Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother, probably because I am getting close to her age. She always seemed ancient, old-fashioned, and not much fun. She was a worrier, the kind of grandmother who made me hold her hand to cross the street—at twelve years old.
But she was also sprightly, deeply concerned about world events, and a great cook who made pies and bread from scratch. She loved her camera. I have her album of photos taken in the early 1900’s; my favorite shows her standing on top of a flagpole. She loved to people-watch, and living in New York, then San Francisco gave her plenty of “characters” to watch. She was a career woman at a time when a woman’s sole place was in the home. One of my earliest memories is visiting Grandma’s workplace and noticing her obvious happiness there and affectionate relationship with her co-workers.
She came over from Russia at only six months of age. Her earliest memory was of being bundled up in the middle of the night and rushed outdoors because her tenement was on fire. Wrapped in a blanket clutching her “doll,” a bunch of rags, she watched her home burn down. A family portrait shows her at age three, standing at her father’s knee, staring at the camera defiantly. She looks like she could eat nails. It’s strange to connect that tough little girl with the frightened woman I knew.
I know she made an unhappy first marriage to a cold, abusive philanderer. Her second husband was likewise self-centered and lacking in warmth. Life revolved around placating them, worrying, trying to keep disaster away. Yet with each husband’s death, she moved, made a new life for herself. Two days before she died, age eighty, she visited Knott’s Berry Farm, sent my mom a postcard which arrived after the funeral.
So. Was she happy? Or did she spend her years like me, feeling like it’s all amiss, so caught up in worries and fears that life rushes past in an unhealthy blur? It seems a terrible waste. What was her life about then? More than anything, I feel, my grandma should have been happy.
My Decision
Musing on all this, I dedicate myself to living like I want her to have lived. By settling deep into the present moment, it can be done. Today I find joy in the rush of cold air on my hands as I wash them. The fading December light. Sitting at my laptop watching my husband in the warm kitchen as he prepares food for his friends.
It’s paying off. For the first time since I was eleven or twelve, I felt a sense of impossible happiness--excitement for the coming Christmas, the beautiful pale winter air, the jewel-like lights.
Let it be so. Amen.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Rocky and Jo
We got the news this week: My husband’s Uncle Rocky has dementia. Rocky came to our house for Thanksgiving, absolutely bereft because his mind no longer works. His daughter Jill said when they got in the car to come over, he kept trying to insert his seatbelt into the cigarette lighter. Poor Jill and Lance. They were already dealing with Aunt Jo’s dementia and now both their parents have it. Of that generation only my mom has all her marbles, as we say.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
The whole situation makes my mind wander far afield to when I was twelve and came out here to spend the summer with my cousins. It was a hard time for me. My lifelong playmate, Cousin Nona, had turned sixteen and suddenly lost all interest in me. There was no one my age to play with. Her brother Phil was at camp.
Sometimes my aunt took me out to Rocky and Jo’s. They were young, full of fun, and had a big ranch house with a pool in the back yard.
Their baby Jill was just a year old. I loved to place her in front of a mirror and watch her laugh and dance at the sight of her own reflection. Six-year old Lance wasn’t too bad either. He liked to play Barbies and we could swim in the pool together. I thought of myself as the loving big sister to both of them.
But one day all that came to an end. Lance and I were in the pool. For some reason I told him I would dunk him. I waited till he held his breath and then I pushed his head under water for a second. He came up laughing, so I dunked him again. And again. Suddenly he was hanging onto the side of the pool, gasping for breath and screaming. He hadn’t been laughing; he’d been crying. “I couldn’t breathe!” he yelled. I apologized profusely, but he ran inside and told his mother. Jo came out, madder than an adder, and told me, “Don’t you ever do that again!” Later I could hear her in the house, still furious, telling Rocky and Aunt Bernadine, “That is the meanest thing I ever heard of a kid doing! There’s something wrong with that girl.”
I was overwhelmed with guilt. Raised in a dysfunctional family, my self-concept comes from what others think of me. Never mind that it was an innocent mistake. Jo said I was mean; something was wrong with me.
I carried that shame for years. In fact, when I moved out here at age twenty , I was shocked to see my graduation photo prominently displayed in Aunt Bernadine’s living room. Didn’t she hate me like Rocky and Jo did?
A few years later I happened to marry Rocky and Jo’s nephew. We all get together for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. But for years I avoided Rocky and Jo, scared I’d say or do the wrong thing.
One Easter dinner about ten years ago, I sat next to Jo and was surprised to realize she liked me. Clearly I had grown up enough to let go of the old shame and fears.
But I still avoided Rocky, mostly because he had a habit of pigeonholing people and regaling them for hours with his political opinions. Only once was I able to escape. He was going on about what cushy lives prisoners lived. "We have too many rights in this country," he railed. In most pleasant tones, I said, "What rights of yours are you willing to give up?" He said, "It's been nice talking to you; gotta go."
Now both he and Aunt Jo become more and more withdrawn. I don't know what to say to them. I’m not clever enough to carry on a conversation if the other person doesn't respond beyond one or two words.
It looks like I'll be avoiding them all over again.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Erasmo
Twice a week I volunteer, tutoring first through third graders.
