Newest Version - You're Who Again?

Writing Prompt 17: Captured Moments REVISED

Take some time to reflect on the special moments of your life.  See the movie of your life and pick one scene that touches your heart or mind.  Re-enter that scene and experience it again. As the colors, sounds, smells, and feelings come back to you, remember, savor, and write. 

YOU'RE WHO AGAIN? 

by Erika Hayes

October 10, 1993 – It was a Sunday.  I remember it was Sunday because the events that occurred that day began the Monday before with a much unexpected phone call.

Monday, October 4, 1993 – My eldest sister’s birthday.  It was very quiet in my apartment. Dare I say silent. Finally after many “but momma I’m fristee’s, I not sleepy’s and I wanna watch Belle” both my girls were softly snoozing in their cribs for their afternoon nap.  I was moving toward the couch to try to sneak in a quick nap when the telephone rang.  My heart leapt as I frantically searched for the portable handset to quite the sound to ensure my girls would not be disturbed.

“Hello.” I am sure I sounded a bit breathless.

“Hi, is Erika there?” A chipper male voice filled the once beautiful silence.  I quickly ran through a mental catalog desperate to place the voice to a face. This happened long before caller ID came standard on your phone.   I did not recognize the voice, my shoulders pulled and my lower back ached.  I spoke a silent prayer that it was not a bill collector or a friend of my ex-husband trying to help him find me.

“Speaking.” I confessed.

“Oh hi this is Dave.”

“Dave who?”

“Dave Hayes.”

“Sorry, I don’t know a Dave Hayes.” I was already moving the receiver from my ear to press the off button.

“We met at the wedding.”

Returning the phone, I felt my shoulders fall slightly, “Sorry, um...” awkward silence then persisted, “…um, who again?” my voice lifted a bit more than I had intended coming dangerously close to a squeak.

“You know Kathy’s brother, David.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know she had a brother.  I met a lot of people at the wedding.”

“Oh you remember” he paused “I was the photographer.”

A small sigh escaped and my eyes rolled, “Oh yeah, I didn’t realize you were Kathy’s brother.” A small knot formed in my stomach as a quick mental photograph popped into my head.

“Yeah, well I was calling because I have some tickets to the Cardinals game on Sunday and was wondering if you’d like to go?”

I was not very impressed with this Dave at the wedding and felt the truth would be the quickest way to be rid of him, “You do know I have two children right?”

“Oh yeah I knew that.”

Damn it!  I thought, that usually discourages them right away, “Well I am a single mom and I really can’t afford a babysitter right now but th—“

“Oh don’t worry; I already took care of that. The babysitter I mean.” I could almost hear the smile on his face.

A little shocked at the presumption that I was willing to: 1.) go on a date with him and 2.) Willing to let him, set up babysitting with someone I do not know really peeved me.  There was no way I was going to go anywhere with anyone this presumptuous.  Yeah, he was handsome but perhaps a little too cocky, “I don’t just let anyone watch my kids but thank—“

“Oh no, I know,” he let a little nervous laugh escape “it’s my sister, you know Kathy she said she would watch your girls.”

I was running out of excuses.  It was not that I did not want to date again; I was just leery. I remembered the photographer from the wedding.  He was attractive, but he seemed to be following my sister around. It was weird mostly because my sister was with someone.  I thought it was creepy.  The muscles around my neck squeezed, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  Perhaps my pause led him to the conclusion that there was a “thanks but no thanks” coming so he chimed in to relieve the silence. “I can pick you up or we can meet somewhere before the game, grab a bite then I will take you home. Have you ever been to a Cardinals game?”

He was disarming me, “Yes, when I was a kid, I was born in St. Louis and the Cards were there then.”  I began to feel a little nervous; I mean he set up babysitting with my brand new sister-in-law whom was a principle at pre-school and an all-around excellent person. “You know I have church on Sunday.” My excuses were officially at an end with this one. I mean I thought I am a single mom that goes to church and if that does not scare a guy off nothing will.

“Oh that would work great, you go to First Christian, right?”

“Yes.” The positive, well let’s call it what it is, cockiness in his voice was just as annoying on the phone as it was at the rehearsal dinner.

