Love, With a Side of Tomato Soup

When I was 11,
my mom helped in the church nursery;
so she knew all the pre-school kids and babies.
When a little guy showed up on the church bus
one Sunday night,
all by himself,
wearing a Superman t-shirt
but no coat in January,
my mom made some phone calls.

A couple days later,
my sister and I made room
for a brown-eyed three-year-old
(who loved matchbox cars)
and a blue-eyed 2nd grader
(his big sister).

Their dad was on active duty,
and their mom walked out.
Their aunt, who had her own kids to feed,
had squeezed them into her place;
but with no money to spare,
everyone felt crowded and hungry.

Mom to the rescue...
dad agreed.
If we could help, it was the least we could do.
We weren't rich;
but we had room.

Mom said,
"I have an idea.
Why don't you girls walk home for lunch...
for a few days at least?"
Our school was a block away.
We walked home for lunch every day...
for three months;
until the kids' dad came home from the army.

I didn't think about how much money
mom saved
by fixing lunch at home.
I just remember walking into our kitchen,
at noon
on a school day.
It felt strange.
No kids yelling.
No trays clanking...
just my mom, and someone else's little boy,
waiting for us...
with a hot lunch on the kitchen counter.

Each of us pulled up a bar stool...
my sister, his sister, and me.
For three months, for lunch,
we ate love...
shaped like grilled cheese sandwiches.

(Thank you, Mom, and happy birthday!)

Traitor

I remember our Boys versus Girls War during 2nd grade. One of my best friends was a boy, Ray, leader of the boys' troops in fact; so I agreed to be a spy for the enemy...infiltrating the girls' side easily because of my reputation as a trustworthy rule follower. After school, I would relay the girls' attack plans to my friend on the guys' side. I felt bad about it; but Ray and I had been friends since kindergarten. I couldn't turn my back on him; and yet, because I was a girl, I was drafted into the female troops, like it or not.
I justified my role as a traitor because Laura, leader of the girl warriors, was brutal. She'd stomp the boys' feet with her cowboy boots. She was fast and merciless, her thick ponytail swinging as she raced from boy to boy, mashing their toes with a crunch of her heel. I trailed after the girls, at the back of the pack, cringing inwardly as Laura vanquished the enemy, one foot at a time...leaving boys hopping in her wake.
As much as I disapproved of her battle tactics, she was an impressive leader. Sometimes, she pretended to ride a wild mustang bareback into the fray. She was so convincing, bending slightly at the waist, wind whipping her ponytail behind her, using one hand to smack the horse's invisible flank. She gave a war whoop; and, shrugging at one another, the rest of us galloped awkwardly after her.
The boys parted and scattered.
No matter how carefully I relayed the girls' plans for the next day's attack, the boys could never best Laura. Save for her, we were a sorry troop. None of the rest of us could really stomach all the foot stomping; and most of us wore canvas Keds, anyway,...not cowboy boots.
Eventually, the girls won the war despite my role as turncoat. The boys surrendered, tired of bruised toes. They needed us in order to have two full kickball teams.
As fierce as she was in battle, Laura was surprisingly ready to concede. I guess she'd grown tired of all the easy victories. Laura never found out that I was the mole; and for that I was grateful. Though my loyalties, obviously, were with my good friend Ray, I couldn't help admiring Laura's bold and brassy ways. I did not want to stomp and shove and run and glare; but I wouldn't have minded feeling a fraction as powerful as she looked, dashing fearlessly toward her enemy on the back of a horse only she could see.

Know the Signs

Last week, I passed a radar sign trailer...one of those large digital display boards posted on a two-wheeled trailer, set up on the shoulder of the road. Usually, these radar sign trailers are set up to provide information about upcoming road closures, road work ahead, or even to clock the speed of oncoming cars. Not this sign. This sign read: "Are you ready for severe weather?"
It was alarming.
I always try to be ready for severe weather.
When I was a kid, I was terrified of tornadoes. As soon as the local TV weatherman issued a tornado watch, meaning that "conditions are favorable" for a tornado, I went downstairs to the tornado shelter I had constructed. I could not convince my parents to join me.
"It'll be fine," dad said. "It's just a watch, not a warning."
"But, dad, conditions are favorable. FAVORABLE!" How could my dad not understand that "favorable" meant the atmosphere itself wanted a twister.
I used scare tactics to make my little sister join me.
In the tiny hall outside the downstairs bath, I had stashed all my tornado shelter supplies...radio, blankets, pillows (to sleep on, but also to cover our heads with if needed), 'Nilla Wafers, flashlights with extra batteries, a big stack of books, and some stuffed animals.
During most tornado watches, we stayed there for the better part of an hour...or until my sister got bored and dared to go back upstairs.
At school, I was the best at duck and cover. I could curl my usually inflexible little bones into the tightest ball, covering my head protectively with my arms. During the drill, I was so still and quiet that I barely breathed. I felt stiff afterward. I liked to think that I looked like a tiny, weather-aware statue...a textbook example of exactly what to do in a weather emergency.
I felt as if my teachers did not take the drill seriously enough; and I worried unreasonably about the possibility of a tornado touching down on our playground during recess. I remember actually coming up with a tornado plan for outside and convincing one of my friends to practice the drill with me.
"You have to be aware of the signs," I told her, scanning the blue sky overhead. "The sky will look kind of greenish; and we may hear a sound like a locomotive."
Looking back, it was a horrible plan that involved my friend and me shaking the foundations of all the playground equipment until we found the sturdiest. In the event of a tornado, we would grab hold of the base of the jungle gym and hang on for dear life.