Wednesday is my day to work w/ Erasmo, age eight. He is an English learner, small and thin with a wiry, mischievous face. The first time I met him, he told me he had ten brothers, ten sisters, and a pet dinosaur at home. He and I immediately bonded. He says, “I miss you every day you’re not here.”
But he is a challenge. He clearly has given up on ever learning this reading thing. He will only look at things that are easy, but everything’s hard for him. I always spend the first half hour trying to get him to sit in his chair and focus. He is up and down, wants a drink of water, wants to watch a spider in the window, wants to position the book cart in just the right place.
Today he wanted to show me some fall leaves he picked up outside the boy’s room. I never yell at him, but I spoke firmly and said, “They won’t let me come any more if you don’t read.” Usually that works. But he just sat staring off in space. I tried my usual prodding—no response. Finally I pretended to knock on his head and said, “Anybody home?” That got a grin out of him.
But he still wouldn’t look at his book. I said, “Is anything bothering you?”
After a long time he said, “I miss my grandma.”
I said, “Where is she?”
“She died.”
I said, “When did she die?”
“When I was in my mother’s tummy.”
I thought Oh for Christ’s sake. Out loud I said, “You really miss your grandma even though she died before you met her.”
For some reason that perked him up. He opened his book and started to read. We worked for about twenty minutes.
Then he said he wanted to show me something, so I watched as he made flower and butterfly sculptures out of his leaves, scotch tape, and cut-up pieces of a straw he found under the table. I could only say, “How beautiful, how beautiful.”
Some folks may think I am a pushover, and I am; but for what price am I also going to squash his sense of wonder and beauty? I pray for God to show me the way to reach this darling boy, even if only by letting him know someone loves him.
Wednesday is my day to work w/ Erasmo, age eight. He is an English learner, small and thin with a wiry, mischievous face. The first time I met him, he told me he had ten brothers, ten sisters, and a pet dinosaur at home. He and I immediately bonded. He says, “I miss you every day you’re not here.”
But he is a challenge. He clearly has given up on ever learning this reading thing. He will only look at things that are easy, but everything’s hard for him. I always spend the first half hour trying to get him to sit in his chair and focus. He is up and down, wants a drink of water, wants to watch a spider in the window, wants to position the book cart in just the right place.
Today he wanted to show me some fall leaves he picked up outside the boy’s room. I never yell at him, but I spoke firmly and said, “They won’t let me come any more if you don’t read.” Usually that works. But he just sat staring off in space. I tried my usual prodding—no response. Finally I pretended to knock on his head and said, “Anybody home?” That got a grin out of him.
But he still wouldn’t look at his book. I said, “Is anything bothering you?”
After a long time he said, “I miss my grandma.”
I said, “Where is she?”
“She died.”
I said, “When did she die?”
“When I was in my mother’s tummy.”
I thought Oh for Christ’s sake. Out loud I said, “You really miss your grandma even though she died before you met her.”
For some reason that perked him up. He opened his book and started to read. We worked for about twenty minutes.
Then he said he wanted to show me something, so I watched as he made flower and butterfly sculptures out of his leaves, scotch tape, and cut-up pieces of a straw he found under the table. I could only say, “How beautiful, how beautiful.”
Some folks may think I am a pushover, and I am; but for what price am I also going to squash his sense of wonder and beauty? I pray for God to show me the way to reach this darling boy, even if only by letting him know someone loves him.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Just When I Thought It Was Safe...
Well I thought I was over getting trashed last week. But I’m not. Went to a meeting last night and my trasher was there. As soon as I saw him, I felt all jittery and upset. I thought, “Damn, he goes to the noon meetings every day. Can’t he stay home once in a while?”
I sat where I couldn’t see him, but I didn’t enjoy the meeting much. (It wasn’t just his presence; people were having private conversations while others were sharing.)
I felt so pissed, I went home and ate about a cup of peanut butter mixed with about a cup of choc syrup and powdered milk. Then I had some French bread while I watched a show about the Great Chicago Fire. Felt pretty sick as I went to bed.
A wise Al-Anon once told me, “When you can't get over emotional pain, ask yourself, 'Have I ever felt this way before?'”
Meditating on her words, I am reminded how my older brother always hated me. When I was just leaning to crawl, he’d stomp on me and I’d go splat. According to my mom, I got so frustrated, I would bite my own hand.
One can see the parallels--I got stomped on at a meeting, went splat, and now I can’t get back at the guy. (Well I did think about putting dog doo on his car door handles, but that’s not the Al-Anon way.) You might say I was biting my own hand last night with all that peanut butter, etc.
Today’s entry in the One Day at a Time book told about having compassion for our alcoholic’s pain. I thought, “Anybody who would say the things my trasher said must be really hurting.” There’s the famous phrase-- Hurting People hurt other people.
Went to the noon meeting today and every time I had to look at Mr. Trasher, I imagined him all bloody and bruised. You know, it worked. I felt kindness and compassion. People shared about Step 3, turning one’s life over to the Higher Power. I shared about letting go of controlling my daughter. Mr. Trasher shared about letting go of controlling his daughter.