“I could pick you up there; the game doesn’t start until two o’clock.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and the phone cradled in my clammy palms gave away my state of mind, I just wanted to get off the phone.   So much heart break in such a short time. I just was not sure I was ready for this again.  In fact, I had all but sworn off men.  I was prepared to raise my two girls alone.  No help.   However, as a single mom, a day out did not sound so bad.  I looked at the couch it was calling me to finish this conversation and grab a few winks before the girls woke up ready for dinner.  Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out, “Why not?” Then took a deep breath and finished,   “I will meet you outside Ironwood house. What time?”

“That’s great!  Which service do you go to?”

“First”

“Okay then how about I pick you up at 11:00 outside Ironwood.”

“Okay sounds good.” I immediately felt a flutter in my stomach. I wasn’t sure I was ready to date. Wait was this even a date? I had not even considered that it might not be a date.  I mean we are sort of related now,  and the thought of me being a mom didn’t send him running for the hills, perplexed at his intentions I sat on the couch to stop my own pacing.  “I guess I will see you Sunday.” My voice lifted a little at the thought my overreaction of course this is just friendly get together. Surely, he just wanted to get to know his new extended family.  I mean what was I thinking? I guess I was the presumptuous one.  The heat in my neck and face returned my smile tugged lopsided on my face as I shook my head.

“It’s a date! I will see you on Sunday. Bye.”

“Bye.”  I sighed a bit when I hung up.  What did that mean? Was this a date?   Nothing serious I scolded myself; it is just a football game and some food.   Swinging my feet up to the couch, I only recall a flash of his face, a queasy stomach, tingling in my chest as the darkness grabbed me.  His face still in my mind.

That was Monday, October 4^, 1993.

October 7, 1993 came and went my second born child turned one year old.  It was a wonderful day. I remember that it rained. The sweet smell of freshness, newness that I missed so dearly.  I had moved from Hawaii only a few months before and was desperate for the rain.  I guess I never really appreciated the rain in Hawaii. A few months in the desert and I quickly learned how very blessed I was to live where almost every day the droplets would bring rainbows and richness. 

The rain in Phoenix is different as it carries a different fragrance. It is not the everyday pineapple mist that I once knew; this rain brings welcome relief. The scent of rain in Phoenix is longed for; it is a sign of change. I had moved to Phoenix in search of a new life, new joys, and change. 

I recall that it was hot still that October because the heavy steam from the parking lot almost choked me as I ran from my mom’s car to the front of my apartment. I was trying to keep the white and blue “Happy 1^st Birthday Jasmine” cake adorn with Disney’s Princess Jasmine and Raja on top dry and undamaged.  I was so sad when on a rare trip to see a movie I found that my 2-week old baby girl bore the same name as the Princess. I worked so hard to find a beautiful unique name for her and now everyone would have a Jasmine.  That however is another story for another time perhaps.

The rain had begun slowly after I buckled the girls into my mother’s car after our shopping trip and surprisingly remained steady for the six-minute drive home.  After a wrestling match with the car seats, I had both my girls safely across the parking long and waiting for me at the front of our apartment.  My arms full with the great white box and a few small treats for our birthday party I stepped to the covering over the entrance of my apartment unlocked the door and then the skies opened up and it poured.  I hurried to put the cake inside.  I grabbed my girls and we danced in the rain. We played and giggled and I felt joy earnest pure joy. The high-pitched squeals of delight as the raindrops fell and soaked those two little angel faces renewed me.  Their smiles beamed warmth in the cooling of the rain. I felt the change in the air that day.  I was for a brief moment; I did not worry about bills, life or love.  I had my girls and they were my everything.  For the first time in a long time, I was content.   The rain dashed away too quickly as it often does in the desert, but wrapped in towels still giggling the three of us gathered to celebrate Jasmine’s very first birthday.  I had wrapped the few presents I could afford and was ready to party like a rock star with my now one and two year old daughters!

