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.