I walked out of the meeting feeling better than I have in a long time.
I sat where I couldn’t see him, but I didn’t enjoy the meeting much. (It wasn’t just his presence; people were having private conversations while others were sharing.)
I felt so pissed, I went home and ate about a cup of peanut butter mixed with about a cup of choc syrup and powdered milk. Then I had some French bread while I watched a show about the Great Chicago Fire. Felt pretty sick as I went to bed.
A wise Al-Anon once told me, “When you can't get over emotional pain, ask yourself, 'Have I ever felt this way before?'”
Meditating on her words, I am reminded how my older brother always hated me. When I was just leaning to crawl, he’d stomp on me and I’d go splat. According to my mom, I got so frustrated, I would bite my own hand.
One can see the parallels--I got stomped on at a meeting, went splat, and now I can’t get back at the guy. (Well I did think about putting dog doo on his car door handles, but that’s not the Al-Anon way.) You might say I was biting my own hand last night with all that peanut butter, etc.
Today’s entry in the One Day at a Time book told about having compassion for our alcoholic’s pain. I thought, “Anybody who would say the things my trasher said must be really hurting.” There’s the famous phrase-- Hurting People hurt other people.
Went to the noon meeting today and every time I had to look at Mr. Trasher, I imagined him all bloody and bruised. You know, it worked. I felt kindness and compassion. People shared about Step 3, turning one’s life over to the Higher Power. I shared about letting go of controlling my daughter. Mr. Trasher shared about letting go of controlling his daughter.
I walked out of the meeting feeling better than I have in a long time.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Poe Gets Trashed. Survives With Difficulty
My heart feels like someone scraped it raw. I got trashed during a meeting last week. I was sharing on the third step when this guy interrupted me, very angry. The gist of it was that he wanted to share a second time and I reminded him of his mother.
Now I’ve been in Al-Anon long enough to have developed a lot of healthy behaviors, one of which is to not exacerbate a conflict. I do this by remaining calm (Well fairly calm in this case) and reflecting loving kindness. So despite my inclination to stomp out of the meeting or attack him back, I stayed, prayed, and basically worked the third step.
But I was pissed. The meetings are supposed to be a safe place, free from the alcoholic insanity, and nothing makes me crazier than cross talk, especially hostile cross talk.
I must stress that this is an extremely rare incident. In eighteen years I can only recall two similar occurrences, curiously both directed at me.
In any case, I decided I needed to assert myself, so later I called my sponsor and we rehearsed two short loving sentences. Next day I ask to speak with the guy in private after the meeting. I said, “What happened yesterday was very hurtful.”
He said, “Yes, it was.”
I thought, “Wow, he’d apologizing; that was easy.”
Then I began my second sentence about how the meeting is not the place to bring up the fact that someone is reminding us of our mother. He hit the ceiling. Apparently he had thought I had been apologizing to him! After that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise; he just stood there, attacking me, taking my inventory, interrupting, wouldn’t let me talk. In fact he reminded me of my mother.
I stayed pretty calm, but after awhile I just started feeling about 6 years old and my brain shut off. Twice I tried to interject love: “We have so much in common, can’t we get along?” But he didn’t want to hear any of it; he stomped off, calling over his shoulder that I was crazy.
So that’s what happened. I know the guy is nuts, not following the Al-Anon way. Why get all depressed?
I did talk to friends and with my sponsor (She said she would have decked him). I prayed a lot.
Here are my conclusions:
We are all captives of our culture, whatever it happens to be.
The alcoholic culture I grew up in had some Great Forbiddens:
You must never be weak.
You must always win.
You must never be stupid.
You must never make a mistake.
If even one person thinks you weak, stupid, mistaken, or a loser, then you are.
This makes you unlovable and worthy of contempt.
My codependent mind tells me I should have defended myself better—maybe if I’d said this or that, he’d realize the error of his ways.
So what to do?
I must recognize that living with the disease of alcoholism has made me vulnerable and when faced with my weakness, treat myself the way I’d treat a sick friend.
It doesn't hurt to do a 4th Step Inventory. Even before this guy attacked me, I had been secretly impatient with him. Who knows? Maybe he sensed it and was reacting in some fashion.
So I resolve to be more patient with everyone, especially those who don't deserve it.
Finally, I must love my own poverty. My weakness and my stupidity are as much a gift from God as my strength and intelligence and I lay both at his feet.
Now I’ve been in Al-Anon long enough to have developed a lot of healthy behaviors, one of which is to not exacerbate a conflict. I do this by remaining calm (Well fairly calm in this case) and reflecting loving kindness. So despite my inclination to stomp out of the meeting or attack him back, I stayed, prayed, and basically worked the third step.
But I was pissed. The meetings are supposed to be a safe place, free from the alcoholic insanity, and nothing makes me crazier than cross talk, especially hostile cross talk.
I must stress that this is an extremely rare incident. In eighteen years I can only recall two similar occurrences, curiously both directed at me.
In any case, I decided I needed to assert myself, so later I called my sponsor and we rehearsed two short loving sentences. Next day I ask to speak with the guy in private after the meeting. I said, “What happened yesterday was very hurtful.”
