Unmovable

You never really think about the day it will be your turn until it's upon you like a bad dream and there is no waking up from it. Amelia had watched her mother go through this years ago when they finally had no choice but to put her own father, Amelia's beloved PawPaw, in a nursing home. It was a fate he'd feared, and there wasn't a day while he was there that he didn't ask when he'd get to go home. He never knew there was no more "home."

And now, such a short time later it seemed, she stood at the edge of the living room where her own father had spent countless waking hours, even at the end, enjoying the view from his window. She remembered the new carpet smell that they welcomed during the age of wall-to-wall luxury, and the hard work she'd put in years later when they tore up the carpet and refinished the hardwood floors. There were reunions, and harvest parties, graduations, marriages, watching movies, TV, dancing. So much where now there was so little left.

How could almost half a century have just slid away like this? The idea almost sent her searching for a mirror so she could see the proof in her own face. It was hard enough, though, looking in on the empty room and the one chair she loathed to move. The finality of it all twisted her heart and made it hard to breathe.

At least they'd given him everything he asked for. He didn't want the house to just disappear from his life. He'd wanted to say good-bye when it was empty of his things and ready for a new life as someone else's shelter. Now all that was left was the protective cloth he'd insisted they used as the furniture was moved out so as not to damage the finish on the wood floor. And the chair.

After the brother and sister had driven off with the last of the furniture, he'd brought the chair in from his workshop out back--the only thing left there. It had been his father's old chair, and a long, long time ago a proud piece of a new dinette set that graced the kitchen and, as the story was told, made his wife squeal with surprise and delight. Now the bottom of the chair was falling out and cracks snaked across the seat much like wrinkles lined his face. After he placed it carefully in front of the window, he'd shoved opened the sash. Amelia almost told him to shut it. The leaves were still on the trees, yet the breeze coming in was definitely cold. But in the end what did it matter? Why shouldn't he be able to smell trees and grass and open air, sit in the cold if that's what he wanted to do? She resisted the urge to step forward and help him as he eased his worn and bent body into the chair for one last good look out the window.

What was the view from the living center? Amelia tried to remember, but then realized she never really looked. Which was sad. Yes there was everything necessary to make his body comfortable and safe. But what about his soul? Was there a place for a person tied so strongly to the earth to feed his soul? Would he find a view to gaze out upon like he did this one? No, there would never be the love for a new view that he had for this soil that he'd turned himself, where his herd had grazed on winter wheat and where the apple trees grew to resplendent and productive heights. But any gaze that included trees and flower and bushes would be far better than neon signs and concrete buildings. Surely there was such a view. How she wished she'd made sure of that detail before she and her siblings had coaxed him into moving there.

Yes, his health was bad. It wouldn't be getting any better, only worse. He needed the professional care he'd be getting. They all understood that. Yet it had been with a definite air of resignation when he'd risen from the chair--after hours spent in front of his window--and took himself out to the passenger seat of her car and strapped himself in. It made her cry when on the way out, he'd held her chin and looked into her eyes to say, "You inherited your mother's patience and her heart. Thank you for letting me have all the time I needed to say good-bye."

She couldn't go out to him in tears. Ever efficient, ever aware that work was a cure for heartache, she gathered up the cloth, and was about to cross over to take the chair to the trash pile as well. But instead she paused there in the doorway, clutching the drop cloth like a security blanket. What about the memory she wanted to have? It was a bittersweet picture, but one she wanted to own for the rest of her life, the old chair, bathed in sunlight, almost glowing with the imprint of everything her father had been and would yet be. She memorized how the warm light made the hardwood floor glow. She even noticed for the first time--and wondered how that could be--how the corner was beveled where the walls and ceiling met.

Perhaps there were still surprises left to discover in whatever was ahead for her and for her father. With a sigh and a prayer she turned and faced it. There was no going back.

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Prompt:

Goody, Goody

Bess was trying hard to be good. She knew it was important to both her parents that she make a good impression with Aunt Rosie, but none of them were making it very easy for her to do.

