"Happy Birthday"

Everything in first grade was difficult for me.

I didn’t like walking to school, and in nice weather we always walked. I shuffled and whined so much the other kids got behind me and walked hard on my heels. It didn't help. In cold weather we carpooled, but invariably I wasn’t ready when they arrived and Mom had to run out and wave for them to go on and then drive me to school herself.

My teacher was Mrs. Tsetse (pronounced SEAT-see), a thin elderly woman with hair in a bun. Her name terrified me. It sounded a lot like “titties” and I wasn’t entirely sure which was the bad word and which was her name. I had a great phobia of accidentally saying dirty words, so I only spoke her name in the tiniest of whispers. “Lyttie,” she’d scold, ”you need to speak up. We can’t hear you if you don’t speak up.”

They gave us huge pencils to write with, but no erasers. (What hair-brained administrator decided first graders didn’t need erasers?) Sometimes I brought a big eraser from home. Even with this, I made so many mistakes, I ended up rubbing huge holes in the paper.

But not everything was bad. Laura Welch became my friend. You may ask, who was Laura Welch? Only the smartest, most popular girl in class. She was the kind of girl teachers put in charge if they had to leave the room. Amazingly, we always obeyed her, even the boys. (Something about her denoted thoroughbred, like the Kennedy’s.)But she never was smarmy or stuck-up about it. Once she sat at Mrs. Tsetse’s desk and mock-clapped her hands the way teachers do, and everyone laughed. Then we settled down and worshipped her till Mrs. Tsetse got back.

In those days they taught reading by the Sight Method, which meant you had to memorize how each word was spelled. It had been successfully used to teach deaf kids to read and someone apparently decided that if it was good enough for the deaf it‘d work even better for the rest of us. It was a dismal failure, but school districts blindly taught this way for decades. As for me I loved reading and thrilled to learn new words, Sight Reading or not. But my grades were mostly C’s and I always felt second-rate.

Every morning about ten of us would take our chairs to the front of the room and sit in a circle for reading. Mrs. Tsetse held up cards with new words for us to memorize. Then we’d read out loud from our Ginn Basic Readers.

One day she held up a new word and asked us to guess it. Instantly I knew it and raised my hand. Of course, everyone else raised their hands too. Mrs. Tsetse called on one girl; but when faced with giving an answer the kid backed down; she didn’t know it after all. So we all raised our hands again and Mrs. Tsetse called on another kid and then another and another. But nobody knew the word. Finally only me and Laura were left. Obviously wanting to get this over with, Mrs. Tsetse called on Laura. I lowered my hand, disappointed. Laura knew everything; she'd surely get the word. But even Laura Welch sat silent. Then, oh boy, did I raise my hand. When Mrs. Tsetse called on me, I almost shouted, “Birthday!”

“That’s right!” she said. “Now, let’s all sing Happy Birthday.”

Triumph! For the first time in my life, I had bested everyone. I sang LOUD, "Happy Birthday dear Lyttie, Happy Birthday to you!".

From My Journal This Week

Trying desperately to meet the deadline for finishing my novel. Much anxiety.
I ask myself: What are you so afraid of?

The Great Fear:
If I don't do things just right, everyone will discover what a loser I am. I will wake up one night and find the whole town outside my house with flaming torches and pitchforks. They will attack me, beating me with clubs, and drive me into the desert, where I will be forced to exist the rest of my life alone, cast out, with hungry jackals all around.

But what if I managed to find some way to survive?
Perhaps I could befriend the jackals. (After all, a jackal is just a kind of dog, right? And dogs like me.) This would give me, the Big Loser, enormous power. I might become "The Jackal Woman."

Then because once a society creates Losers and Pariahs it cannot survive without them, pretty soon other people will get banished to the desert. There will develop a whole community of us. The Jackal People.

Need I be so bold as to suggest that this has already happened?

They All Laughed at Edison and Also at Einstein

Today would have been our cat Prodigal’s 14th birthday. We held a little graveside ceremony. I set out an open can of cat food and we had a few moments of silence.

Then as soon as we were done I called our other kitties over to eat the food. Problem: they were none of them very interested.

