Great Day

            Those of you who know me will be surprised to read this, but,......I was a moody child. Scowl on my face most of the time. The more people tried to make me smile, the more stubbornly I refused. Amplify this with the natural moodiness of most teenagers, and I became insufferable as I got into my teens. Dad was always one for dumb jokes – so he was often trying to get to me.

               One Saturday morning when I was about 15, I awoke and realized everyone else was already up. The bedrooms were all on the second floor, and the bathroom was on the first floor. How to get to the bathroom without having to interact with the humans who comprised my family? I started down the stairs keeping my eyes closed – hoping to ward off any conversation. As I got to the bottom step, I realized someone was sitting at the kitchen table. I was going to have to open my eyes and, gasp!, maybe even have to say “good morning.”

               With an evil look, I opened my eyes to see, sure enough, my Dad at the kitchen table looking at me. He had a great big smile on his face.

               “It's a great day for the race!” he said.

               My brain started going around and around. What race? Was there something for school I had forgotten about? There was a bicycle race that came past our house once or twice a year – was it the day for the bicycle race? Was it something Dad had just heard on the radio and was passing along? Was it one of his jokes? Oh Lord, it was probably one of his really bad jokes, and now I had stood there too long to ignore the comment, I was going to have to ask. I so did not want to ask. But I had to.

               “What race, Dad?”

               “The Human Race!” Dad exclaimed triumphantly as I groaned and ran to the bathroom. I could hear him laughing at his success in getting to me. All I wanted was to forget the whole thing.

               And forget I did and all too well.

               Danged if the same scene did not replay itself in the exact same way a couple of months later!

               It was a Saturday morning. I walked down the stairs with my eyes almost closed. Someone was at the kitchen table. Dad sat there with a big grin on his face.

              “It's a great day for the race!”

              I opened my mouth to say something snarky and then realized to my horror that even though I remembered Dad making that comment before in exactly the same circumstances, I could not remember what race he was talking about!

              My brain went through the same thought circuits as before – something for school? The bike race up the street? Something he just heard on the radio? One of his silly jokes? Oh I concluded it was definitely one of his dumb jokes – but what was the punchline? Too much time had passed while I stood there – I was going to have to ask. But I did not want to ask. I would have to ask – ignoring him at this point would be taking my insolence too far. The only way I could force myself to ask Dad what race was to promise myself to listen to the answer and never ever forget again what the punchline is. That way I would be ready with my own snarky response the next time he started the joke.

               “What race, Dad?”

               “The Human Race!” Dad grinned – thrilled that he had gotten me a second time with the same joke as I groaned and ran to the bathroom. I could hear his laughter through the closed door.

               But I would be ready for him the next time!

               And I'm still waiting.

               I guess you could say that since Dad never again said, “It's a great day for the race!” and I've been waiting for if – that he has essentially successfully gotten me a third time. That's my Dad.

              This memory-a-day blog for the year 2015 was begun 365 days ago with a quote from my Dad - “it's better than a sharp stick in the eye” - which is the name for the blog, because, and I'll repeat myself here – you can read the blog, say to yourself that you can do better, and I say, yes you can, because anything is better than a sharp stick in the eye! And so I thought it would be more than fitting to complete the blog today, the last day of 2015 with another of my Dad's quotes.

              This month I have mentioned the list I made several years ago of words of wisdom – philosophies that I say I live by and I've attempted to explain what I mean by each of them:

                       Six: Clowns are people too

                       Five: Make love, not war

                       Four: Sometimes choose to be the chump

                      Three: Go home different than the way you came

                      (three and four I attribute to the associate pastor a church the girls and I attended during the '90's)

                      Two: It's better than a sharp stick in the eye

                       (two and one I attribute to Dad)

               And One? When I was putting this list together, I realized that there was something I say to folks often. It is something that I wake up to most mornings. It is proof that I kept the promise I made to myself so many years ago – my number one statement of philosophy – the one that supersedes all others in my list of words of wisdom:

One: It 's a great day for the Race!

go in peace.