First there was no good place for her feet. When she sat back on the couch like her mother asked her legs stuck straight out in front of her and her feet tapped the wood on the glass coffee table in front of the couch. That came too close to putting her feet on the table for comfort, so she had to keep her toes pointed straight up to the ceiling and her muscles were getting tired.

Then there was the whole seen and not heard thing. They were talking about kittens. There was nothing as special to Bess as her new kittens. She could make their mewing sound high in her throat with her mouth closed tight and no one would ever know for sure where the sound came from, but that would not follow the "seen and not heard rule." Neither would chiming in when her father got their names all wrong.

Her hands weren't being good either. They desperately wanted something to do, almost as badly as her mouth wanted to talk. She'd traced the embroidery on the hem of her skirt till she found a thread that begged to be pulled, and Mom had batted her hand away from that when she realized what Bess had been doing. Picking at loose threads was not something Mom encouraged.

So Bess started couting. First she counted light bulbs. Then she counted books. Then she counted smiles. That was easy. One--Aunt Rosie's. What were they here for? Why was this so important? If someone would have just explained it to her, it would have made being good so much easier. Bess was sure of it.

For now, though, all she could do was continue to do her best to be still, quiet and smile. There were gumdrops in the candy dish. Those would be nice to count. They certainly were colorful enough. There were red ones the color of Aunt Rosie's fingernails, and pink ones the color of her kitten's tongues. Then there was green and it was nestled in among the others so that it looked more like a ball instead of a drop. Blue. Bess tried to remember when she'd seen blue candy before, and wasn't sure she ever had. The blue ones looked like the sky with specks of clouds all over it. Or maybe more like stars in a newly-dark sky. Even the white gumdrops sparkled like new snow in morning sunlight. They were gorgeous. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten. Perfect.

"Perfect." Aunt Rosie took the idea right out of her head. Bess hoped. She glanced around to see if maybe she'd forgotten and said it out loud. "You have done such a good job young lady. I know how boring we adults could be. Your Mom and Dad should be very proud of you. Would you like a gumdrop?"

Now there were four smiles. Bess said, "Yes, please," and in seconds her hands cradled all those colors, and her tongue tasted the sweetness of the sugar, and all the effort she'd put doing what she could to make them happy had given her back something in return.

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LAME. But a word is a word. Today's 5-a-day is from this prompt:

Port of Call

"This is way cool! It looks like salt water taffy on stilts plus a huge sandbox!"

There were many different things that endeared this little person to him, but on the top of the heap was his son's unique way of looking at the world. Matthew hoisted him up on his shoulders. "Yes, sweet and fun, Little Man. Are you ready?"

"Did you play here when you were a little boy?"

"Yes, Sir. Every summer till I was sixteen."

"Why did you stop?"

Why did he?

How could Matthew risk diminishing the boy’s wide-eyed wonder? What was the best way to explain that this vista of sand-and-sun paradise transformed itself into the dullest place on earth? His girlfriend wasn't allowed to come, he could do nothing that seemed to make his father happy, and he could sense that it would be the last summer his mother would make the trek. He had predicted, accurately, that she would leave them both before six months passed.

The clouds, instead of being puffy and cheerful had been dark and heavy for most of that last summer; the sky close and gray instead of this bright cobalt. One hurricane after another had threatened, and the family had taken precaution, loaded essentials, and retreated from the coastline when the call to evacuate went out. Matthew had been sure each storm was an answer to a desperate plea to go back home, but the storms all stayed out to sea far enough that once the danger had passed, his father hauled them all back to what Matthew saw as a prison.

Back then these houses were pale versions of their current jubilance, probably because his joy had faded. Matthew remembered how the sand had been hot, how it stuck to everything, cloying, grating, uncomfortable or blown about, making his eyes sting and leaving him tasting the unpleasant grit. The chores were endless, the nights boring and all he wanted to do was rage. Or weep. Or both.