He said, “Yes, it was.”
I thought, “Wow, he’d apologizing; that was easy.”
Then I began my second sentence about how the meeting is not the place to bring up the fact that someone is reminding us of our mother. He hit the ceiling. Apparently he had thought I had been apologizing to him! After that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise; he just stood there, attacking me, taking my inventory, interrupting, wouldn’t let me talk. In fact he reminded me of my mother.
I stayed pretty calm, but after awhile I just started feeling about 6 years old and my brain shut off. Twice I tried to interject love: “We have so much in common, can’t we get along?” But he didn’t want to hear any of it; he stomped off, calling over his shoulder that I was crazy.
So that’s what happened. I know the guy is nuts, not following the Al-Anon way. Why get all depressed?
I did talk to friends and with my sponsor (She said she would have decked him). I prayed a lot.
Here are my conclusions:
We are all captives of our culture, whatever it happens to be.
The alcoholic culture I grew up in had some Great Forbiddens:
You must never be weak.
You must always win.
You must never be stupid.
You must never make a mistake.
If even one person thinks you weak, stupid, mistaken, or a loser, then you are.
This makes you unlovable and worthy of contempt.
My codependent mind tells me I should have defended myself better—maybe if I’d said this or that, he’d realize the error of his ways.
So what to do?
I must recognize that living with the disease of alcoholism has made me vulnerable and when faced with my weakness, treat myself the way I’d treat a sick friend.
It doesn't hurt to do a 4th Step Inventory. Even before this guy attacked me, I had been secretly impatient with him. Who knows? Maybe he sensed it and was reacting in some fashion.
So I resolve to be more patient with everyone, especially those who don't deserve it.
Finally, I must love my own poverty. My weakness and my stupidity are as much a gift from God as my strength and intelligence and I lay both at his feet.
Friday, October 31, 2008
My Shyness and How I Deal With It
I hate going to parties. Even getting together last weekend with my husband’s friends, whom I’ve known for decades, I spent most of the evening fighting the urge to bolt out of the room. (Just writing those words makes me want to run I don’t know where since I’m currently sitting at home in my nightgown.)
Anyway, as I stood at the party, trembling with anxiety, I noticed the wife of one of JR’s friends. I don’t know her; they almost never come to the parties. She was sitting by herself, looking sad. I hate seeing anybody being left out, so I sat next to her and engaged her in conversation, which is not as easy as it sounds. I’m never comfortable talking to strangers. But my friend Liz taught me to get the other person talking about themselves. (I like this method because then I don’t have to say anything; I can just nod sagely and say “how fascinating.”)
So I asked the woman about her work. She was something called a “chart nurse." Now floored me for a minute because I know absolutely nothing about chart nurses. But following Liz’s guidelines, I asked the woman to tell me about a typical day. I asked what her greatest challenge was, what she enjoyed the most. From there we moved on to the subject of her children and after that I had no trouble talking to her.
Now I suppose some people are thinking, “And from then on, Poe lost all her shyness and felt great.” Sorry to say, I still wanted to run out of there screaming. But the important thing is--it made things a little better. And who knows—maybe that lonely woman enjoyed the party.
Illustrative Anectdote: One two separate nights a woman dined with Queen Victoria’s Prime Ministers, Disraeli and Gladstone. Later, people asked, “What were they like?”
She said, “When I left the dining room after sitting next to Mr. Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But after sitting next to Mr. Disraeli, I thought I was the cleverest woman in England."
When I grow up, I want to be like Disraeli.
Anyway, as I stood at the party, trembling with anxiety, I noticed the wife of one of JR’s friends. I don’t know her; they almost never come to the parties. She was sitting by herself, looking sad. I hate seeing anybody being left out, so I sat next to her and engaged her in conversation, which is not as easy as it sounds. I’m never comfortable talking to strangers. But my friend Liz taught me to get the other person talking about themselves. (I like this method because then I don’t have to say anything; I can just nod sagely and say “how fascinating.”)
So I asked the woman about her work. She was something called a “chart nurse." Now floored me for a minute because I know absolutely nothing about chart nurses. But following Liz’s guidelines, I asked the woman to tell me about a typical day. I asked what her greatest challenge was, what she enjoyed the most. From there we moved on to the subject of her children and after that I had no trouble talking to her.
Now I suppose some people are thinking, “And from then on, Poe lost all her shyness and felt great.” Sorry to say, I still wanted to run out of there screaming. But the important thing is--it made things a little better. And who knows—maybe that lonely woman enjoyed the party.
Illustrative Anectdote: One two separate nights a woman dined with Queen Victoria’s Prime Ministers, Disraeli and Gladstone. Later, people asked, “What were they like?”
She said, “When I left the dining room after sitting next to Mr. Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But after sitting next to Mr. Disraeli, I thought I was the cleverest woman in England."
When I grow up, I want to be like Disraeli.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Pilgrimage Continued
"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted."