365 20151231 Great Day

Tongues

        It was probably when I was around ten years old. I remember lying in bed at night in the house on Heinrich Road. And I was no longer in the upper bunk but rather in the single bed across the room. I was almost never tired when my parents said it was time to go to bed – I imagined it had been that way for every ten-year old since time began. I assumed it was because of the too early hour for bedtime that caused my lying awake for what seemed like forever and not my lack of physical exercise during the day. I was bored.

            A new past-time occurred to me while lying in bed wide awake - in my mind I went over the events of the day, mainly stuff that happened in school with the teacher or classmates. And then I would redo conversations. In the replay of these conversations I came off as oh so smart. I gave the response that shut everyone else up – if the discussion was more of an argument or a trade of insults, well my new responses while re-enacting them in bed, were just brilliant! Why couldn't I be that smart during the day? Well I knew why I was not that stellar during the day – my parents would have told me to watch my mouth, teachers or classmates would say something I was not expecting and my perfect comeback would not have occurred to me until later, lying in bed, mulling it all over.

         I fantasized these conversations for hours every night – sometimes they riled me (why couldn't I say that to their face?!), and mostly they entertained me. After a while they began to worry me – is this what my life was going to be, fantasizing each evening the things I think I should have said during the day? It scared me to realize my life might never amount to anything more than that!

          Fortunately these conversations soon faded away and life had an almost complete inversion. Instead I worry about what I have said and why can't I shut the hell up!

          I think about a vow of silence – and how that would improve my listening skills – but then again, a vow of silence would include no writing and no thinking about what I would say or write when the vow of silence is over, and then I might not listen! I think about a one day a week vow of silence – and how selfish that would be to others around me – the lack of communication a total annoyance when it is not being a blissful blessing. So it remains a fantasy.

          And an irony. 

          While on the cusp of a full time immersion into storytelling, finally, I also imagine life with a vow of silence.

          When I wake up in the early mornings now, and I know sleep is probably over but the energy to get up and do something is just not there yet, instead of thinking about conversations that should have been, like I did when I was ten, I rehearse the next story I am going to tell. The energy spent working on a story is a tad more productive and true and with less self loathing. 

           But still the urge to not be expected to say anything still hovers.

364 20151230 Tongues

Maybe Next Year

         One of the first gigs I went on dressed as a clown in full white-face make-up was what was called a walk-around in the petting zoo section of the Buffalo Zoo as a member of the Buffalo Clown Alley in 1977. I was unrecognizable. The children smiled. They were smiling at the clown. I took it personally, feeling that the smiles were for me. That made me warm and happy – just like the clown was making the children happy.

            There were a lot of cute dads there too, also smiling at the clown. The zoo is a popular place for divorced dads on their weekends with the kids. The dads did not know the human they were smiling at. Since I was unmarried at the time, it was a bittersweet feeling – available men liking the clown while the available woman was invisible. Shucks.

            Because the costume made me less self-conscious about myself, I could be a clown without worrying about judgment from others about my looks – the divorced dads did not dismiss me for being not attractive enough for them – they did not dismiss me for not caring enough about my own hair/make-up/figure/clothing – they smiled at the clown, who was me inside.

             If only I could be invisible all the time, hiding inside the clown, making others happy and that being reward enough for my existence. Yeah, invisibility would totally be my choice for super-power.

             But there are those out there who do not like clowns. They think clowns are scary. Children and adults alike fear the unknown that the clowns seem to represent. And there have been so many instances in fiction and real life where clowns have been evil. But clowns are not monsters. Inside every clown is a real person.

            Which brings me to my sixth and totally personal statement of the words that I live by in my philosophy of life:

             Clowns are people too.

             Just a smile from you might make all the difference between monster and human!

363 20151229 Maybe Next Year

Chumps

             A few posts ago I mentioned a sermon by the associate pastor of the church my daughters and I attended for many years – the talk was about the Magi, and go home different than the way you came became one of my philosophies of life. And I said that there was a second sermon which provided yet another statement in my list of words of wisdom.