So now I worry that flies will be drawn to it and that they will wander into our house.

But wait a minute—I remember an exciting piece of info I've been dying to share in this venue.

I know how to keep flies totally out of your house. I swear this really works:

Fill a sandwich-sized zip-lock bag with water, then tack it over your outside door.

I read this off the internet last summer, tried it, and we had not one fly in the house all year, where we usually have hundreds.

(I can just hear all the kids who bullied me in 7th grade. You think I’m insane, do you? Try it.
Every one of you will be sorry you harassed me. To a man(or woman), you will call to apologize and beg me to sit at your lunch table.)

Let's all sing! (to the tune of My Country Tis of Thee)

There ain't no flies on us
There ain't no flies on us
No flies on us
There may be one or two
Great big green flies on you
There ain't no flies on us
No flies on us.

Two Weeks in the Life

A particularly wretched two weeks: sleeping little due to horrid cold, bum knee, and one night about 2 AM discovering a lump on my tongue which I convinced myself was cancer (A rush to the dentist the next morning resulted in the following diagnosis: “I think you bit your tongue.”)

In other news, I found myself overeating horribly, got another rejection letter, tried to tell Trashy how much I enjoyed his sharing but he cut me dead. Set out to fix my laptop's wireless connection and wound up with nonfunctional laptop AND desk top AND printer. (These things should not bother me, but they do.)

On the other hand: I also met with four sponsees (an hour each)and was overwhelmed with what I can only call God’s love. Sitting in the presence of someone who totally trusts you, listening to their deepest darkest secrets without trying to fix them, just mirroring back that they’re normal, OK, just like me, is one of the loveliest experiences God ever gave me.

Last night--Cold gone. After my first full night of sleep in weeks, I got up, had breakfast with a sponsee, then came home and fell asleep like Dagwood on the couch. Three hours later, woke feeling cleansed. Now (My daughter fixed the computers while I was at breakfast) I’m listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Ah…

Follow Up on Two Previous Stories

Feb 14th Posting: I saw Kelly today. She got over 35 birthday cards. (She didn’t say how much ice cream money.) But she did say it couldn’t have come at a better time since she’s been overwhelmed taking care of her mother who has Parkinson’s.

March 7th Posting: I lied last week; I really wasn't "over" being trashed, but I thought the story needed some kind of happy ending. (Sorry) But this week I went to a meeting and, based on something a sponsee said, I imagined angels surrounding me. Suddenly I thought, “Everyone here loves me, even Trashy.” And I felt all safe again. (Crazy, I know.) Then he gave a beautiful sharing that brought tears to my eyes.
Now I’m really glad I didn’t put nails under his tires.

March 11, 1917

I miss Dad. His 93rd birthday would have been this week.

I imagine my grandmother pregnant with him, her first child. Waddling about in a Mother Hubbard, probably having heart burn, peeing every time she sneezed, breasts leaking. She could feel the baby kick kick kick and had no doubt assembled little sweaters and blankets and diapers.

And so many Unknowns for her: How much longer? How bad would labor be, anyway? And Boy or Girl?

All this amidst the 1917 news: Czar Nicholas overthrown. U.S. heading towards War. Woodrow Wilson inaugurated the second time. (Strange to think that well-read, politically-savvy Grandma wouldn’t have been considered competent to vote yet!)


On March 11th, I had a birthday party for Dad and invited Mom and LPR. JR made a steak with marchand de vin , bay roasted potatoes, and asparagus with Romesco sauce. (Just the kind of gourmet stuff Dad adored.) LPR and I made ice box cake, Dad’s favorite dessert. (Even in old age he resented the time one Stanley Bernstein came to his birthday and ate all it all.) I had two helpings and imagined Dad relishing it too. Then I made sure some was leftover so he (and I) could have some the next day.

Here's the recipe if you'd like a taste of heaven:

Ice Box Cake

1 pt. (2 cups) whipping cream, whipped
1 tsp. Vanilla
1 pkg. (9 oz.) Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers

Add vanilla to whipped cream; stir gently until well blended.
Spread 1-1/2 tsp. of the whipped cream onto each wafer. Stack wafers together, then stand on edge in loaf pan to make a log. Frost with the remaining whipped cream.
IMPORTANT! Refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight. Cut dessert into slices to serve. Keep away from Stanley Bernstein!

