How Many More...?

How many more miles?
How many more minutes?
How many more mess-ups?
How many more moments?
How many more mimbulus mimbletonia?

(This silly little “poem” was inspired by Vi, who asked several times during today’s mandatory 20-minute trombone practice session: “How many more minutes?” It reminded me of childhood family trips to Michigan to visit my paternal grandparents—our repetitious, sing-song refrain was: “How many more miiiiiilllles?”)

Junie B. Writer

A little over a year ago, Vi and I took a trip to Albany. It was part personal, part professional. I had some conference-y things to do, but Vi was able to tag along, and we had plenty of time to enjoy the state capitol between meetings. We rode the train there (fun), took a taxi into the city (also fun—although Vi was disappointed it wasn’t yellow), and went to a Children’s Expo that happened to be going on the weekend we were there. One of the programs at the Expo was a free presentation of Junie B. Jones, the musical. Attending the show reminded me of two things: 1) how much I enjoy live theater, 2) how much I want to write.

There’s something almost magical about musical stage productions that makes me feel more fully alive. The cast of about 6 performers charmed the audience of parents and kids with their portrayal of a first-grade classroom, starring Junie B. Jones. For those of you who don’t know Junie B., she’s a spunky, no-holds-barred kind of kid—a character (and I do mean a character) created by author Barbara Park. I credit Junie B. for turning my kid from non-reader to bookworm, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha). I’m also grateful to Junie B. for inspiring me to get off my creative duff!

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Well, almost always. And maybe “enjoyed” isn’t quite the right word. Let me rephrase: Ever since I can remember, I have felt compelled to write. Like I was meant to write, made to write—designed for it. I think of British Olympian Eric Liddell’s famous line in “Chariots of Fire”: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” I may not be an Olympic-caliber writer, but ‘when I write I feel God’s pleasure.’

It’s not always a pleasant process, mind you. Sometimes it’s hard—very hard. I nearly sweat. I occasionally cry. I often have to get up, walk away, do something else for awhile, and come back to the writing. When I was in seventh grade, I remember relating to a poster hung by my English teacher, Mr. H: “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” (Thomas Mann) I tried to discuss the insight of this quotation with my pubescent friends. They either didn’t care or they disagreed. One of them told me it was ridiculous: Writing seemed to come easily for me, she said, while her assignments, while torturous to fulfill, yielded decidedly mediocre marks.

The difference, I tried to tell her, was that I cared. I cared how the words sounded strung together on the page. It mattered to me whether I inserted a semi-colon or separated my thoughts into sentences. I fretted over word choice. I wrestled with my characters’ development. I tossed and turned about my stories’ settings. A few times, I failed to turn in my homework because it simply didn’t satisfy my standards. For a goody-two-shoes-teacher-pleaser like me, foregoing a full grade-book on principle epitomized the junior high English concept of oxymoron.

When middle school gave way to A-Town High, my passion for words took a supporting paragraph’s role to the main subject of my adolescence: Boys. I used and abused my writing ability. It saw me through school; I took it for granted. The careful crafting of love letters were the only times I recall paying attention enough to actually improve my composition aptitude. I guess it wasn’t until college that I remembered Madame Muse. The agony of a particularly painful break-up prompted me to seek the solace writing proffered, a long-forgotten friend extending her arms to me in earnest welcome. My journal became a place of prayer, a source of strength, a haven of healing for my battered, bewildered soul.

I consider it no accident that I ended up taking my basic composition course in the second half of my junior year. It’s a long, boring story why, wrapped up in a couple rolls of red tape, but I ended up having to the fulfill the 3 credits that spring—precisely the season I found myself ready to re-enter the realm of reality and wholeness.

I don’t think that mere coincidence led me to the Albany Egg last March, either—where I sat next to my fidgety daughter, surrounded by dozens of similarly squirmy strangers, while a talented young woman conjured a spirited 7-year-old and moved me to tears—moved me to write—with her final song: “Writing Down the Story of My Life.”

I am writing down the story of my life:
what makes me scared or nervous,
what makes me sad or blue.

If I want to draw a weiner sausage
Or a picture of a beautiful day,
Or list my favorite colors and foods,
Everything I want is A-OK.

Your favorite kind of popsicle, your allergy to glue,
How much you love your family, or what friendship means to you,
A picture of spaghetti or a lovely mountain view,
No matter what you think or dream or feel or say or do!

Keep on writing down the stories of your life…..