"I was stupid," Matthew answered.

Yes, he was stupid to have stayed away so long, stupid to not have recognized before now that the restlessness of coming into his own had painted this place in stoic black and white hues of memory. He should have come here and renewed his soul long before his marriage, long before her fatal illness, long before being sucked into maelstrom of single fatherhood.

Clearly the beach community was anything but black and white. There was no sameness anywhere, none of the rigid tallness of the city. The beach was as softly patterned as gentle waves, the fences taming the sand where the wind liked to pile it up against houses; it had to settle for snuggling against the red-brown slats of fencing instead. He had always been amazed at how those fences could command respect from the sand.

Matthew could breathe in, deeply, and not smell fumes or asphalt. And though the beach was empty at the moment, when the people did emerge, they would wave and speak of fishing and gardening rather than politics and suffering. He could hear the rhythm of the ocean, the call of the gulls, not the squeal of tires or the blaring of horns. Here, even in the excitement of finding a haven, Matthew could feel his heart beat. Again. Finally.

Why had he waited so long? There was healing to be done, and in this perfect place perhaps there would be minimal scars when the process was done.

His son pummeled the top of his head, ever so gently. "Silly, Dad. You’re not stupid. You're the smartest Dad I know."

The tide had turned.

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Prompt:

Habits

It started out an ordinary day, and when she listed all the little things that frayed the edges of her comfort, they didn't seem like anything at all. Still, the cummulative affect overwhelmed her.

Maybe it was time to stop being so comfortable.

She slid onto the park bench. It was a slidable sort of bench, though she'd never really noticed it before. It was a matter of pride that her fitness routine took her by here every day at precisely four-thirty every afternoon. She loved the way the river reflected all the trees, and how they could be wavy or sharp depending on whether the river was lazy or swollen with upstream rains. Water birds were often on hand, either diving for goodies or clustered around bread-flinging children and their attendant adults.

There were the other joggers, some of whom she'd come to recognize. Birds of a feather--entrenched in a familiar, good-for-them routine.

Then there was The Gentleman as she'd come to call him, though she'd never said the words out loud. She had never consciously acknowledged him, which made her feel sad now. He was never missing. Never ever. Till today.

He was a tall man, in his late 60s probably, though she was terrible at guessing these kind of things. His mustache was new-moon silver-white and precisely trimmed, his eyebrows just barely under control and of the same color. A squarish head was expertly chiseled by age, left distinguished and handsome even in age. He always wore a hat; grey felt in the winter, tan felt as the days lengthened, pale straw, finely woven in the summer, and red-brown as the heat became colored leaves and falling acorns. His pants were creased and cuffed, as though he'd just come from the office, but his tie was conspiciously missing. Sometimes his shirt was patterned, small stripes or small print, never plaids, and the sleeves were always starched and creased, whether they came to French cuffs in cooler weather or quarter sleeves in the warmth.

How had she managed to notice all of this about him and yet they never spoke a word. A time or two she might have caught his eye, and she might have smiled. He probably nodded or touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.

Now he was gone. She was sitting where he normally did. This was nuts! It was probably temporary. Maybe he went to the airport to pick up his daugher who was flying in from Europe where her husband was stationed in the military. Or maybe yesterday he had slid in the shower and now hobbled about his well-ordered apartment on a pair of crutches with a smooth white cast that would have no signatures on it ever.

How many other people were part of her life in this peripheral sort of way. How many others would she wished she'd talked to so that she could take them by some soup or a book to read while they kept a broken ankle elevated.

It was time to wake up. Yes, there were things that were good and wonderful and healthy about this routine, but it was too easy to overlook potential.

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Prompt Picture:

Order!

Use the following words in today's write. Any form of the word is acceptable.

people, professional, family, memory, bagel sock, plug, tube, toy, local, tool, cord,

"My goodness people! Can't you be a little more professional? This is not a family reunion. Here is not where we talk about Timmy's lost sock, or Aunt Millie's failing memory, or Grandma Moses' award-winning recipe for bagels." It was the third time he'd tried to get their attention and this time he succeeded only because he used a microphone.