October 9, 1993 after the girls were tucked in and kissed goodnight, I took a shower.  I shaved my legs. While I was in the shower, the hot water poured out over my back a billow of steam created a kind of blanket that wrapped around me.  I began to question myself, what are you thinking? Don’t you know you are meant to be alone?  You are doing this for the wrong reasons, call him up tell him you are sick, or better yet the girls are sick.  Why are you shaving your legs? This guy annoyed you at the wedding and now you are going out on a date with him tomorrow? Finally, I resolved audibly, “I must be broken.” Lifting my head back to allow the hot water snake through my scalp, I rinsed the conditioner from my hair and felt the tightness in my neck and shoulders begin to give way to the heat.  Why was I spending so much time thinking about this?  It is not a big deal. I stood and enjoyed the fingers of water soften my strained muscles. I reached turned off the water wrapped a towel around myself and peeked in on my girls to be sure they had not awoken during my shower.   I dried my hair, checked my girls again, set my alarm and had a fitful night of sleep.  The dreams that came that night were a reminder of the last few years of my life.  They were not pleasant. Filled with hurt and pain. Those are other stories, perhaps for another time.  

When I woke up on October 10^th I was nervous and my stomach unsettled, my hands a bit shaken. I changed my clothes several times before deciding it really did not matter. However, inside my head it mattered.  I fussed over my hair and finally pulled it back up into my tight familiar ponytail. I skillfully applied my make-up and checked myself in the mirror. I wanted to feel again, but I did not, I felt broken and sad.  

 I tried to remind myself you do not even really like this guy, but he was cute. You are not getting involved with anyone, besides he is probably just being nice because we are sort of related now. These thoughts echoed through me as I set about the rest of my morning tasks. In many ways, the previous two years of my life set me up to never again trust another living soul.   Alone you cannot get hurt and my walls were officially up.  Consciously reminding myself to relax, I would have a nice time and then we would become great friends. 

I dressed my girls as best they had for church, fed them breakfast, we played a favorite game of find Jade’s other shoe and finally headed to the church.  Why was I so nervous? I am destine to be alone. I am comfortable with that for the first time in my life.  God would be the girl’s daddy and I would do my best to follow Him.   I convinced myself that the photographer would be pushing me out the door as soon as the date was over. There is no way once he hears my story I would be on his call backlist.  I have an excessive amount of luggage at age 22.

The warm sun had begun to release its summer hold on Phoenix that October morning.  I stood outside the Ironwood house and right on time he was there. His little blue Nissan zipped up and I opened the door sat down.  I was greeted by the sparkling blue-eyed Dave Hayes with a huge smile he asked, “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” I smiled back.

 I never expected what happened that day to so drastically alter the course of my life, but it did and that story began a few minutes after I sat down in that little blue Nissan.   Nevertheless, that too is another story—for a later time. For now, let me just say, there is a plan for everyone’s life.  It rarely is what we expect.  That is what is great about life—it can be pleasantly unexpected.  

Rough Draft - Fixated Impulse Malady of Hues

Fixated Impulse Malady of Hues

     It is the small widow at the top of the wall that begins my journey every evening.  The wall always look the same.  A painting muddled in the taupe wall color on which it hangs. It is the wrong wall. It doesn’t belong there and it protest.   I stare at it in the evening.

 Sitting in my creaky steel chair my feet resting comfortably on the edge of the bed.  I lift my arms and pull the stiff muscles.  Met with mild resistance, I decided to stand, if for no other reason but to establish sovereignty over of my body. I bend slowly at the waist and demand that my muscles obey.  I touch my toes.  Lifting myself again and repeating the process. The light is dancing down the wall. My eyes follow it.  As I come to a defiant mountain pose, my heart flutters. The light has almost found my nemesis.  It creeps along slowly until they meet.  

 The clock clicks as the numbers fall. One minute later they met today.  The light and the one spot on this painting and its unique fleck. I wish I could give the color a name.  It is trapped somewhere between Emerald and as best I can describe it, malachite.  This speck is unique, it was placed there by the artist I am sure to drive me mad.  No other hue like it on the canvas.  No other type in all this world have I seen that matches its mocking stare.  I try to not look, I force my eyes to turn away.  Yet somehow they seek it out, my sovereignty is being challenged.  I search for distraction, but there is none. 

I turn to the comfort of my bed.  I use the term “comfort” loosely.  It too squeaks and protest my weight.  The mammoth stone that resides within its coils forces me to lay my head where my feet would rest, and my feet where my head belongs.  It requires me to see that damned fleck.  I pull the blanket over my head and feel the scratch of the course fibers on my face.  I whisper “Don’t look, keep your head about you girl.” 

Suffocating.  I can’t breathe the carbon dioxide molecules are too thick.  My arms throw the gray blanket from my face.  I turn on my side.  I cannot look.  I know it wants to take my sanity.  That indescribable fleck. “I can’t give you a name.” I shout.   Your color is known only to God.  When I am released from this room I will run far and fast from that damned flake of paint.