Trashed Again

Last week I reminded a guy in Program that we Al-Anons aren't supposed to discuss politics during meetings. I thought he’d say, “You're right. Thank you for your diligent attention to Al-Anon's Twelve Traditions.”

Instead he had a screaming fit and started calling me names. I was able to smile and detach with love until he screamed, “YOU'RE ALWAYS PERFORMING!” Against my will, I felt shame shame shame.(You see, there's an element of truth to that.)

Later I thought of all the things I could have said to give him shame shame shame. Too late.
Now I want to place a big nail behind one of his car tires.

Okay, we won't do that. Instead let's analyze: why did I let him get to me?
Because abuse feels so homelike.

In my family, setting boundaries was never allowed. Once, after I got married, I told my alcoholic dad I didn’t want him to drink in my house. All hell broke out. The whole family was mad at me. Dad said he no longer had any feelings for me whatsoever. Mom called me “self-righteous.” Even my favorite aunt accused me of trying to break up my parent’s marriage. For three months none of them spoke to me.
I ended up apologizing to everyone and letting Dad drink in my home any time he wanted.

But now I'm in Al-Anon, I have tools to deal with this, I think.

Eons ago, when I taught preschool, the kids were always running up to me crying, "Mrs. Poe, Johnny said I was a dummy (or whatever.)" I always said, "He just says that because he thinks HE'S a dummy." and they'd run off, happy.

Hmmm.

You know, as I think of it, "Screamer" is always performing.

Isn't life interesting?

Hop Scotch

Some people wonder why I keep coming to Al-Anon when I no longer have any alcoholics in my life.

Three years after my dad died, Mom decided to sell the house. My daughter LPR and I stopped by just before the first potential buyers were coming over. The realtor and Mom were in the kitchen signing papers, so I started nervously wandering around, cleaning, trying to set the house (and by association, my family) in their best light. As I rearranged stuff in the spare bedroom, my daughter said, “Mom, you’re really acting co-dependent.”

Of course, I am never co-dependent, but I told her, “Okay. We should leave before the buyers get here. Let me just close these closet doors…”

But the doors jammed. What was blocking the way? I looked and found…a half-empty bottle of scotch.

Oh my gosh! This must have been Dad’s hiding spot!

Now we had a crisis: What was I going to do with that bottle? Think of it: potential buyers, strangers, were coming over any minute. I couldn’t leave a bottle of scotch in the closet; they’d think my mom was an alcoholic. I considered putting it in the trash, but that would look worse.

My daughter suggested I pour the booze down the kitchen sink. But Mom and the realtor were in there. I could just imagine what the realtor would think if if I walked in, humming casually, then poured a bottle of scotch down the drain.

Finally I spied LPR’s old toy cupboard. No one would ever look in there. But my daughter had a fit: “I don’t want that disgusting thing in there with my toys.”

By now I was so stressed you could have strung me for piano wire. But good mother that I am, I screamed, “SHUT UP! IT’S GOING IN THERE AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT IT!”

I threw the bottle into the toy cupboard, slammed the doors, and LPR and I rushed to the front door just in time say hello to the buyers and slink off.

The next morning I told Mom about the bottle. She said, “Oh, That explains it! I was cleaning the cupboard last night and thought, ‘What? LPR has a drinking problem?’ " (If you knew my daughter you’d understand why this gave everyone a good laugh.)

But as you can see, no matter how many years my alcoholic has been gone, his alcoholism—and my insanity--can still rise up and bite me in the...rear closet.

I Want to Do This Next Year (modified from an article in the Fresno (CA) Bee)

After seeing sad TV commercials about homeless animals, 11-year old Hope Graef asked her mother if she could turn her next birthday party into a shelter fundraiser.

Heather gave up presents and instead asked family and friends to donate money to help save dogs and cats from being euthenized.