Garrison Keilor
One of the reasons I survived my crazy alcoholic family was our minister David Brown. The first time I met him I burst out laughing to see him wearing a Bach sweatshirt. He and I laughed together from then on. He was a free spirit, with a childlike joie de vivre. I delighted to hear him shout, “Good God on a bicycle!” when surprised or vexed. At the time I fancied myself a cartoonist and put together daily cartoon strip modeled closely on Peanuts. Every time he saw me he’d rub his hands together and say, “Where are the cartoons?” Of course, I’d immediately pull out my latest offerings, and he’d eagerly read each one and giggle. Can you imagine what that did to my shy 11-year old heart? My brothers were as much in love with him as I was because he never talked down to kids, but treated us all like we had good sense.
Shortly before we moved, I asked if, when I got married, he’d perform the ceremony. To my delight he burst into song: “I’d do anything for you dear anything…”
But it was not to be. When I was fourteen he died suddenly. He was 46. My mother said I grieved like it was my own father. I still miss him.
Years ago I made a paper mache heart with doors opening into the four chambers. In them I put photos of the people who made a difference in my life—my aunt, grandparents, friends. It seemed surprising that we never took a picture of David Brown. After forty years I could barely remember what he looked like—chubby face, curly red hair, turned up nose, big mouth. How I’d love to have a picture of him.
Then an opportunity came up to visit my old home town. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could attend services. And maybe, just maybe I would find an older member who has a photo of the man who changed my life.
My friend Laurie drove me down there. Our old stone building has been replaced by a modern Frank Lloyd Wright-style sanctuary. I recognized no one. The congregation was mostly young; they were between ministers. No one made any effort to welcome me. There was no chance to introduce myself. After services I did spot a few old people and rushed up. But the two people who remembered David Brown were not keen to talk to me. I wandered over to Laurie, thinking, “Well I guess I’m not supposed to get a photo.” “Are you ready to go?” I asked her.
But no, she wanted to introduce me to an old friend of hers, a struggling writer like me. We had a nice little chat. I told her about my various writing projects. The friend said, “I just finished making a DVD of our church’s history.” A light went off in my head. “Do you by any chance have a photo of David Brown?” I asked. “Just a minute,” she said, opening a binder and leafing through it. Five seconds later she pulled out a very familiar photo. Two minutes after that, she’d made me a copy of the one and only David Brown.
He is in my heart.
Garrison Keilor
One of the reasons I survived my crazy alcoholic family was our minister David Brown. The first time I met him I burst out laughing to see him wearing a Bach sweatshirt. He and I laughed together from then on. He was a free spirit, with a childlike joie de vivre. I delighted to hear him shout, “Good God on a bicycle!” when surprised or vexed. At the time I fancied myself a cartoonist and put together daily cartoon strip modeled closely on Peanuts. Every time he saw me he’d rub his hands together and say, “Where are the cartoons?” Of course, I’d immediately pull out my latest offerings, and he’d eagerly read each one and giggle. Can you imagine what that did to my shy 11-year old heart? My brothers were as much in love with him as I was because he never talked down to kids, but treated us all like we had good sense.
Shortly before we moved, I asked if, when I got married, he’d perform the ceremony. To my delight he burst into song: “I’d do anything for you dear anything…”
But it was not to be. When I was fourteen he died suddenly. He was 46. My mother said I grieved like it was my own father. I still miss him.
Years ago I made a paper mache heart with doors opening into the four chambers. In them I put photos of the people who made a difference in my life—my aunt, grandparents, friends. It seemed surprising that we never took a picture of David Brown. After forty years I could barely remember what he looked like—chubby face, curly red hair, turned up nose, big mouth. How I’d love to have a picture of him.
Then an opportunity came up to visit my old home town. Suddenly it occurred to me that I could attend services. And maybe, just maybe I would find an older member who has a photo of the man who changed my life.
My friend Laurie drove me down there. Our old stone building has been replaced by a modern Frank Lloyd Wright-style sanctuary. I recognized no one. The congregation was mostly young; they were between ministers. No one made any effort to welcome me. There was no chance to introduce myself. After services I did spot a few old people and rushed up. But the two people who remembered David Brown were not keen to talk to me. I wandered over to Laurie, thinking, “Well I guess I’m not supposed to get a photo.” “Are you ready to go?” I asked her.
But no, she wanted to introduce me to an old friend of hers, a struggling writer like me. We had a nice little chat. I told her about my various writing projects. The friend said, “I just finished making a DVD of our church’s history.” A light went off in my head. “Do you by any chance have a photo of David Brown?” I asked. “Just a minute,” she said, opening a binder and leafing through it. Five seconds later she pulled out a very familiar photo. Two minutes after that, she’d made me a copy of the one and only David Brown.
He is in my heart.
Monday, October 20, 2008
For maximum amusement, first read previous blog entry.
Now that I'm back home, I thought I'd share a few stand-out memories of my trip back east.
#1
I am trying to meet my old buddy Laurie at her AA meeting, but can’t find my way around all the freeways which were not there thirty-five years ago. I am frantic, already half an hour late, gas tank on empty, getting more and more lost every mile. I see one of those highway signs that indicate gas stations at the next exit. But when I get off, it's only houses. Then I drive right past the freeway onramp.