I am, Junie B., I am!

What Ailed Us

I’m a tangle of emotions following a dramatic week of life and motherhood—much of which I don’t feel at liberty to describe here. But I’ll do so in this vague form:

Bronchitis
Shivering, sweating, sleeping, hacking—
days and days, short of breath.

Stage Fright
Wanting the part, dreading the part—
disappointment, embarrassment, relief.

Ear Infection
Shooting pain, crying out, intermittent dozing—
“I just miss my friends so much.”

Grace. Kindness. Medicine.

New Week!

My Boy and His Boots

A couple years back, Grandma Noreen bought Ben his first pair of cowboy boots. My side of the family is not much into “country,” but Will’s is, and there’s a really nice Western store near Noreen’s house. The boots there cost far more than I would pay for any footwear (except running shoes), but she’s their grandma, she likes to buy them things, and who am I to stand in her way?

Ben’s first boots were tan suede with sheepskin lining and lots of fringe. He wore those everywhere for at least a year—sometimes even to bed. His second pair, which he selected himself, were black and white snakeskin with gold threading and golden tips—fan-cee! Ben has worn this pair proudly as well (typically on the wrong feet), shyly accepting compliments from family, friends, and complete strangers alike. These boots get noticed!

Lately, though, the boots have become conspicuous for another, less adorable attribute: their stench. Ben has worn the boots sans socks a few times too many. He’s worn them to school, to church, to the store, and to his cousins’ house, where he invariably ends up playing in the shallow creek in their yard. Then, unwilling to allow his trusty snakeskins to dry before re-wearing them, he’s stuffed his sweaty little dogs back into the boots for further adventures. Last week, I told my friend Jean: “I think those boots could walk themselves!”

When I realized I could smell the boots from across the living room, I decided to take action: eBay! I let Ben sift through a selection of auction pix before deciding to bid on a brown pair with orange stitching. According to Ben, Anakin Skywalker wears brown boots in the fourth Star Wars movie. If Anakin imitation is motivation enough to replace Ben’s beloved boots, so be it! (I was beginning to wonder if I’d get calls home from school asking me to address the problem.)

The boots’ pungent aroma prompted my mother and sister to share stories about my own history of foot odor. Story 1: Mom recalled a Bible Club gathering in our living room, circa 1979. Mom suspected one of the children in attendance had stepped in dog doo, until her investigations led to my stinky sneaks! Ewww… Story 2: Back in the early ’80s when my sister and I used to share a bedroom, she remembered a time when she was unable to get to sleep because of the presence of a certain pair of rainbow Nike lace-ups. Despite the fact that she was already ‘nestled all snug in her bed,’ she threw off her covers, sniffed her way to the offending footwear, snatched them up, marched them down to the back door of our house, and flung them into the yard. They were that bad, apparently.

Fast forward 25 years, one eBay bid and five days later, Ben’s new brown boots arrived from Texas—just in time for the annual jazz band dinner dance at the A-Town high school. Ben had not wanted to attend, but when the boots showed up in the mail that very afternoon, he changed his mind. Nothing like a dance floor to break ’em in. Only, as it turned out, Ben was far more interested in running than dancing. He met up with another little boy at the dance, and the two of them raced back and forth at the far end of the gym for nearly four hours straight, only breaking during ballads, when I insisted they quiet down out of respect for the musicians.

The brown boots have passed their little-boy initiation—remarkably, with no blisters to report. Ben has made an appeal for keeping the old ones, though: He wants to keep the snakeskins for trips to the cousins’ creek, a concession I am willing to allow—provided the boots reside in the backyard between visits.

Horsehair Cheer

Yesterday morning, I was feeling melancholy. It’s spring, but it’s still cold outside. Also, I have a slight cold, which is always a nuisance. I’m juggling too many things between work and church, plus freelance obligations that keep slipping my mind. The house, as I think I’ve mentioned before, is perpetually messy—particularly when I am busier than I should be and I succumb to the lure of the computer (Facebook, email, blog—mine and others’), like right now!

Since western New York insists on staying in the 30s most of these March days, I begrudgingly donned a fuzzy sweater, a velvety skirt, and a pair of thick tights (winter weather grants me one small favor: the option of not shaving my legs). I was deciding between two pairs of clogs to complete my outfit when I decided I needed to seek out some shoe polish. I think I’ve mentioned before that my house is messy (!), and things often get misplaced around here. But I do try! And once in awhile, my housekeeping efforts reward me. This was such an occasion. I found the shoe polish—exactly where I’d left it last, in its labeled bin. Amazing! Almost miraculous, actually. But even more surprising to me was the morale boost that accompanied the find. A sentimental sense of security swept over me when I grasped the horsehair applicator brush I’d tucked away with the polish.