              That talk was about the Good Samaritan. Oh my gosh – what can make a fresh take on the story of the Good Samaritan? It was one of the gospels I heard one Sunday every year growing up in the Catholic Church, and it was a tale much more comprehensible than the Prodigal Son. But then again, over the years, more has come out about the Good Samaritan – about how the people who passed by the injured person were not evil heartless beings that the rest of us would never identify with – but rather, they were folks very much like every single one of us who could have lost their livelihoods by stopping to help – reputations could have been ruined by touching someone who was not clean, jobs could be lost for being late – the Samaritan was the only one willing to risk everything to help – how many of us can do that at any given moment? So the message had changed in the years since I was a kid at Mass.

              There had even been a famous (yahoo-headline-worthy) experiment where a college professor had been teaching the history and lesson of the Good Samaritan and then instructed the students that there would be a written exam on the topic at a location different from the classroom – someplace clear across campus – and they were not to be late. On the route where the kids would have to walk across campus, there was someone crying for help – none of the students wanted to be late for the exam. None were willing to risk failing an exam on the Good Samaritan by being a good Samaritan and helping the person in need along the way. They failed the final.

              All of this was known before the associate pastor gave her own talk about the Good Samaritan one Sunday – she might have even included all this in her sermon – so how does one make the story fresh enough to catch my attention?

              She wrapped up her talk that day with something she had read recently in the news. A priest was giving an orientation to a room full of priests who were going to minister at a nearby prison. He was giving them an oral list of do's and don'ts. He said, under no circumstances were they to give money to any of the inmates, no matter what sob story they put forth. He said there was a priest who used to go to the prison to minister to the inmates. And one day as one of the inmates was being released, the prisoner looked the priest in the eye and sneered with complete derision, “Every single time you came here, I asked you for money, and each time I gave you a different ridiculous reason for why I needed the money, and each time I was lying. But you gave me the money. You are such a chump!”

              And the priest looked at the about to be released inmate and said, “I knew you were lying. I made the choice to be the chump.”

              So the priest leading the class said to the new priests about to minister to the prison, “Do not give anyone money. Do not be chumps!”

              One of the priests in the classroom raised his hand and asked, “Father, were you the priest who was the chump?”

              And the priest responded, “No. I was the prisoner who called the priest a chump.”

              This still gets to me.

              The message is not (and if this priest/prisoner story is an urban legend, I do not want to know) that we should give in to all con artists at all times – we would soon all be broke with ruined reputations and no jobs – the injured person on the side of the road might be a con also – (thank goodness for cell phones today – we can all be Good Samaritans with little risk!) But what I hear from this story is that every once in a while, we should choose to be the chump. Some good might come from it – not necessarily good for us individually, but a good that somehow pays forward.

               When I was a kid, someone who was visiting one day talked about how her family was on welfare for a while when she was growing up – she grew up during the Great Depression. For her, even as a child, receiving welfare was humiliating. It was even embarrassing for her to admit to years later. But the assistance helped keep the family together, and gave her the strength to vow to make something of herself when she grew up. It was with pride that she told the story of paying back to the government, in cash, all the welfare money that had been given to her 'way back when. It is with great pride that I could gloat over what her children have become. They done good.

              Sometimes choose to be the chump.

362 20151228 Chumps

Believe!

          A reputation for unyielding seriousness preceded my college microbiology teacher. It was rumored that the year before I had her, she was told by the administration to dole out a few more A's and a few less fails. I have no idea if that was true – but it gave me hope! The teacher did seem very serious as she lectured each class. Giving us the basics of microbiology was important, and the material took up the whole semester – leaving little time to stretch beyond the introduction to this incredible field, little room for more than what was required of us and her.

            The teacher's hand-outs, however, revealed the professor's personality.

            At the top of each, was a quote from Alice Through the Looking-Glass!

