Three-Minute Memoir

The first time Dad came home from rehab, he was crazy—just mad, mad, mad all the time. He even laughed angry: “HA! HA! HA!” with eyebrows down. He blamed all his mistakes on the rest of us: “You made me take the wrong turn. You made me lose my temper. You made me break the TV.”
In those day, the man of the house was God. You did not question him. I knew I must be a very bad girl indeed.

Fast forward thirty years. It’s the morning of my daughter’s 5th birthday party. We’ve gone out to buy party favors. But when we leave the store, our car won’t start. Rats. The party’s three hours away.

Fortunately my parents live just a few miles away. Mom says she’ll send dad right over, so my daughter and I sit down on the curb and wait. And wait. And wait.

Nervously I remember all the years when he’d get drunk and forget to pick me up at school or the park and I had to walk home. But he’s been sober eighteen months now. What could have happened? An accident?

Forty-five minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot. Sheepishly he says, “Sorry. I got lost.”

Instantly I go into a blind rage. As my daughter and I get in, it’s all I can do to keep from screaming at him, hitting him.

Meanwhile dad is chauffeuring us all over town so we can get everything else we need for the party.

I know I'm nuts, but I can’t stop.

I try self-analysis: Am I feeling angry because even in recovery he’s still not the father I always wanted? Is anger bubbling up from years I was the weak, powerless child, terrorized by an all-powerful, violent Dad?

If anything, my rage increases.

I tell myself, Dad is sober now. He made his amends to you months ago.(Actually he felt so bad he made them twice.)
This has no effect.

Finally, at wit's end, I try praying, “God,I turn my life and my will over to you. Show me how you want me to be.”

Suddenly my hand reaches over and pats dad on the knee. I find myself saying, “You know, you’re the best dad in the whole world.” I’m not putting on, it’s exactly how I feel. With no effort or thought on my part, all my rage has simply evaporated.

Dad looks surprised. He says, “Well, thank you. I think you’re the best daughter.” With this, he pulls into our driveway in plenty of time for what turns out to be the best party ever.

A Little "Acts of Kindness" in the Night

I'm feeling a little low today, so I will list ten good things I did this week.

1. I got exercise three times.

2. I had a disagreement with a friend, but listened to her side first, then repeated back what she’d said before giving my side. (I had never done this before and I highly recommend it.)

3. When dining away from home, I use my own bamboo silverware instead of plastic. (Available at REI.com under the name To-Go Ware)

4. I scraped somebody’s car in the parking lot, but I left a note with an apology and my phone number.

5. I worked really hard to not beat myself up for the above, mostly by telling myself that these things happen to everybody.

6. I finished the rough draft of my Easy Reader.

7. When I went grocery shopping, I bought an extra can of food to donate to the food bank.

8. I wanted to overeat but called my friend Nance instead.

9. I was subbing for my meeting’s secretary and remembered to get there on time.

10. I bought books from a small local bookstore instead of a chain.

You know, it's funny how hard it is to list positive things like that, but they always lift my mood.

Maybe some of my readers could send me a list of good things about themselves, either here or in an e-mail. How about it?

A Writer’s Day: Saturday, 7-11-09

Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed

Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.

Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.

Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.

Fed cats.

Lunch.

Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.

Started writng an Easy Reader.

Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)

Did another chapter of Easy Reader

Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.

Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes

Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden

Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.

Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.

Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.

Called husband to see what time he’d be home.

Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”

Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.

Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.

Wrote blog.

Husband came home.

Posted blog.

Dinner.

Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.

Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.

More on Popeye

I got so homesick in college,I spent most of my first year hiding out in the library basement, eating bread, honey, and candy bars. By the end of Sophomore Year, I’d gained twenty pounds.

Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.

Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.

Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.

So

Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.

I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.

Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*

But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)

Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.

Only Popeye saves me from myself.

Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.

But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **

Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.

* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.

**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”

A Bit of Art by Poe

As promised, our contest winner on his all-expense-paid vacation. (Confused? See previous blog entries "We've Got a Winner" and "Something For My Literary Friends.")

Is Poe Good or Just Obsessive-Compulsive? You Decide.

People who walk head-down tend to have depressive personalities.

But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.

Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.

Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.

An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.

Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them

In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."

When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.

That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.

But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.

In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!

When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.

"Make a Mental Picture"

Shortly after my grandpa turned seventeen, he got mad, socked his teacher, and took off out of town. For the next twenty years he lived the life of a hobo, riding the rods, taking odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place long. In 1918 he’d found good work as a machine operator for Standard Oil in California, but that had gotten dull. He and a friend decided to go to Alaska and pan for gold.

But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.

A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.

Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.


I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)

He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.

I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.


At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”

I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?

Gently he said, “Look at me.”

I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.

“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”

I nodded patiently.

“That’s good,” was all he said.

I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.

Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.

All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”