It reminded me of the small wooden kit my aforementioned ‘fastidious father’ kept for maintaining a respectable gleam to his footwear. Fairly frequently, Dad would sit down in “his chair” (doesn’t every living room have a designated “Dad chair”?), open the kit, pull out the polishes, brushes and rags, and methodically make over his shoes—from dingy to dapper. When he was finished, he’d set the shoes by the woodstove to dry and deliberately replace the contents of the kit, which sat in a nook of the room near his chair. It might sound silly, but the sight of my own horsehair shoe polish brush cheered me up yesterday. It brought back memories of a household ritual, an ordinary routine I’d observed as a girl.

Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that bring us back to center. Breathe in, breathe out. Wax on, wax off. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Here’s two versions of a song by that title from the University of Iowa Gospel Choir, “Voices of Soul"—a dear friend of mine sang with this group 2007-08:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Uyp5rTDXIw&feature=PlayList&p=53E2CF8AEB6E3D7F&index=0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQ9svuB8siI

Pretty or Puky? The Eye of the Beholder

My workplace hosted a dessert event last evening, and I was one of several people who agreed to provide goodies. I made carrot cake muffins—from a mix, plus a few mix-ins. Ben and Pearl “helped” by putting paper liners in the cupcake pan. When they had finished the job, Ben asked: “Who’s gonna put in that puky stuff?” He was referring to the burnt-orange batter, lumpy with bits of carrot, raisins and crushed pineapple. It was a classic case of something tasting better than it looks.

As a child, I remember hearing about a blind man who regained his sight and requested his favorite food right away. He was reportedly repulsed and deeply disappointed by the appearance of pizza. The prospect of seeing pizza as anything but yummy startled me. It was one of my earliest lessons in the power of perception. I had come to associate the colors, shapes and textures of bread, sauce, cheese and pepperoni with delight—a delicious, satisfying supper I enjoyed with my family. And actually, pizza was more than a mere meal.

In those days, pizza meant payday. Dad got paid every other Friday during the school year, which almost always triggered trips to the Pop Shoppe and Suzy’s Pizzeria. For our family, soft drinks and restaurant-prepared food were treats—treats that put everyone in a good mood. So, even though I eventually acknowledged the blind man’s initial appraisal of pizza as unpleasant to look at, I still see it as a thing of beauty—literally, figuratively and culinarily. (Is that a word? It is now!)

The carrot cake muffins were pretty tasty, too.

A Taxing Time

Every spring, Will and I are reminded what horrible record-keepers we are. It’s painful. We’ll survive (at least, I’m pretty sure we will—we’ve made it through 12 times already). But it reminds me of something I once heard about marital tensions: The ultimate test of a relationship, apparently, is attempting to wallpaper a room together. It brings out the best and worst in people…again, apparently—we have not yet attempted it. We’ve painted together, and frankly, that didn’t go well. Will’s standards for evenness of color clashed with my own. We've also encountered trouble canoeing in a coordinated way, as well as jogging. Will tends to trod two steps ahead of me at all times, which irks me—it interferes with my pace, as well as my pride.

But back to the reality of our rubble—I mean, paperwork. It’s a mess!

I try—I do! Shoeboxes, mailboxes, accordion-style folders, traditional filing cabinets…none of them seem to work for us. We’re just naturally “pile people.” Which doesn’t bode well come April 15th. If we were regular work-a-day folks, it might not be such a headache, but with Will’s wedding photography business, home office considerations, various charitable donations, plus a job change for Grace this past year, we’re kind of complicated.

“This is awful,” I sputter, exasperated.

“Speak for yourself. I’ve got everything nice and tidy,” Will says, straight-faced, his hands wrist-deep in pieces of paper.

Then he acquiesces: “If we could just narrow it to which level of the house they might be on, that would help.”

It would help if we kept up with this throughout the year—I know that. I would also help if we would stick to one system instead trying new things every few months.

Ah, well—if we’re pilers, at least we’re not procrastinators…not the red-lining variety, anyway. It’s March 21st—25 days ’til Christmas, er, Tax Day! Here’s hoping some elves show up to straighten out our stuff before then!