            Mull that over for a moment – Microbiology and Alice together on the same page – on a different day, a different microbiology worksheet paired with a different Alice quote!

            Two of the quotes I saw on the hand-outs I still remember after all these years:

                    “I see nobody on the road,” said Alice.

                    “I only wish I had such eyes,” the King remarked in a fretful tone, “To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance too!”

and:

                   “I can't believe that!” said Alice.

                   “Can't you?” said the Queen in a pitying tone, “Try again, draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”

            Microscopy can be compared to a trip through the looking-glass. And microscopists can see and believe and make some sense out of the unknown. Those who do not peer down the microscope will come to trust what the others have seen.

           And at that distance too!

           But a part of me thinks maybe our teacher was also suggesting when she mixed Alice with the assuredness of science that we shouldn't forget the possibility we might all merely be just a part of the Red King's dream!

361 20151227 Believe

Make Love, Not War

spring 2007, Atlanta, Georgia

       The Jesuit college I went to, freshman year being 1971, had no problem with evolution. From day one it was apparent that evolution was an accepted concept and studies proceeded from there. My anthropology teacher had us reading Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, who among other scholarly accomplishments, was a Jesuit priest. He had a theory called the Omega Point which stated that humans were still evolving, and our intelligence will continue to grow until the end, omega point where we are one with God. How about that?

          It seems to me that evolution today is still about survival of the fittest – if the wars of the world continue, it will be the strongest, that is, the ones with the biggest guns or biggest muscles or biggest population that can be sacrificed, who will win. Or if there is a huge natural disaster which results in famine or radiation or even computer or electrical shut down – there are few evolvers-to-godhood who would know how to grow their own food!

          But if we could do away with war – all live in peace, we could focus our energies toward surviving the natural disasters. And we could evolve to something better. I have faith that this is possible – peace is in our genes.

          Back in 2007 – eight years ago now, I marched in a war protest in Atlanta – protesting the fourth anniversary of the beginning of the war in Iraq – it seemed so inconceivable that we could let this go on at all, let alone for so long! (And look at us now!) I made a sign that said Peace on one side, and Join the Evolution on the other. I thought it might make people who saw it want to believe they were in the in group who had the capacity to evolve toward peace in their genes; it also implied that those who believed in war did not have the peace genes and were maybe the simpler, less evolved human beings.

           Captain Kirk and so many others, most of whom are real and not fictional, would disagree with me and claim it takes both kinds to survive and head toward the Omega Point. To that I merely reply,

           Imagine.

           Later that year I entered a peace slogan competition – I drew a pair of blue jeans, and up one leg I wrote Join the Evolution and down the other leg I wrote Peace is in the Genes. I submitted it but then realized that the pun of genes/jeans is maybe not that cute – it reminded me of the scene from the movie, The Way We Were, when Katie was yelling for peace on her college campus during World War II, and someone held up a sign that said, “Any peace but Katie's piece!” (years later, Hubble said to her, “if only you had laughed when you saw it!”) Yeah, maybe the world is not mature enough for peace in the genes. Anyway, I never heard back from the competition. Maybe I'll make the jeans myself.

            Imagine – you giving birth to the child who gives birth to the child who reaches the Omega Point! There will be no war then – and there will be time and resources to figure everything out, including all that Teilhard de Chardin was saying – because he was 'way over my pea brain!

           The fifth of the statements in my philosophy of life is the one that is quite common to all – Make Love, Not War.

The picture was taken by Al Viola, a peace movement videographer - thanks Al!

360 20151226 Make Love, Not War

I Saw Chairs!

     

Sarah Christmas 1986

       My mom had two Christmas stories about me that she would be sure to repeat every year just in case there was someone about who had not heard the anecdotes as yet. Now that she is gone, it is up to me to be sure and have them heard each holiday season. The first story is about the time Mom took me to see Santa Claus for the very first time. As we were waiting in line, Mom asked me what I was going to ask Santa for Christmas? She needed some ideas and thought this would be a good way to find out. I told her I was not going to ask Santa for anything. “Why not?” Mom inquired. And I said, “If he knows when I'm sleeping and he knows when I'm awake, then he knows what I want for Christmas!” Every time Mom told that story, I appreciated the logic of the very young me.

