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.

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.

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)

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.

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.