Brenda Mitchell, an SPCA educator, said children occasionally will donate birthday money or proceeds from lemonade stands, but “We don’t see a lot of kids who go to this extreme,” she said.

"Some of my friends thought I was crazy because I was passing up all my birthday gifts," Hope said.

The party drew about 20 children and 30 adults.

An S.P.C.A mobile unit educated the guests about animals and the great needs of the S.P.C.A.

Hope and her family sold raffle tickets for prizes including Wii games, gift baskets, and pet supplies. Pizza slices and sodas were sold for $1 each.

All told, Hope raised about $700 for the Central California SPCA.

Got Ten Minutes for a Random Act of Kindness?

(Back story:)
Some time ago my friend Jacqueline was in a horrible car accident,
Problem number one: She had no medical insurance.
Problem number two: The accident was her fault.
Problem number three: She was so badly injured she couldn’t move. Being self-employed, she had no income and no place to stay.

(Deus ex machina:)
A friend, Kelly Gilmore, moved Jacqueline into her apartment. For two months Kelly provided couch, food, bathroom assistance, moral support, and tons of TLC. Jacqueline has fully recovered, but Kelly consistently refuses to accept any payment from her.

(The plan:)
February 23 will be Kelly’s 50th birthday and Jacqueline wants to flood her with birthday cards.

So if you’d like to do a much-deserved Random Act of Kindness, the address is:

Kelly Gilmore
1642 N Locan Ave
Clovis CA 93619

Also, and only if you feel comfortable and trust that Poe would never steer you wrong, Jacqueline suggested we might put a dollar bill inside for Kelly to buy ice cream. (Again, optional)

Most important: If you know Kelly, do not tell her about this birthday surprise.

A Very Long Meditation on Failure, Writing, God, Terror, Erasmo, Drawing, Neurosis, and A Very Famous Writer

"Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver


I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.

Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.

Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.

Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”

Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?

But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.

Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)

I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.

I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?

I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.

Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...


"What is it to work…?

It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran

Before and After

Let’s travel back to when I was seventeen and in love for the first time...

Reader, he was The One, that perfect guy who would make me A-OK forever.*

One day he brought, in his lunch, a salt shaker from home. He’d tucked little piece of Saran Wrap under the lid to keep salt from spilling; to use it he unscrewed the lid, removed the Saran Wrap, salted his food, then replaced lid and Wrap. I lit into him: “Saran Wrap on a salt shaker?! That is the most prissy thing I’ve ever seen! Man, you are so uptight!”

It never occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly endearing to attack The One over the way he packs his salt. And why did I think Saran Wrap under a salt shaker was so heinous anyway?

I can only say it was all part of the codependent web: "My way is the right way and it’s my duty to get everyone else in the world doing likewise."

Now January 31, 2010: The “after” picture:

My husband JR and I are getting ready to check out of our hotel. I am trying to hurry us along because we need to take Aunt Thelma out to lunch and we’re running late. In the midst of packing his things, JR insists we stop and make the bed. Never mind that we were supposed to be at Aunt Thelma's by now, that Housekeeping is standing right outside our room and will un-make this bed minutes after we leave.

What does Poe do? I take a very deep breath and help him make the bed. It takes four seconds.

The result--JR leaves the room feeling happy. I'm proud of myself for not trying to fix him. Lesson learned: I’m not powerful enough to un-uptight anyone anyway.

And BTW, we get to Aunt Thelma’s in plenty of time.

*Incidentally the first boy I loved was also a charmingly cruel, sociopathic, lying alcoholic—just irresistible you know.

Notes From My Travels In The Deep South

(From my travel journal)

Sign outside a Louisiana restaurant: “Eat here are we both go hungry.” (Yes that's are.)

Another Louisiana restaurant sign:
Daiquiris and Beer
Drive through

In New Orleans
Huge neon sign over a restaurant:
DAIQUERIS
[below, very tiny print] fresh seafood.

In a store window:
Children’s Books
Voo Doo Dolls

Another store window:
Formal Wear Rental
Bike Parts

You see lots of signs in the south advertising “Deer Processing.”

On Alabama hotel marquee: “Prayer Works We have Dippin' Dots”

In restaurant menu: “Our special light breading will make your tongue slap your gums.”

