Lunch at Don's

Don's Restaurant was always dark and cool and noisy. Sometimes, in the summer, my mom and sister and I would meet Grandpa at Don's for lunch. Grandpa had been retired from the coal mines for a while; so he spent his days visiting with his friends on Main Street.
Back then, Main Street had a movie theater that showed Jaws and Star Wars and Kramer vs. Kramer. It also had a Baptist church, a bank, a clothing store called Watson's, two dime stores (T,G, & Y and Newberry's), a soda fountain called Rexall's, a jewelry store called Stiles's, and, of course, the Courthouse. Grandpa and his friends gathered to talk and chew gum in front of the Courthouse. Some of them smoked cigarettes or chewed tobacco, but not Grandpa. Grandpa chewed cinnamon Dentyne and would only give me "half a cake" if I asked for a piece.
Because he never learned to drive, he took a taxi downtown every morning. When I asked my mom what Grandpa did all day downtown, she said he "loafed around." Sometimes, he took care of business at the bank. Sometimes he sat at the counter in Don's Restaurant and talked with whomever sat at the stool beside him. I wondered what they talked about.
On days we met Grandpa at Don's, he was already there, holding a table for us. It was usually a corner booth, the vinyl seat cold against the backs of my legs. Don's was so noisy, with clattering silverware and clinking ceramic plates. We could barely hear each other talk. Grandpa didn't talk much anyway.
He ordered Cokes all around, while I took my time looking over the menu. Chicken fried steak, macaroni and cheese, breakfast served all day, tuna salad... I thoroughly read the neatly typed descriptions of each entree; but I always ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of steak fries. The plates were white with a green ribbon of paint circling the rim. I squirted a pool of vinegary ketchup between my fries and sandwich, scooting the pickles out of the way to save them for last. I savored the perfectly grilled sandwich, thick with melted cheese; and I ate every last one of my fat, flat fries. Grandpa cleaned his plate, too; and my sister used a waxy red crayon to trace letters on the paper kids' menu. We never said much. Mom ate her tuna salad with a fork in one hand and a Saltine cracker in the other. Her packages from Newberry's leaned against her hip on one side. Her wicker purse stood open on the seat beside her; but she didn't need to pay. Grandpa always took care of the check.
I wish we'd taken a picture there, something to look at and remember. Three generations gathered around a wobbly Formica table in a dimly-lit diner, Grandpa wiped the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin, mom asked about his day, my sister sat on her knees, and I made a face when I bit into a sour pickle.
My Grandpa died when I was in my early 20s. By that time, Don's Restaurant had been closed for years. Most of downtown died store by store before Grandpa passed away; but he still took a cab downtown everyday as long as he was able.
I wish I had a picture to remember us at Don's Restaurant just exactly like it was, just exactly as we were...a moment in time that seemed so ordinary then and so memorable today.