This is the truth: it occurs to me that I’d feel a lot better if my mother was sitting next to me so I could yell, “It’s all your fault” then hit her while driving with the other hand.
(To be continued)
#1
I am trying to meet my old buddy Laurie at her AA meeting, but can’t find my way around all the freeways which were not there thirty-five years ago. I am frantic, already half an hour late, gas tank on empty, getting more and more lost every mile. I see one of those highway signs that indicate gas stations at the next exit. But when I get off, it's only houses. Then I drive right past the freeway onramp.
This is the truth: it occurs to me that I’d feel a lot better if my mother was sitting next to me so I could yell, “It’s all your fault” then hit her while driving with the other hand.
(To be continued)
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Pilgrimage to L'vull
Why this pilgrimage? Why have I travelled 2000 miles back to L’vull, my childhood home which I left 30 years ago? Like all pilgrims, do I hope for transformation? Will I find myself in the presence of God? Or am I just returning to “the scene of the crime,” trying to get it right this time?
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
Thursday morning I step outside and the very texture of L’vull air catapults me back. Suddenly I am seven years old. Running through wet grass. Green beans with bacon fat. The reflection of my face in the bathtub faucet. Nighttime traffic noises. Everything had magic in it.
But magic also carries danger. At age seven everything bad got stuck inside me too:
When L’vull built its first freeway, my family took a spin on it. Such novelty! Imagine having a minimum speed--35 MPH! Windows down, fast breezes rushing in. It’s a beautiful May day. We barrel along, happy.
Then my mom yells, “Dad, you’re supposed to exit here!” He swerves, but can’t make it through the flow of traffic. Suddenly he is purple with rage. “It’s all your fault!” he screams, driving with one hand while he beats her with the other. No more happy family. We kids cower in the back seat.
Before I left home on Tuesday, I called the 800 number to locate an Al-Anon meeting in L’vull. The operator said, “There’s one at the Star Hill Library…” Before she could give directions, I said, “Say no more.” Star Hill was OUR branch library, just half a mile from our house.
I park a few blocks away, so I can walk down the same sidewalk I’d trudged so many times as a kid. There, just as I remembered, is the big gothic building, warm light shining from the windows. In the basement, a cardboard sign: Alanon Spoken Here.
I sit down as the chairperson reads, “We welcome you…and hope you will find the help and friendship we have been privileged to enjoy.” At once huge tears float down my face. I remember all the years I’d spent alone in this town, thinking I was the only person in the world with a crazy alcoholic father. What a difference if Lyttle Poe could have wandered into her branch library and found a room where she didn’t have to cower any more.
I do walk out transformed, get in my car, and drive down the old freeway. Enchanted by the jewel-like trees, the Abe Lincoln fences, I realize I am all grown up now. If anyone gets violent, I can leave.
L’vull has become my Lourdes.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Hate Aerobics? Read This.
I’ve always hated exercising. Imagine a person with three left feet--that's me.
Sad but true:
In grade school the opposing team cheered when I came up to bat.
My PE teachers actually gave up on me, letting me struggle alone while they worked with the kids with some hope of catching the ball.
Miss Tommi would stop ballet class: “Everyone look at Lyttie. This is not the way you do it.”
But back in January I set a goal of getting in shape. I joined a gym, mostly riding the stationary bike or swimming in the pool.
This week, for the first time, I tried an aerobic class, something called
Total 45: “Fun dance class for all fitness levels. You will feel energized for hours.”
That class was the scariest class I’ve ever been in.
Typical directions from instructor: “Okay windmill one two, grapevine three four, add the arms. Left foot chassée five six. Now right. Repeat. Doubletime.”
Here’s me, always a step or four behind, always using the wrong foot. I could barely lift my knees. My elbow hurt. In short, I did not feel energized. I felt like a piece of garbage.
Then I got the strangest idea—Why not pray?
So as I stumbled along, I looked up. “God, show me how you want me to be.”
Instantly this thought came into my head: Your only goal is to get some exercise. It wouldn’t matter if you just marched in place.
For the first time in my life, I realized The Truth.
After that, I loved being a day late and a dollar short. I loved me. I was getting exercise.
I left feeling energized for hours.
Sad but true:
In grade school the opposing team cheered when I came up to bat.
My PE teachers actually gave up on me, letting me struggle alone while they worked with the kids with some hope of catching the ball.
Miss Tommi would stop ballet class: “Everyone look at Lyttie. This is not the way you do it.”
But back in January I set a goal of getting in shape. I joined a gym, mostly riding the stationary bike or swimming in the pool.
This week, for the first time, I tried an aerobic class, something called
Total 45: “Fun dance class for all fitness levels. You will feel energized for hours.”
That class was the scariest class I’ve ever been in.
Typical directions from instructor: “Okay windmill one two, grapevine three four, add the arms. Left foot chassée five six. Now right. Repeat. Doubletime.”
Here’s me, always a step or four behind, always using the wrong foot. I could barely lift my knees. My elbow hurt. In short, I did not feel energized. I felt like a piece of garbage.
Then I got the strangest idea—Why not pray?
So as I stumbled along, I looked up. “God, show me how you want me to be.”