I examine again, no it is only in that one place.  The canvas is surely a foot in length and I suppose an arm’s length in height.  I have searched every Planck length and that color, it is only there, in that fleck.  I wonder what I have done to deserve this fleck.  It pecks at my heart.  It reminds me of my failure.  Just name the color.  The books have hundreds of names of colors, pick one.  When I first came to this room I would settle on calling it Emerald, then Sea Green and so many more. Then in the wee hours the fleck would seek me out. I knew I must find its name.  I am trapped in this hell until I find the designation.  I can’t seek the creator out and find my reprieve. I know not his name.

I have sought to leave this place.  I have stood, turned off the light, then on then off and found that it does no good.  I can’t walk through the threshold.  Funny, threshold, it holds me.  I cannot leave. If I do surely death awaits me.  All because that painting on its bland taupe wall.  If only that fleck did not glare, and demand I name it. 

People come and in an attempt and settle my turmoil tell me it’s simply green.  If only it were that easy.  This speck is not just green, emerald, sea, kelly, hunter, pine or any of her sisters.  It is unique.  It is like you, and me.  There is only one speck like it in all the world.  I cannot name it. I cannot define it. I cannot say its name. 

The burning in my eyes makes me drowsy, but I know sleep will elude me.  Always beckoning me to find its name.  Nowhere can it be found if only the maker would whisper in my ear the cursed name of this thing that holds me so tightly oft I cannot breathe. 

My bed squeaks again and I turn, the light has left the speck darkening its hue. Leaving me to my task. If only I could find its maker.  If only I could be released from that which hold me.  I wonder if I found him would I finally be free?

Poe - a tree! Or a Worm will do!

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178359

I chose to write on this piece because it was the door used to re-introduce me to the classics. I spent many hours as a young person lamenting the reading of Poe and other classic literature, having only read enough to reply to the questions posed by my educators. When this piece was handed out in my first English Class in twenty years, I was dreading the work.  I learned very quickly that I love the language, the rhythms the art that once was writing.  The word choices now entice me and allow me to grow.  I love to look at the words and try to decide WHY did the author chose such a word.  Was it for the rhythm or the deeper meaning?  Did he/she sit with pen to chin tapping as they sought a perfect word? Are we one in the same?  Yes I often conclude we are!

The Conqueror Worm

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Lo! ’t is a gala night

   Within the lonesome latter years!   

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

   In veils, and drowned in tears,   

Sit in a theatre, to see

   A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully   

   The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,   

   Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly—

   Mere puppets they, who come and go   

At bidding of vast formless things

   That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

   Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure   

   It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore   

   By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in   

   To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,   

   And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,

   A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out   

   The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs   

The mimes become its food,

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs

   In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!   

   And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

   Comes down with the rush of a storm,   

While the angels, all pallid and wan,   

   Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”   

   And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

Why Wyland

A picture collage of Wyland's work.

For many years, I longed for peace in the craziness that was my life.  When I stumbled upon Robert Wyland's work I found a way to escape.  I stood for hours in his gallery in Hawaii gazing upon the most beautiful creatures he would paint.  He brought them into my life and gave me the peace I needed.  Still after all these years I can find the peace and the tranquility Mr. Wyland gave to me from the first time I found his work.  

Falling! - by Pocket Full of Rocks

If there were ever a medium that allows me to get lost in my own creativity it is music.  I find a great deal of inspiration in the melodies and the lyrics (which truly are poetry set to sound).  Many years ago a band by the name of Pocket Full of Rocks released an album called "Song to the King".  I am pretty sure I wore the original CD I purchased completely out!  The lead vocalist voice touches me.  I can feel his absolute love for Christ.  When I listen to this song it is a reminder that I am so far from perfect but so dearly loved.  It frees me of my self and opens my heart! 

The CD has been followed by many others. PFOR is one of my favorite bands and I have all their albums.  There is something about the vocals, I can't place it, it is deep and at times sorrowful and I can feel the plea to understand why a God so big would love me enough to seek me!  When I first heard this CD I was travelling a lot, I would put on my headphones and night and fall asleep listening to the beautiful melodies that came with such deep meaningful lyrics. 