What If

My head felt empty. For several hours yesterday, I had forced every question right out of it. I, who love knowing things, mentally took each "what if" captive and wrestled it somewhere below my brain stem. I could not afford to stop and think. I had to act and act fast.
We thought it was food poisoning...when my 17-year-old began to feel ill Sunday night. He and his dad and grandmother had been to a soccer tournament in Indianapolis. Prior to his game, they ate a mother's day brunch at a local restaurant. Jack had sausage gravy and biscuits.
When he got home, he said, "I don't feel so good."
"It must be the brunch," he said. "My stomach hurts. I took some Rolaids; but it didn't help."
By 9:00 PM, he was sitting on the floor, hunched over the toilet in his downstairs bathroom.
"Where does your stomach hurt?" I asked. He said it hurt right in the middle, around his navel.
He couldn't stop throwing up. I sat up with him all night. He would doze for an hour and then be up again, nauseated, vomiting. I kept checking his temp...not high at all; but he felt clammy.
The next morning, I went to work for half a day. The vomiting had slowed down; and he was sleeping. My mother-in-law said she would stay with him.
It was our first day of state assessment. I decided to administer the test and then leave my students with a sub for the afternoon. I could barely concentrate, handing out test booklets, reading the instructions, sharpening pencils, monitoring students. When my sub arrived, I hit the door running. Something nagged at the back of my mind. "What if..." I shut it down. The appointment with our family physician was at 1:00. I made my way across town. My son, still nauseated, sat in the passenger seat, a plastic garbage can between his knees.
The doctor also suspected food poisoning. He ordered a shot to help with the nausea. He pressed Jack's stomach. He didn't like Jack's reaction.
"I think we should do a CT scan," he said.
Insurance didn't agree.
I said, "Do it anyway." The what ifs were scratching at my brain, clawing their way in.
Jack drank the contrast; and we waited. The radiology tech performed the scan.
"Do you live near the hospital?" she asked.
The what ifs were screaming in my ears.
I did not need the tech to explain. I knew she could tell me very little until the doctor read the scan. I made eye contact with her. She held out a piece of paper and asked me to write my cell phone number down...again.
Jack and I got into the car.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"To the hospital," I said.
"But the doctor hasn't called yet," he said.
"Just to be safe," I said. The what ifs were so loud, my voice sounded muffled in my own ears.
The doctor called as I was pulling into the hospital parking lot.
"It's a hot appendix," he said. "They're waiting for him in surgery."
The what ifs drowned out the directions the registrar gave me.
"Can you just walk us there?" I asked. I must have looked desperate. I could see her mouth moving, telling me how to get around the hospital; but I could not understand.
She walked us to surgery.
Hours and prayers later, we are home again...just released from the hospital. The emergency appendectomy was a success. The surgeon removed Jack's appendix before it ruptured. Jack feels so much better. He says he feels like he could take off running...
"Not for three weeks," the doctor says.
I thank God for the power of prayer and the power to stifle those crippling what ifs. I thank God my son is okay.

Snow Cones

Everyone gets one snow cone.
They choose the flavor.
We pay.
"Don't we get to play?"
Michael asks.
He has a football
tucked under his arm.
"Just snow cones today,"
I say.
He grumbles
under his breath.
He forgets
that I have teacher ears.
"Be grateful,"
I remind him.
My eyebrows
make an exclamation point.
My face is
an emoji with gritted teeth.
I'm tired.
It's been a long week.
110 seventh graders
make a loud, crooked line.
The snow cone truck
is parked behind the football field.
Two college students
scoop the ice.
"No seconds," I say.
Funds are limited.
The girls order mango.
The boys, blueberry.
One girl orders lemon.
"I thought it would be yellow,"
she complains.
It's clear instead.
And sour.
Someone nudges Luke's elbow.
His cherry snow cone stains the grass.
My face
is an emoji
with a sideways frown.
Luke twists his mouth,
worried.
His elbows bow out,
surprised.
He holds his empty spoon
in one hand.
His empty cone
in the other.
He glances at me
over the top of his thick glasses.
A heavy sigh
freezes in the roof of my mouth.
"Get back in line,"
I say.
I motion to him.
I nod encouragingly.
My face
is a smiling emoji
with red cheeks.
I remember.
Today is supposed to be fun.
"Add one more to the purchase order," I say.
Funds aren't that limited.

Doctor's Orders

I sit very still on the examination table. The sound of the crinkly paper under my thighs is distracting. I want to listen, very carefully, to the doctor's advice.
"Anxiety is the body's natural response to danger," he says. "Many years ago, if a person was being chased by a bear, for instance, the person would experience anxiety. It's called the fight or flight instinct. The person's blood pressure would rise; and the person would be ready to run from the bear. Now, not too many people find themselves up against a bear; but the human body is still hard-wired for fight or flight. You seem to be experiencing fight or flight in situations that don't require fight or flight. Something stressful happens. Your blood pressure rises; and then something else stressful happens, and it goes up again."
"What should I do?" I ask. "I do feel stressed."
"Do you like to do anything that relaxes you?" he asks.
I think about it. I really don't like massages or running or napping or manicures.
"I like to soak in the tub and read books," I say. I would shrug; but I remember the crinkly paper. I raise my eyebrows like question marks instead.
"Do that," he tells me. "Soak for hours if that's what it takes. Read lots of books."
Doctor's orders.
And so, when I feel like fighting or fleeing, I turn on the faucet in my little tub. I don't have a fancy soaking tub. I pour bubble bath that smells like pomegranate or lemon or lavender vanilla. I pour the bubble bath directly under the hot water that streams from the faucet. I swirl my hand under the surface and lean back in the bubbles. I wear a claw clip to keep my hair dry.
I dry my hands on a towel so I don't get the pages of the book wet.
I soak until my skin is as wrinkled as the skin of a prune.
I soak until a little jagged piece of my toenail polish peels off and floats like a miniature pink island.
I soak until I read to page 100; then I read at least two more chapters.

