Causerie

Good Neighbors

When we moved in to the neighborhood, I was pregnant with Sir Richard. The guy across the street was single, childless and a member of loud, local band. Seemingly, his only responsibility was the care of two large Akita's that growled and barked ferociously as they stared out the front window during the day.

Over the years, he played hard, worked hard, and entertained his friends by hosting the most elaborate, and scariest Halloween party the block had ever seen. He mowed his front lawn on Sundays (when people were at Church or at least awake and reading the paper) and he never hesitated to converse with us about local politics, the prostitutes one block over, and whether or not Miracle Grow was a good choice for house plants. 

As time went by, we couldn't help but to notice the dark-haired girl in the hospital scrubs who began to spend more and more time at his house.  He started to smile more. And he lost a lot of weight. He also got a motorcycle.

They got married, the band broke up, and their first daughter was born.  A couple of years later, the second daughter was born. Only a few months ago, another baby girl was born and the "For Sale" sign went up.

One morning as we both were headed off to work, we stood in the middle of the street and talked. "You know," he shrugged apologetically, "the schools... the stuff we deal with here... my girls..."  I nodded. 

Today, they sat on the Zoysia grass that had crept over into their yard years ago, poised and smiled for one last photo in front of the house they once called their home.  They're happy even though they'll miss us terribly, she told me.  "It's bittersweet."  I nodded.  Then sighed.

The new neighbors will move in soon. A young couple, I've been told, with no children.

Doing Good

In the morning as the kids go out the door, I tell them to have a good day.  My husband looks them in the eye and says, "Do a mitzvah."

A mitzvah refers to the Jewish understanding of the 613 commandments given in Torah.  Yes, 613 commands - not just ten.  There are 248 "thou shalts" (some refer to them as "positive" mitzvahs) - give to charity, love God; And there are  365 "thou shalt nots" (or "negative" mitzvahs) - don't kill, don't steal.

By doing a mitzvah, many Jews believe, you are connecting with God. Connecting with God.  I love that.

Tomorrow, the park build project I've been working on for over a year will finally come to an end.  There'll be balloons and clowns and cotton candy and a ribbon-cutting ceremony.  I'm exhausted in every which way you can imagine.  I'm sore and stiff from laying sod, and almost cross-eyed from spending hours upon hours working on my computer.

But, tonight, as I think about the enormity of this job and how it has gone from a big empty plot of grass to a beautiful red, blue and yellow playground with equipment for all children of all physical capabilities, I can only hope that I've done my mitzvah for the day. 

A few more words...

So, Mr. Man said, "Every day I've been checking Causerie and all I see is "My Words are Few".  He looked at me a few seconds then added, "I know your words are few, but do you think you can add a few more?"  He's right.  It's been too long since we last talked.

The transition from our conversation about Trayvon to something else left me speechless. I hadn't been able to move on respectfully, so I remained silent.  I've been checking in to read new comments and there's one that I can't shake off.  It's something KT said a few days ago.

In her comment, Katy mentioned that she doesn't watch television (so she wasn't aware of the Trayvon Martin tragedy).  My first thought was, "But how can she know what's going on in the world? And then I wondered, "How will she know when the zombies arrive?" 

Years ago when the Rodney King "incident" took place, Mr. Man and I were in Colorado.  We intentionally did not watch television (except for a bowling tournament because my father-in-law was interested), nor did we listen to the radio.  I can't remember if we even had a computer back them.  The point is, purposefully we censored ourselves from all things media. A black-out of sorts and it was great.

When we returned to Kansas City, I turned on the television for local news and the seemingly on-going, never-ending news footage of the violence in California made me almost vomit. I was terrified and horrified.  Shocked and confused.  I was so discombobulated it felt as though I was watching it through a thick plastic bubble that had somehow been manipulated by the man behind the curtain.

I remember thinking that it was foolish for us to have tuned out the world during our little vacation paradise and that it was potentially dangerous to have been so uninformed.  (After all, I was Black and Mr. Man was White --- not necessarily a good combination during race riots).

After that, I purposed to try to be aware of what is happening locally and nationally - at least knowledgeable about the "big" stories. But, as I've "matured" and I've seen the worst of the worst on my old non-high-def television screen, I must admit, Katy, I totally get it.  There's something in me that wants to shut it all down and turn it all off, too.  I'm not saying I want to bury my head in the sand (because, believe me, I want to know when the zombies are headed towards my house) but, sometimes, I just get so weary and so fearful that a media blackout is exactly what my soul, my mind and my body needs.

My Words Are Few

I wrote a post about it and decided to not publish it (yet).  Everything about it --- the wording, the sentiments, my emotions were off (and perhaps a little too raw) and for this reason I haven't shared my thoughts about the Trayvon Martin tragedy. 

And yes, it is a tragedy. Families are devastated and it appears as though our country is on the brink of an emotional and racial powder keg that will probably render everyone bloody, bruised and internally wounded for life. 

I'm considering my words, even now.  I'm trying to listen to my heart while watching "The News".  And, I'm wringing my hands like my grandmother used to do when she was worried.  We need to talk about this and I think I'll be ready to do so soon.  Until then, I'd like to know what are you thinking about this?  What are you feeling?

The Passage of Time

At the table four generations sat facing one another. The "old" folk - those in their 70's - began to share stories of way back when.  They told us how they felt the first time they were told to sit on the back of the bus. Pride was still in their voices as they remininsced about how they were able to get through the rough times - in their marriages, at their jobs, and raising their families. 

Lately, one of the men said, he had been bumping into old classmates.  Sometimes in unexpected places. Sometimes, with unexpected circumstances.  Like in nursing homes, for example.  "He knew me right away," the man said. "But, I had to take a real good look at him before I realized who he was." He faced the window and I imagined he was contemplating his own time line of life.

I looked across the table and there in the eyes of all, I recognized a sense of sad resignation.  And there was silence because we could not find the words.

 

 

Pigtails to Perfume, Crayons to Cologne

She had a birthday today.  His birthday was Friday.  I recently learned that siblings who are born this close together, often less than a year apart, are referred to as "Irish Twins". I kind of like the sound of that.

My daughter is 18 years old now and Sir Richard is 17.  I can hardly believe it.  In fact, I'm sort of lost in a haze of nostalgia.  It feels as though the huge black holes in my time line have distorted reality and the truth is that these two are still snotty nosed toddlers who are trying to ride the dog. 

But look at them.  They are at the precipice of life, standing at the edge of eternity and ready to fly.

I pray for calm winds.

remembering whitney

It was the early 80's and I thought I was a grown woman.  I was on my own and living a life punctuated by drugs, unprotected sex and abuse. 

I worked hard during the week - two jobs and college classes - and I partied even harder on the weekends.  I was very thin, long legged and as my friend Jacqui once pointed out, bold in my choice of fashion.

On a Saturday night in Connecticut, a friend of a friend of a friend invited me to a party and what I remember about that night is: 1) I wore a very short, black, leather mini-skirt; and 2) when I walked into the crowded room, a brother from across the way yelled over the music, "Look at this girl with those skinny Whitney Houston legs!" Everyone stopped doing what they were doing and turned to look at me. (at least that's how I remember it) and it was the only time in my life I thought I knew what it might be like to be a celebrity. Such scrutiny...

For years, I was reminded of that night whenever I saw Whitney on television or when I read anything about her. And when she began her descent into the world of drugs, I said,"There go I, but by the grace of God."