***

Last week, I was so exhausted, that I slept through a storm...for the first time in my life.
I did not stay awake like I usually do, the ghostly glow of the TV filling the bedroom, sound on mute as I strain to see the counties in the watch area scrolling across the bottom of the screen. I did not hear the emergency broadcast warning on my phone. I did not hear the thunder rumbling, the wind roaring, or the rain pelting the window. I slept through a storm.
When I woke up the next morning, I actually felt guilty about it.
A couple days later, I drove past the radar sign trailer.
"Are you ready for severe weather?" it seemed to be asking me...personally.
I wondered if I should circle around and read the sign again. I had never seen one of those signs with that type of message. Maybe it was a message just for me. I was losing my edge, clearly, in the area of tornado-preparedness. I decided against circling back. If the sign really did say, "Are you ready for severe weather?," then I would have wasted several precious minutes in a busy day. If it didn't say that, well then...
Let's just say, I will be back to my usual hyper-aware weather vigilance next time there's a storm in the area. After all, I know it's important to be aware of the signs...er, well...the sign, that is.

Onomatopoeia

In my ears

and on the walls

Kerflunk and skitter

as a pencil falls

 

Screech and squeal

a chair on tile

A whispered giggle

that makes me smile

 

The electrified current

of a humming light

The whistle of pages

ever so slight

 

The kissing squelch

of rubber soles

The pop of the hole punch

punching holes

 

A snapping trio

of binder rings

A zipping jacket

that practically sings

 

A quiet day?

Nearly never...

'cause learning

is a loud endeavor!

Seventeen Years Ago Today

Seventeen years ago today, I asked the young, smiling nurse, "Where is the doctor?"
My doctor was old and wise; and I felt it was necessary to have someone with experience in the room. Everyone suddenly seemed so childlike. Where were the people who knew what they were doing? Where was someone, anyone, who had done this before? My mom and dad were on their way; but they had a long drive ahead.
"The doctor will be here when you're ready," the smiling nurse assured me.
"I'm ready now," I said.
"Not yet," she said.
My husband paced. He was 28; but he looked like a freckle-faced boy. Neither of us had a clue about how our lives would change. A few hours before, he had raced through red lights on my order. We were trying to get to the hospital after a 90-minute drive from his mother's house. When my contractions started, we had been visiting her for the weekend.
All the way down the parkway, our dog, a feisty Cairn Terrier, insisted on sitting on what little lap I had left...her nose smudging the glove box on the passenger side.
"We have to take her home first!" I said. "We can't leave her in the car for hours!"
My husband swerved into our neighborhood and left the driver's side door open while he rushed onto the  porch stoop. The wriggling dog in his left arm, he fumbled with the keys. Every second seemed like an hour at least.
Finally, he was back in the car, and we were zipping across the empty, early-morning streets.
When we arrived at the hospital maternity ward, they got us settled in our room. My husband said to the nurse, "Is this it...the real deal, I mean? The baby's not supposed to be born for a few weeks. Should we just go back home?"
What was he saying...go back home? I stared at him.
Fortunately, the nurse smiled her cheery smile.
"Oh no," she said. "This is it. No need to go back home for a while. This baby will be here today!"
She was young, but clearly very smart...a child prodigy, I thought.
Finally, the doctor arrived...just in time to catch the baby after I'd done all the work.
Jack, only 5 lbs, 14 oz, was capable of making everything seem perfect from the moment we saw him. Like his storybook predecessor, he could sell the cow for magic beans; and it would all work out in the end.
Now, 17 years later, he celebrates his birthday. We crowd around him, much like we did on the day he was born. Does he look happy? Yes; Jack always seems happy, if for no other reason, then simply to make those around him smile. We could not be one tiny bit prouder of the young man he has become. Our Jack, born 17 years ago this very day...a dragon-slaying, beanstalk climbing, giant-tricking, clever, clever boy with wisdom beyond his years.
On the day he was born, I remember feeling desperate for someone to arrive...to show up in my hospital room and signify that everything would turn out okay...my parents (why were they driving so slowly?); my husband (did he really need to leave my side for a second?); the doctor (where in the world was the doctor)?
Then Jack arrived, giving a friendly shout out to the world. They handed him to me; and I knew right away...this was the someone I'd been waiting for. He had arrived...a shining example of the best of all of us, with a wise and happy face and ten fingers and ten toes. We all crowded around him; and he made us smile.