* * *

"The good news," the doctor says, on the day he gives me a prescription for bubble bath, "is that your ancestors were probably very good at running from bears. The calm people were eaten."

My Mother Dreams of Houses

My mother dreams of houses
She dreams of our old house
the yellow house on Pear Street
the house where my sister and I
were children
the house where my mother
sat with us in the front yard
and taught us how to weave clover crowns
the house where my mother
filled the golden tub with bubbles
the house where my mother
helped us cut paper dolls
and hosted sleepovers
the house where she made blueberry pancakes
on Saturday morning

My  mother dreams of houses.
She dreams of our old house
the brick house on the hill
the house where my sister and I
were teenagers
the house where my mother
made fruit pizza and lasagna
the house where my mother
planned surprise parties
and helped with science projects
the house where my mother
waited up until we came home
the house where she signed report cards
and mailed college applications

My mother dreams she is in her old room
in our old house
She dreams she has broken a hole
through the hard wood floor
My mother dreams she is using a trowel
to dig in the ground under the floor
My mother dreams she is planting two strong trees
"What crazy dreams," my mother says
My mother dreams of houses
My mother dreams of trees
My mother dreams...of my sister and me

A Long Good-bye

My elementary school
was organized
with grades 2nd through 4th
on the main floor;
5th through 8th upstairs.
First grade tucked into the side wing.

Moving upstairs
was tough for me;
and I imagined,
it was tough
for my old teachers, too.
So every day,
during my fifth grade year,
I made the long pilgrimage...
from class to class,
after the bell.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Quillen," I said
to my 4th grade teacher.
She always looked surprised,
her eyes wide behind her glasses.
"Have a nice afternoon, Mrs. Carter,"
I called, lingering at her door,
hoping she might ask me
to help tidy the bookshelves
or organize the maps.

"How was your day?"
I asked Miss Davidson.
She was my dad's
2nd grade teacher, too;
and he told me
about the wooden paddle
named "Dr. Pepper"
that lived in her bottom desk drawer.
By the time I was in 2nd grade,
Miss Davidson was still teaching;
but Dr. Pepper had retired.

Finally, skipping a little,
(so I wouldn't miss her),
I made my way
down the long hall
to the first grade wing.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Shackleford,"
I said.
She drew me in
to a one-armed hug,
her heavy book bag
dangling from the opposite shoulder.

"Good-bye, Sweet Pea!" she said,
seeming to shrink each week
until the last day of fifth grade,
before summer break,
I realized I was eye to eye
with my first grade teacher.

In sixth grade,
I settled for waving
from the other side of the playground
or in passing
as we left lunch...
hanging on by the thinnest thread
to teachers who knew me.
I was learning to move on.

On the Loose

Two lanes
too busy
two hands
on the wheel
windows rolled down
halfway
cold breeze
races in
wreaks havoc

One loose paper
takes a chance
launches from the backseat
flies
in a frenzy
over my shoulder
past my ear
out the window

I see her
in the rearview mirror
rolling
skittering
straight down the yellow line

Nowhere to pull over
I watch
as she grows smaller
a crumpled ball
dodging tires
free to roam the winds
from gutter
to lawn
to rooftop

Perhaps she'll meet
the same fate
as the plastic bag
I saw last week
wingless
trying to fly
but stuck
quivering
in the top of a leafless tree

I wonder
are all chances
worth taking?