This entire CD but particularly this song "Falling" and "Worth Everything"  opened my heart to hear God's voice.  I learned that He(God) had a special place for me, He wanted me to embrace my writing and to move forward, This song changed my life. It made me stronger as a person and deepened my faith to an unshakable understanding of the Truth of God's love. 

Journal Jumping

This assignment sent me through cyberspace on a journey of discovery. I know the blogs I like but I thought I need to find new ones. Then I realized I don't.  The following blogs/online journals are a few of my favorites because the interest me. I will admit, I follow many, many art related journals.  So I chose just one. I hope you enjoy our Cyber Hawaiian Roller Coaster ride together... (think Lilo & Stitch)

As an artist, I spend a lot of time surfing the internet for inspiration.  I began scrapbooking in 1999. I fell in love with the idea of creating photo albums that not only displayed my family and friends but also and much more importantly, told our story.  I have and always will be a scrapbooker. It is essentially a photo biography. 

Anyway, Megan Hoeppner is an industry leader and is more than inspiration she is my friend.  We worked together in the paper arts industry before I left to pursue other interest (school).  Often her talent just simply amazes me.  I always learn something new and creative.  She is incredibly talented.  I love art all forms, something about paper that just makes me smile.

I need to give a little background perhaps so you can have a better understanding of “Project Life”.  A push to simplify scrapbooking began really several years ago, however,  recently it has become more than just an idea and has exploded into a movement.  Project life is a product that improved on the previous concept of sleeve scrapbooking.  In a nutshell, you can purchase “core kits” and take photos put them in the pre-designed layouts of the sleeves, add the journaling cards , embellish a few of the cards and BAM.. done.  I have many scrapbook albums –but when I did my first Project Life I took one photo every day for a year. It was a HUGE undertaking, but it was fantastic.  I look at that album all the time. It tells our life for a full year.  A memory captured from every single day! Not all Project Lifers do a photo a day, but I did. It was amazing!  I plan to do it again next year.

Megan's Blog Post HERE

As a writer, I frequent many blogs, written of course by other writers.  Most often I will read then for the information and knowledge of my fellow wordsmiths.  However, there is one blog that I truly appreciate that the author keeps it real, shares not only ideas on writing but also shares real life.  It is a working journal if you will.  Sprinkled among the do’s and don’ts of the writing world are snippets of life.  Below find one that is something I was able to comment on as I have stood in the shoes of the author and hope that I can offer some comfort to the author.   This author is also one of the top ten “writer’s blogs” of 2013.  There is a lot of great information shared on this blog.

Pupdate from Terrible Minds Blog

As a person, I love to eat and traveling is becoming a huge interest to me.  My husband and I love to experience new places and good food.  I stumbled on this blog while looking for information on good bicycle spots. We are planning to bicycle across the United States. I found this blog and fell in love. I often on my trips with my husband take photos of the food we eat and then journal about them in my travel journals.  This blog is a perfect fit for my interest in both food and travel!

Who wouldn't love a blog called Eat your World Here is the LINK

I posted to Terrible Minds, I have not heard back anything from my posting.  I chose to respond to this blog post because I understood it. I had something to express.  I wanted to offer comfort to a fellow human being that is struggling with a very sad and very real situation.

I suppose my experience with blogs is connection. You learn and share with people through words.  It is powerful. Sometimes I will respond to a post or a comment and it can be a beautiful dialogue and other times it is simply that, me putting in my .02 cents.  It still allows me to make a connection.  Blogs/online journals allows me to find others with my interest.  I subscribe to many blogs on many different subjects.  I am addicted to learning.  I love it. I love to read about the Deaf Community, art, mastering written word, accounting, Germanic culture, Ireland, delicious food.   

What I am?

I am German, well; at least I thought I was until recently. What does that mean exactly? To be German or *insert nationality here.   I was born to a German immigrant. Does that make me German?

Recently while speaking to my father, somehow we found our way to the subject of nationality. My father spent his fledgling years in Langendiebach Deutschland (Germany) and came to the USA in his mid-twenties.  When I say I am German, my father will correct me, “Nein, du kommt aus Amerika. Du bist ein Amerikaner.”  I struggle with this, because he wants me to be American but I want to identify with my German heritage. When he scolds me, I say, “I am German too Dad, because, you are German.”