Instantly this thought came into my head: Your only goal is to get some exercise. It wouldn’t matter if you just marched in place.
For the first time in my life, I realized The Truth.
After that, I loved being a day late and a dollar short. I loved me. I was getting exercise.
I left feeling energized for hours.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Bunny's Tail
Dad wore Old Spice Aftershave. As a child I loved that smell. It covered up the stink of alcohol which oozed from his pores and which gagged me as I reached up to kiss him goodnight.
One of the requirements in our family was that I pretend to adore him. On the rare occasions I didn’t, he’d shout, "YOU MUST THINK I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON!”
As an adult, I imagine myself saying, “I do think you’re a terrible person. Consider what you’ve done to my mother, to our house, to me. Don’t come around here with your alcoholic victimization routine.” But at the time I was struck dumb, paralyzed from the terrible wound that we called a family.
Dad has been dead six years now. One of the things my daughter inherited was his old leather key chain. She says, “It used to smell like [Grandpa], but it doesn’t any more.” Curious, I take a sniff and my hound dog nose picks up the scent of Old Spice.
Instantly the memory of him comes back so intensely he seems to be in the room with us. Tears fill my eyes. My daddy is here and he’s gone forever.
I lean against the wall, very mixed up. On one hand, I am a scared kid, hiding under the kitchen table while he beats my mom. Another part of me remembers…
The first time he came home from rehab, I was five or six. He had made two ceramic bowls in there--one for my brother and one for me. I still have mine. On the side is a picture of me with a halo and my nickname Pody followed by pictures of cats dreaming about fish or saying “meow.” Best of all, at the bottom of the bowl was the back of a bunny. If I ate all my cereal or whatever, I could see its fluffy tail.
Today I hold the bowl in my hands and think how he went to the trouble to make this treasure for me. If there was a fire in our house (and assuming the cats and husband were safely outside) I would grab that bowl, because hidden underneath the alcoholism, he’d loved me all the time. And underneath the fear and hurt and anger I’d loved him.
One of the requirements in our family was that I pretend to adore him. On the rare occasions I didn’t, he’d shout, "YOU MUST THINK I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON!”
As an adult, I imagine myself saying, “I do think you’re a terrible person. Consider what you’ve done to my mother, to our house, to me. Don’t come around here with your alcoholic victimization routine.” But at the time I was struck dumb, paralyzed from the terrible wound that we called a family.
Dad has been dead six years now. One of the things my daughter inherited was his old leather key chain. She says, “It used to smell like [Grandpa], but it doesn’t any more.” Curious, I take a sniff and my hound dog nose picks up the scent of Old Spice.
Instantly the memory of him comes back so intensely he seems to be in the room with us. Tears fill my eyes. My daddy is here and he’s gone forever.
I lean against the wall, very mixed up. On one hand, I am a scared kid, hiding under the kitchen table while he beats my mom. Another part of me remembers…
The first time he came home from rehab, I was five or six. He had made two ceramic bowls in there--one for my brother and one for me. I still have mine. On the side is a picture of me with a halo and my nickname Pody followed by pictures of cats dreaming about fish or saying “meow.” Best of all, at the bottom of the bowl was the back of a bunny. If I ate all my cereal or whatever, I could see its fluffy tail.
Today I hold the bowl in my hands and think how he went to the trouble to make this treasure for me. If there was a fire in our house (and assuming the cats and husband were safely outside) I would grab that bowl, because hidden underneath the alcoholism, he’d loved me all the time. And underneath the fear and hurt and anger I’d loved him.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Small Things With Great Love
I’ve been feeling especially blue. The news seems full of evil goings-on. Like most good citizens, I vote, donate money, forward e-mails, etc. But I get freaked out when the nastiness is more powerful than us good citizens. In the face of this, what seems most sensible and mature is to do some act of violence, like blowing up the mall.('course then I realize this might not be the best idea, especially since my best friend owns the mall.)
Back in high school, I hung out with other hippie wanna-be’s, all of us dedicated to peace and love. Therefore we despised anybody who wasn’t with us. My catch phrase at the time was “When the revolution comes, your house will be the first to go.” (Meaning if you weren’t as loving and kind as we were, we’d burn your house down.)
This is the insanity of a culture that tells us the only sane response to evil is “getting back at them.” Like this is going to change anything. ("I well remember the day Lyttie Poe burned my house down. Suddenly it made me realize how wrong I’ve been, so I now will devote my life to peace, equality, and singing Kumbaya.”)
Years ago I finally got around to asking God what to do about all the evil in the world. The response I got was “Go thou and do the opposite.” (Yes, I know it sounds dorky, but I don’t control these things.)
I’ve discovered I can get a lot farther by becoming a loving person myself than by trying to make the world a loving place.
An example: four years ago I met a woman named Katie who is my polar opposite in religion and politics. Today I count her among my dearest friends, because we’ve learned to look past the differences and focus on what is beautiful about the other. (Besides, in every other way we’re exactly alike.)