The Hero of the Day

we have photos
I'm sure
of that vacation
an August in the 1980s
me - sunburnt miserable
even the ferry captain felt bad
waved me over
let me steer the boat
ocean breezes
combed hair from my braid
salty mist curled it
the island...a sugary thumbprint
in the distance
grey-green waves, fringed with foam,
kneaded the shoreline
it's too rough for us
mom said
shell at your own risk
a faded warning at the dock
stuck in her mind
we wanted something whole
though
a whelk, a cone, an auger
we didn't know or care
just something big enough
to be a paperweight or bookend
a reminder of the sea
to take home to the mountains
dad rolled up his long shorts
and waded in
his feet gripped the rough
rocky sea floor
we trailed beside him
on dry, hot sand
cheering him on
there's one, my sister squealed
a large shell swirled past his white shin
got it, dad said
triumphant
dad, who did not love the beach,
battled waves for an hour
dad, who longed for a fishing pole,
the pop-up camper,
still lake waters, a cool breeze
instead, shells weighing down
his drenched pockets
he dipped his hand beneath the water
then in one swift motion
caught a conch shell,
pink and white and swirly perfect...
he held it high above his head
the hero of the day

Someone Has Been Sitting In My Chair

A substitute teacher is teaching my class today. She is a Mama Bear like me. In fact, her daughter is a student at our school. She has subbed for me before; and when I returned, everything was in its place. Students reported all went well. I imagine things will go as planned today.
Two years ago, a former collegiate basketball player, Mr. S., who happened to be 6'9," subbed in my classroom. He was just out of college. The children knew him from the year before when he played for our state university. They were excited about my absence.
"Will he give us his autograph?" one student asked.
"I'm not sure," I said. My feelings were a little hurt. Usually, they were sad to see me go.
The night before he subbed, I left my plans and class rosters, all labeled and organized neatly, on my school-issued teacher desk. Then I dusted around the computer and document camera on my antique wooden desk, adjacent to my teacher's desk. I loved that antique desk and its matching wooden rolling chair, both gifts from my husband. I vacuumed up the lint off the carpet in the reading area and tidied up the bulging bookshelves.
Before locking the classroom door, I tucked my wooden rolling chair, warm cherry wood gleaming, under the desk.
I wrote a note, in cursive, on the white board, "Behave for Mr. S.! I'll miss you!"
Then I locked the door and left. It was Thursday evening.
Monday morning, I unlocked the classroom, wondering vaguely how Friday had gone. My note on the white board was still there. Beside it, someone had drawn a smiley face with a pink marker.
I turned on the lights and slipped out of my jacket, hanging it on the peg behind the dividing screen that closed off the storage area.
"So far, so good," I thought, noticing that the students' chairs were up on the desks like always; and the floors were mostly clean...a broken pencil here, a curl of perforated notebook paper there. Shavings from the pencil sharpener had spilled over on the floor, but that was pretty typical.
Then I saw it...my wooden chair...my antique, wooden chair...the one that was just right, not too hard, not too soft...was broken in pieces. The cherry spindles along the back were cracked in half; and the rounded top part of the chair was hanging from one splintered arm. I gasped. Someone had been sitting in my chair; and he broke it all to bits.
"Oh my," I whispered, gingerly gathering up the loose pieces of the chair. I reminded myself that accidents happen.
By the time the children arrived for class, I had regained my composure. This was not the time to act like Baby Bear.
"Mr. S. broke your chair," one of the children stated the obvious.
"I noticed," I said, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'll get it fixed."
"He was too tall for it," another child explained. "He sat down, and leaned back, and the whole thing tipped and...well, you can see the rest for yourself." He waved at the busted chair.
"Was he okay?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. He's tough."
"Good," I said. I was glad he was okay. I imagined it was quite a start to the day. Poor guy. Twelve-year-olds are not always kind when grown-ups experience an embarrassing moment.
During my planning period, I rolled what was left of my chair to the custodian's office. Felix, our custodian, looked worried. He said he'd do his best.
"I guess that chair is for a shorter teacher," he said, "like yourself." He offered me a plastic rolling chair with a padded seat and no arm rests.
A few mornings later, I was pleasantly surprised to find my chair, a little battered and scarred and smelling faintly of wood glue, back in place by my antique desk.
It's a good thing I don't sit down much during the school day since some loose splinters snag my sweaters; but the chair is back where it belongs...mostly good as new. She might be old-fashioned and only useful for a short teacher, like myself; but she's a pretty tough old gal.
The chair will be fine today. My sub is my size exactly.