 Please do not think he does not love Germany and his German heritage, he loves his homeland.  Often returning to visit, his is no shame in Deutschland but pride in being American that leads to my reprimand.   I ask him to tell me why he wants me to say I am American and he shakes his head and slowly then will begin to spin the tales of his early life in Germany.

He was a young man living in East Germany during World War II and some nights the memories of those days long past flood his slumber leaving him bolt upright in his bed, hands cool and clammy and sweat pouring from his brow. Still after almost 50 years in America, he recollects the horrors of the war.  

My father, his mother, my grandmother (meine Großmutter), escaped the war torn land with my Aunt Brigetti, (meine Tante) still warming in the womb and Uncle Hans (mein Onkel) to West Germany. With help from family friends, they stole away in the middle of the night, with the cold biting at their backs.  Being the eldest and a boy, the responsibility to seek out shelter at night fell on my father. Sometimes they found a farmer or other kindly family that would provide a warm bed in the house or barn.  Sadly, many nights did not afford such luxury.  He speaks sorrowfully when he recounts those bitter cold nights, sleeping in abandon bombed out buildings praying for a rat to come close enough to catch so they could have a few scrapes of meat for supper.  His tales are for the benefit of the listener, always censored. The most horrific memories only escape in his dreams.  He does not want to speak ill of his homeland, but you see the immensity as he narrates the terrible things that transpired. His eyes always become heavy and his voice thick he will shake his head slowly back and forth, as he travels back to that moment in time.  When he has finished the memory, run his hand through his thin hair, swiping it to the left and then smiles and boast that he has good memories too. 

 These stories, the good ones, he tells with a smirk of mischief lifting the corners of his smile.  Brightness reenters his eyes as he shares the details of the beauty of the wooded area that was near his home. The fresh piney smell of the Tannenbaum (Christmas tree) standing high in the front of their home.  Pushing his little sister down a snow embankment whilst she was still in her buggy, this always brings a hearty laugh as he mimics the expression of horror on his baby sister’s face. He finishes this particular story with a big smile and a reminder of the whipping that followed. “It was worth it!” he still claims.   He also will speak of his first job and the delightful treats he learned to create as a baker’s apprentice.  Might I add, they are indeed delicious and you have not had apple strudel until you have had his melt in your mouth!   He loves Deutschland, but he loves America more. 

  I suppose that is because we, Americans, as a nation like to identify ourselves with the heritage of our ancestors that we lose sight of the greatness of our own motherland. We do not understand the privilege that comes with being a U.S. Citizen.  My father is correct in that I was born in America, and that makes me American.  I guess however, I wanted to fit in with the American culture and say I am “German-American” or, as I now often see “European-American” also known as Caucasian, or simply White.  I think the concept of the melting pot is too vague for our liking. It is as if just being American is not enough.  

My father says, “American born Americans are not proud to be American.  They need to be proud.  To understand that being American is sehr gut (very good).”  I admit, sometimes forget what a great nation I live in.  Let us not fail to recall more people immigrate here than anywhere. Surely not because it is a bad country to live in, it is a land of opportunity. We have more rights and privileges than most inhabitants that reside in other lands.  Still our freedoms are not enough. Always demanding more with less and less contentment.   

Many Americans gripe about what is fair; it is part of our privilege. We have become a nation of the opinion that all must be fair or our complaints rise and ride on a wave that develops into a typhoon of ungratefulness.   My father would tell those that grumble, and I have heard him do it, “be grateful” albeit usually spoken in German.  He distinguishes the truth about the ideas of a nation of total equality; it negates liberty.  He poses the question that makes many politically correct Americans uncomfortable.  “Why should a lazy man eat the food of the man working hard to provide for a family, how is this equal?”  he continues  “One man works another is fed off his earnings.”

 His reasons stem from more than abstract ideas of equality but from life experience.  Was it fair when the soldiers evaded his home and took everything? Food, valuables not because they were in need.  His family would gladly have shared. They took because they had license.  That is not equal to the man of labor he philosophizes. In the United States, he reminds me, opportunity comes not as a hand out but as a hand up. A working man’s hand that reaches out to help those in need. A hand up is not the same as a hand out, it is opportunity, not charity.   
   

