

I did. I can’t say it wasn’t some part of agony. I relearn my lessons over and over. But they look good. And really, what’s the problem? We have a house and walls. Isn’t that enough!

Fact and Fiction

I like the sound of words and combinations of them. Sometimes I’m not even sure what they mean. They just sound good. Worse than wonder is like that. It suggests something great and terrible. The other side of awe. I didn’t come up with it; my Uncle did. He was visiting from Germany, a mini reunion of sorts. We were in the hotel bar, getting drunk while waiting to join my mom. I think my sister was there too.

Uncle Calvin was a great storyteller. He had, as they say, a way with words. He was telling us about his father, my grandfather, watching the moon landing on TV. Apparently it completely unmoored him and all he could do was shake his head and mutter, “It’s worse than wonder, worse than wonder.”

I’ve always been struck by that story and his father’s words. But it turns out, it’s not at all true. I never thought to examine the facts of it, but if you do, it couldn’t have happened. His father died of a heart attack ten years before the moon landing.

So what did happen? And who said it? I’m not sure that it matters.

My family has never really cared much for facts. Facts are facts—dull and dry—but a story is the dream world where anything can happen. Completely different, in their eyes, even for “true” stories. I said “their” instead of “our” because I fall somewhere in between. As a kid, I loved facts—they were the truth—and I couldn’t stand it if anybody messed with them. My brother, knowing this, loved to taunt me by saying outlandish, impossible things.

“I bet, right now, there are only two people talking on the phone at the same time,” He would casually say.

(I always took the bait.)

“That’s so stupid!” I would reply, “Of course, there are more than two people talking at the same time.”

“Nope, only two.”

“But, like, when you’re talking on the phone … don’t you think somebody else, like Ty or Mark or our neighbors, might also be talking to someone at the same time!”

“Just two.”

“How could you be so crazy and so DUMB!” I would shout, getting worked up now, “There’s probably thousands of people talking on the phone right now! Millions!”

And on and on, it would go, until I would stomp out of the room. I just didn’t get it.

We’re prone to exaggeration too. If anyone has a cold, they’re dying. If someone didn’t get a full night’s sleep, “I’ve been up for DAYS!” It made me skeptical. I’d just assume that something happened, but to the left of the scale, and I think it fostered in me a “wait and see” approach.

“Have you talked to your sister?”

“No. Why, what’s up?”

“Oh my God, they’ve had so much rain, the whole yard is flooded. It’s probably leaked into the house. I’m sure the floors are finished!”

Wait and see. With so many disasters afoot, you had to protect yourself somehow. In the end, I lost some faith in the facts of situations, sometimes in the meanings of words altogether. Just because she said it, doesn’t mean it’s true. Wait and see.

And, of course, sometimes bad things really did happen. Terrible things that made you suck in your breath. There were amazing things too, too beautiful to imagine. And I knew it by the tone, by the sound of the words. You couldn’t wait and see. It was there and it was worse than wonder.