"Now who has the posters for the local toy fair plug that airs on the tube next month?"

Silence.

"We forgot to bring the posters? Or we don't have them at all?"

If anyone said there were no posters he was going to pull the cord from the monitor and simply hang himself with it. It was simply too much to be asked to put together an important presentation tool with a group who didn't seem to care one way or another if anything got done period, let alone done right. And they wanted to become advertising executives. Dream on. All they were about to becomes was unemployed.

~December 13, 2003

Think about the last time you were really, really angry. How did it feel? Where in your body did the anger start? End? What eased it? How? Why?

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Oh, it's time for true confessions, is it? Okay, I was really, really angry last night.....

It exploded even though I tried my best to hold it in, press it down, avoid dealing with it. It rose from my stomach, burning my nose like vomit, caustic and needing to be released, but what a mess. Within minutes it was all over--hanging in the room like stench, but impossible to leave alone. I tried to stop, but it held me in a miserable grip that wouldn't stop, wouldn't be quiet, couldn't be still.

So I left. Not in the car on the icy streets but to another part of the house. And I immersed myself in something routine and necessary and as things cleaned themselves up, I wrapped myself in a cocoon of silence that I dared not break. Speech of any sort would be like throwing a hearty piece of red meat on a tender, torn stomach. I kept my silence and my distance. I worked until there was no more work to do and then I slept deep and seamlessly.

This morning the house was so still. I don't know what it is about snow that makes the entire world seem to freeze, even sound. The trees were white against a low charcoal sky, and tiny pinpoints of snow swirled as they drifted to the ground. I was up early, as was my husband who left for work. The boys had stayed up late since it was Friday and continued to sleep. I enjoyed the peace of my own company. From time to time the air filled with the continuous warm sigh of the heater and beneath that the soft churning of the workings that made the soft warmth possible. The clanky old boiler has evolved into a more civilized form, no longer consigned to a basement. After awhile it all cycled off and I could hear the children's sporadic sleeping sighs then. I still feel that satisfaction I first felt when they were tiny--that they were resting snug and sound and secure. For the moment I forget that they will wake up tall, loud and opinionated. They're still babies when they sleep.

Occasionally the clunk of the ice maker startled me it was so quiet. Our 20-year-old fridge has yet to evolve.

And in the silence and the peace and the snow, the last bit of the heated anger melted away completely.

avatar (AV-uh-tahr) noun

1. A manifestation of a deity in Hinduism.

2. An embodiment of a concept.

3. A representation of a person or thing in computers, networks, etc.

[From avatar (descent, as of a god from heaven to the earth), from ava-
(away) + tarati (he crosses).]
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This is one of those words that I should have looked up a long time ago. I sorta figured it out when I signed up for Weight Watchers and they had avatars you could choose to accompany your profile. Before that it was a word that crept up, mostly on the computer, and I was just too rushed to stop and pull out the dictionary.

So that was definition #3.

Definition #1 makes me just a tad nervous. Like I want to leave the word alone altogether.

#2: The embodiment of a concept. Hmmm. Computing, computing....Might make a good title sometime.

It's a tough job when you think about it, to take a concept and then encapsulize it. Take this for instance, how do you represent the One who made all things and gave us life? With a title? None of his titles embody all that He is and does. Only His name encompasses all of who He is. Yet people shy away from using it for one superstitious reason or another.

In the end, I guess our names are our most comprehensive avatars, right? The symbols I chose in the incidence I mentioned earlier (for definition #3) emphasized my role as a mother, a teacher and a writer. But beyond that I am a wife, a sister, a servant, recently a nurse a lot (sick kids), a cook, a calligrapher, stubborn, insensitive, sorry, angry, patient, loyal, emotional--you name it.

And so I sign off with my avatar....

Carolyn

How boring is this?????????????????????