It was very difficult to find healthy food. Some menus contained almost nothing that wasn’t fried. A few especially interesting menu items:
Fried alligator
Fried potato salad
Fried dill pickle chips
Fried corn kernels in tapioca
[on a breakfast menu] Fried Bananas Foster Cheesecake

At a Ft. Morgan State Historic site, signs referred to the Civil War as “the War for the Freedom of the Southern States.”

On a Florida restaurant menu, in four languages: “In the United States waiters and waitresses are paid a substandard wage. For this reason we suggest a tip of 15%.”

God Remains Anonymous (and Puzzling) in New Orleans

My last day in New Orleans, crossing Chartres Street, I notice a woman who looks a lot like an old friend.

Of course, it couldn’t possibly be; I mean what are the odds? But the Ginger* in me calls out, “Lindy?” And she turns around! 2000 miles from home--what a tiny, tiny world! We hug and introduce our families. I am beaming.

After all, this is no ordinary acquaintance. Lindy and I go back twenty years. At one time we got together several times a week and phoned each other almost as often. I still overflow with gratitude, remembering the time she listened lovingly while I wept for 45 minutes over being the junior high pariah. When she told me she’d also been the school loser, Reader, we bonded!

Then she got very ill, became distant, and we drifted apart. I still see her in social settings; a year ago she asked me to help her with a presentation for our women’s group.

Today, standing on Chartres Street, I want to grab her arm and become friends again right here in New Orleans. But her grandkids are fussing, our husbands look bored, so we quickly say good-bye. Too late I realize I was holding my camera. Why didn’t I take a picture?

A lot of folks in Al-Anon say “Coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.” But why and how? And for what purpose? Is there some important message I was supposed to get? After all, if I’d woken up earlier, dressed later, eaten someplace else, walked down Royal Street, I’d be writing this week about something like Hurricane-infused fried pecan Fosters crawfish beignets.

Comments, anyone?

What Does This Cartoon Have to Do With Our Current Vacation?

Years ago I went to an Al-Anon assembly with my sponsor Barbara. When we checked into our hotel, we discovered they’d given us a smoking room. That wouldn’t do, so she and I went back to the front desk. Our new room turned out to be miles away from our friends and musty-smelling besides.

I figured, “Okay, we’ll have to live with it.” But Barbara marched us right back and demanded a room near our friends.

There followed one of the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life. The clerk kept saying, “Sorry, we have no other rooms,” and Barbara kept insisting he look harder.

BUT after much pestering on her part, they magically found us a non-smoking room that connected to our friends'room.
Barbara turned to me and said, “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”

I was horrified. I could never, never do that.

Fast forward to last Wednesday.
JR and I board our train for New Orleans and find that Amtrak has put us in a bedroom downstairs . This is terrible. We always get an upstairs room with beautiful views. Now we’re stuck with views of the railroad cut.

Something makes me seek out Julie the car attendant. I ask, “Is there any way we can get an upstairs room?”
“Only if somebody doesn’t show up.”

As soon as we leave, I find her and point out three empty upstairs rooms.

She says, “We have to make certain the missing passengers don’t show up at the next stop.” (This means waiting an hour.)

As soon as we depart the next stop, I’m back, gently pestering Julie.
She says, “I have to call and get approval for the room change.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”

There was a time when the most important thing was to not bother anybody, to not make a fuss.
But nowadays I feel like Ginger in The Far Side cartoon, doggedly ignoring all those discouraging words.

The moral: As I write this, we’re happily enjoying the view from our upper level room. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you God. Thank you Ginger.


Of course the next day I think,
“Gee. I kinda like the downstairs view better.”

"Miss Poe is Missing"

Sorry-- I've been taking the tree down this week and getting ready to go on vacation.

As a substitute, here are three quotes(from Al-Anon meetings)that I liked well enough to write down:

"You can't sow corn and reap strawberries."

"When someone is bugging you, imagine them finding peace, God, and everything one could want. Then imagine yourself doing the same."

"If I don't act on my dreams, I'll just end up being an old woman who had a good idea."