In my heart, I know he is right, but still I find myself falling into the communal trap of discontentment. His appreciation for the greatness of this land is a perspective that I cannot grasp.  I was born to the opportunity of United States citizenship.   I have no other experience, but greatness to compare.  My father keeps me in check. I learned at a young age and to this very day adhere to his ways in these matters.  He taught me when a flag is present and the pledge is spoken, that I am to cover my heart and stand at attention.  “Never look away from the flag,” he would whisper in my ear all those years ago.  When the National Anthem plays, we stopped whatever we are doing, stood, cover our heart and sang along and careful to show respect. He would say, “Many died for you to live in a free country what is a moment of your time to respect that life?”   He is inspiring in his patriotism. 

I questioned why one may feel the need to say I am German-American, Italian-American, French-American, African-American, when most of us that identify with those labels have never stepped foot on the soil of the nation we claim as our own.  Why do we not say I am American, and then stop? 

I look at my father and see pride swell as he announces that he is an American. He has never said he is German-American, even though the term is more correct for him than me.  Many years he worked to obtain proper legal documentation to vote, to call himself a citizen, to be a part of something I had as a birthright.  I have heard him take in large breaths and sigh audibly when he hears the Einwoher (citizens) that are born in these United States speak poorly of our homeland.  It hurts him.  He understands what so many of us do not. He knows what it is like to be denied the honor of citizenship of the USA.  

His pride in country, rivals most that are born American. He reminds me that our land is great. He makes me proud of this country, flaws and all. I think that while I am of German ancestry, my father is right (mein Vater ist richtig), I am American.

               

Leaky Bottles - Mostly Polished.

Leaking Bottles

Fall for many means a start to school.   Someone once said of me that school is my hobby. I am sure in some ways it is a hobby however, I have many hobbies, writing, paper art, drawing, photography, quilting so many more that I dare not share them all in fear my husband may one day read this.    

For me, fall means quilting.  I am a desert dweller but every fall I meander up to the cooler plains of the Grand Canyon State to quilt.  I go with my mother.  It is our special time, every year.  It is odd that as a child I did not think that one day I would long for time with my mom.  She worked and I was busy. That has changed. I realize the lunar cycle slips almost silently by and the importance of our annual trek develops eagerness. As her hair becomes a bit snowier and her back a bit more bent I see that she heads off to bed a bit earlier, she sighs more as she stands, eats less. With each of these new developments, I see a representation of another tick and another tock.  While I pray for many more years, I am painfully aware that the time slipping quietly through the cracks.

I became a mother just a year out of my teens.  I was young, but not too young. Over the next six years, I repeated the process of motherhood three times. Four children, some said it was too many, I say it was just right. Each precious. Each unique. Each grew quickly. I remember one fall day audibly saying with a bit of weariness in my voice, “I am a mother of four children, all under the age of six.”  That was yesterday, wasn’t it?  

I am pretty sure all I did was blink and my four dependents were in either middle or high school.  Soccer games, dance lessons, little league and band concerts, I went to so many band concerts.  My husband and I agree, we go to them all, and we did! Perhaps one of my favorites was when I heard a school orchestra belt out Lady GaGa’s Bad Romance, a pinnacle for any mother of four.  Sometimes it felt like all I did was run them from place to place only to return home where I would hastily pull a meal of tater tots and ground beef smothered in cheese together for dinner. 

 Each year as fall rolled around, all my children arrived home with an envelope informing me that an image that sadly, most often with a bland blue background would be available for purchase. All for the rock bottom price of $42.  I purchased the largest package, also known as A2, to weigh down the wallets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and assorted family friends.  Of course, the coveted 8x10 is spoken for, as it had a place of honor on our own walls.

As I wrote four separate checks, I would lament softly, wondering if I could get all four of them in one photo and save a little dough.   It was often several weeks later and most often, after a haircut or new pair of shoes that one or more would present me with a large white envelope with a clear front, meant to display the fabulous photography skills.

  There it would be comments of course, but overall, we were happy with the results, wild hairs and all.  On an evening after all the envelopes were accounted, I would pry back the metal tabs, on the frame that held a treasure of memories and remove the previous year’s collection.  The glossy photos from the newborn to the last year stacked neatly for inspection.  Each of my children would join me on my walk down memory lane. Always a time filled with comments that disclosed they had grown.  First through third grades often went something like, “Let me see me as a baby”.  Then their bodies stretched morphing to young women and men, my girls discovered make-up, my son video games. The opposite sex became less icky and more interesting, the comments reflected a bit more of society and less of my little angels, “Eww, I was so weird in that shirt…” also a favorite “LOOK at my hair it’s so fuzzy!”  My only reprieve, my son, he liked them all or perhaps he just did not care. My guess, the latter.