             The second story was about another even earlier Christmas. This was probably when I was two, before my brothers were born. Santa brought a child-size table and chairs. When I got up in the morning, seeing the trimmed tree (Santa used to bring the tree when delivering the presents – the tree was not in the house when I went to bed on Christmas Eve!) and decorations along with the presents and the table and chairs and all the activity and company that followed with the day, how could I have thought anything other than that something magical had happened? A miracle!

Me and Clark 1957

             And so when bedtime came that Christmas night, I refused to go! I sat in one of the chairs at the new table and calmly announced I was not going to leave the tree and the gifts. Apparently I was worried that if all this neat stuff appeared out of nowhere one night, it could just as easily disappear too! I was not going to let these things out of my sight! I did not use words nor otherwise tried to explain this, I merely sat in the chair not budging. Mom and Dad, instead of getting all parental and forcing me to go to bed, explained that they were going to turn off the light and go to bed themselves. I stayed where I was. A while later my Dad got up to check on me. When he returned to bed, he told Mom that I was sitting in the chair staring into the dark. The story does not include whether or not I was still there in the morning, but the presents were there – my sentry duty had protected them.

             Over the years the table and chairs were central in the childhood of my brothers and me. We sat at the table for board games and artwork. The table made a foundation for forts, the chairs lined up as train cars, all were great for role playing. And of course, for family get-togethers during holidays, the set became, of course, the kids' table for the meal.

             When Sarah was born, it came to mind that she needed a kid's table and chairs for her youth. The year we moved to Oklahoma, Sarah was two, and I was pregnant with Amanda – their Dad and I picked out a little table with four chairs from, I think it was, Sears. Putting the pieces together after getting them home, Dad sequestered them in a spare bedroom where we had all the other Christmas gifts. Sarah was under strict orders to leave the door shut and not go in – we told her Santa Claus would not come if she went into that room.

            Goober was okay with our request. I did not notice her being overly curious about the forbidden room nor did I catch her trying to sneak or peek in. But one morning before Christmas Dad went into the room to look for something. He had shut the door, and Sarah did not try to follow him in. But she did like being where Dad was when he was home, so she was nearby that morning. When Dad came out of the room, he opened the door, came out quickly, and shut the door behind him. Sarah was right there.

            “I saw chairs!” she exclaimed. “Chairs! I saw chairs!” Her face was lit up in wonder at the glimpse of child-sized chairs in the secret room. Goober did not connect the chairs with Santa Claus or presents. However, the glow on her face said she was convinced the chairs were hers.

Amanda 1992 

            On Christmas morning we put bows on the chairs as we set them up with the table in front of the tree where all the other presents were. We explained that the table set belonged to both Sarah and her three-week old baby sister. Goober's eyes were still glowing.

            Even though Amanda and Sarah's childhoods were different from the ones on Heinrich Road, the table has done duty for forts, puzzles, Barbie play, doll house holder, and the chairs have provided for stuffed animals, live cats, a boost to clothes in the closet or items on the kitchen counter, and even speakers.

            When the girls were grown and living in their own places, I worried how to equitably split the table and four chairs between them – Amanda, however, made the decision very easy, “They are Sarah's, Mom! They belong to Sarah.”

           Today in Chapel Hill, the table and chairs of the Christmas of 1986 are a staple in the childhoods of Goober's two young ones. Two weeks ago when I was visiting, there were light saber swords resting on the little table in between bouts between sister and brother, and at one point three-year-old Horatio picked a stuffed elephant up from one of the chairs, handed it to me and said, “You are the elephant! What is your super power?”

            While my brain searched for the appropriate super power for my toy elephant, I could hear echoes from years past, “I saw chairs!” Memories don't get any better than this!

359 20151225 I Saw Chairs!