Anyway, in response to all the horrible news items, here’s what I did: I wrote “You are a precious child of God.” on small strips of paper and wove them into a clay heart I found lying around the house. Then I went to a church parking lot, asked my Higher Power to guide me to someone who needed a lift, and put it on a windshield. I don’t know how the person reacted to it; when I came out later the car was gone. But that day I felt like I’d done my small part to go “Nya! Nya!” to meanness and violence.
To paraphrase my favorite philosopher Elwood P. Dowd, “In this world you must be ever so clever or ever so nice. I prefer nice.”
Back in high school, I hung out with other hippie wanna-be’s, all of us dedicated to peace and love. Therefore we despised anybody who wasn’t with us. My catch phrase at the time was “When the revolution comes, your house will be the first to go.” (Meaning if you weren’t as loving and kind as we were, we’d burn your house down.)
This is the insanity of a culture that tells us the only sane response to evil is “getting back at them.” Like this is going to change anything. ("I well remember the day Lyttie Poe burned my house down. Suddenly it made me realize how wrong I’ve been, so I now will devote my life to peace, equality, and singing Kumbaya.”)
Years ago I finally got around to asking God what to do about all the evil in the world. The response I got was “Go thou and do the opposite.” (Yes, I know it sounds dorky, but I don’t control these things.)
I’ve discovered I can get a lot farther by becoming a loving person myself than by trying to make the world a loving place.
An example: four years ago I met a woman named Katie who is my polar opposite in religion and politics. Today I count her among my dearest friends, because we’ve learned to look past the differences and focus on what is beautiful about the other. (Besides, in every other way we’re exactly alike.)
Anyway, in response to all the horrible news items, here’s what I did: I wrote “You are a precious child of God.” on small strips of paper and wove them into a clay heart I found lying around the house. Then I went to a church parking lot, asked my Higher Power to guide me to someone who needed a lift, and put it on a windshield. I don’t know how the person reacted to it; when I came out later the car was gone. But that day I felt like I’d done my small part to go “Nya! Nya!” to meanness and violence.
To paraphrase my favorite philosopher Elwood P. Dowd, “In this world you must be ever so clever or ever so nice. I prefer nice.”
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Poe Starts a Blob
For those of you who don’t know me, I will warn that I am hopelessly neurotic. For years I hid this fact, desperately trying to look like Magnum P.I. It was no fun and I wondered why I felt so terribly isolated from the rest of the world.
I am happy to say that today I’ve learned to embrace my neurosis, even finding it sorta cute. The magic is that the more I smile on my dark side, the more attractive I am, at least to the nutty, insecure folks I hang out with.
I must say it took a lot of courage to start up this blob thing. I had to play three games of FreeCell just to calm me down.
My biggest fear is that nobody will come to it.
When I was 7, I read a book in which two kids set up a lemonade stand. (My favorite part was when a man comes by in his car and buys a glass. After one sip, he pours the whole thing down the side of his car.)
This sounded like a great fun. I got out a box and set up a stand at the edge of our curb. Only I didn’t want to make lemonade (probably sounded like too much work), so I pulled off a bunch of flowering tree branches off and laid them on my stand. I attached a “For Sale Flowers” sign and sat waiting for all my customers.
Then nobody came by. (I forgot to mention we lived on a dead end street; I think one car drove down the whole time. He didn’t stop.) After an hour or so I put my flower stand away, feeling deeply ashamed, discouraged, and out of touch with the rest of humanity. Of course, I was the child of an alcoholic; I always felt ashamed, discouraged, and out of touch with humanity.
Why am I telling this story? My hope is that somewhere out there a few friendly folks will wander down my dead-end street and stop at the little flower stand I’ve set up.
“What most pleases
a good God
is for
my little soul
to love my littleness
And my poverty.
That is blind faith
that I have in his mercy.”
St. Therese of Liseaux
I am happy to say that today I’ve learned to embrace my neurosis, even finding it sorta cute. The magic is that the more I smile on my dark side, the more attractive I am, at least to the nutty, insecure folks I hang out with.
I must say it took a lot of courage to start up this blob thing. I had to play three games of FreeCell just to calm me down.
My biggest fear is that nobody will come to it.
When I was 7, I read a book in which two kids set up a lemonade stand. (My favorite part was when a man comes by in his car and buys a glass. After one sip, he pours the whole thing down the side of his car.)
This sounded like a great fun. I got out a box and set up a stand at the edge of our curb. Only I didn’t want to make lemonade (probably sounded like too much work), so I pulled off a bunch of flowering tree branches off and laid them on my stand. I attached a “For Sale Flowers” sign and sat waiting for all my customers.
Then nobody came by. (I forgot to mention we lived on a dead end street; I think one car drove down the whole time. He didn’t stop.) After an hour or so I put my flower stand away, feeling deeply ashamed, discouraged, and out of touch with the rest of humanity. Of course, I was the child of an alcoholic; I always felt ashamed, discouraged, and out of touch with humanity.
Why am I telling this story? My hope is that somewhere out there a few friendly folks will wander down my dead-end street and stop at the little flower stand I’ve set up.
“What most pleases
a good God
is for
my little soul
to love my littleness
And my poverty.
That is blind faith
that I have in his mercy.”
St. Therese of Liseaux
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