            The annual changing of the guard commenced only after each child had reviewed their lives from infancy to the current year.  I dutifully would place the current image to the top of the stack,  line up the younger years to fall into place behind then newest addition replace the cardboard back press down the metal tabs return the frame to the rightful place.   The new photo would stand sentry for a year until the next year’s image would take its place. Look how they have grown, time was trickling slowly but nonetheless it was moving.

While my children were off at school I, often I find myself humming in our home.  The echoes of emptiness bounce off the walls. I feel a looming dread that all too soon it would just be my voice in this big house. Soon the early afternoon would rescue me from those thoughts. The car door would slam their voices soon filled the void; the daily reports both good and bad replaced the melancholy that is emptiness. 

This year on a blistering, remember I live in a desert, late-May afternoon my son entered the home office and proclaimed that his application to Northern Arizona University now confirmed, he would be a Lumberjack.  I swelled with pride.  I was excited at his news. Accepted to the school of his choice he beamed.  I remember standing, my knees were a bit weak as I flung my arms as best I could around his much higher neck and drew him in for an embrace that marked yet another passage of time. He bent his back to reach down to return my hug. 

He released me, his six-foot three-inch frame almost floated away with that paper in his hand.   He released me.  It was the first time I had to consider what our home would be like without my son.  I tucked away my longing for time.  It seemed so very far away.  After all, he had just graduated from high school, all summer I thought, all summer.

He got a job, a summer job and I realized he was gone most days, and nights. He had friends to spend time with, tomorrow we would say, tomorrow we will play a game of Magic the Gathering.  Tomorrow, as they say, never came. 

Soon August crept in and stole away my son.  He left for school. One day he was there, the next, gone.  I still walk in his room and miss him. My heart searches for him in the crowd.  Once when he was a toddler, he was lost at an outdoor festival. I was never more terrified than on that day.  I scoured the crowd looking for that sweet face.  Today, I look around and see a man—yes a man, about his height and I always look… is it him? No silly, he is miles away. 

When he calls, I try to be strong.  I battle to stop myself from saying how much I miss him when he text. I do not want him to know how empty I feel.  How hollow our home now sounds without the deep heady burst of laughter that would come bellowing from his room as he played League of Legends (LOL to those of us that know) with his friends.  The thud of his grownup frame as it tumbles down the stairs to ask if I will make him meatloaf for dinner. What kid likes meatloaf?  Mine. He loves it; it is his favorite, meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  I hide how much I long for the hugs he always had ready for me when my day was not going so well. The push down the tightness in my throat as I attempt to force my eyes to remain dry when I think of his blue eyes lighting up when he will tell me about the newest film in the theater.  He loves movies, just like his mom.  I wait for the familiar chime of Google Hangout, because I know if I contacted him as often as I thought of him, we would never hang up.    I realize that time has moved all too quickly.

I knew the day my children had grown and moved on would come. Someday.  I knew I would miss them. What I did not know was what an ache I would have to share in their lives when they were gone.  

As of today, three of my four children have "flown the coop".   I still like to hum and sing when I am alone in my house.  Great acoustics.  Recently, hummed the song "Time in a Bottle” as the ping of the words hit the walls they bounced back and the melody moved from a hum to a lonely outpouring of my soul.  The chorus morphed into an earworm that burrowed deep into my heart,  “There never seems to be enough time, to do the things we want to do…” over and over again for days now it plagues me.

I think there may come a day when the heat of the summer beats down a demand for reprieve will come and one of my children will join me on an annual trek. Perhaps not quilting, this is my mother’s love, but something, something that we can enjoy together.  My eldest will go with me to the ocean, then my next will bake with me, my boy, games or a movie and my youngest, perhaps a theater event.  However, we will do it every year, just us; it will be a way to cork the leaking bottle of time.  

Today, I sit looking at my mother, we are quilting together. I am stitching away on a beautiful Texas Star and I watch as she pushes fabric through her machine, creating a quilt that one day may lie on my bed, and remind me of how we patched our own bottle.