Hail to The Heap

The Heap and I, circa 1978, both in our youth.



The car sputtered and jerked, and finally put itself out of its misery with a giant belch out of the tailpipe.  We rolled to a stop in front of the gate of a sprawling, brick-walled estate.

“Now what am I going to do?” I bemoaned, with some choice curse words thrown in.  This was 1986, and cell phones had yet to grace the planet, or at least my household. 

I was going to have to hoof it.  But it was really too far, and I wasn’t wearing appropriate walking shoes, and I really, really didn’t want to cross that big intersection.  I was stuck here on Strait Lane, home to mega-millionaires, the shortcut I used every day to and from school.

My laziness and girl-panic about safety issues got the best of me, and I decided to try and approach one of these castles to see if I could use the phone to call my Dad.  My Dad, who bestowed upon me this massive hunk of junk, a gold 1976 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, that looked like it’d fit in better at the Boat Show than on a city street. 

He would not be happy with this latest development, as he’d been nursing along “The Heap,” as it was so affectionately named, hoping to prolong the inevitable expense of buying a new car.  Dad preferred to call it, “The Bullet,” which could only be in reference to the shape of the beast and certainly not the speed or stealth.

I shoved open the massively long, heavy metal door of the car and stepped out into the hot autumn day.  As I approached the expansive black iron gate of the estate, a sudden realization hit me.

“Oh my God, this is Ross Perot’s house.”

I wanted to die.  How embarrassing to break down in front of a pseudo-famous, definitely not pseudo-rich person’s house.  I pushed the buzzer at the gate, and a staff member was kind enough to let me use the phone at the guard gate, and he even offered me a can of Pepsi Light while I waited for my Dad to come pick me up.

All’s well that ends well, as that was the death of The Heap, and we got a new car.

I learned a lot from that car, though, most importantly that a little humiliation is good for the soul.  I worry about these kids today that don’t suffer the embarrassment of driving around in a big, ugly car that’s had more previous owners than candles on their birthday cake.

There is no car, in modern time, rivaling The Heap, and others of its generation, in bulkiness, ugliness and sheer mass of shame.  The days of the Pinto, Yugo and Gremlin are long gone.  Even the least expensive cars on the market today aren’t nearly as obtrusive as the cars of the past.

I can’t help but be concerned about the effect that all this pretty-car driving is having on the next generation.

In eight years, when my daughter turns sixteen, I’m going to comb every auto graveyard in town to hopefully find and resurrect The Heap.

Character building, my friends.
 

All the Horses

All the horses in the land

All belong to Jenny

Black and bay and sorrel and gray

All belong to Jenny

The gentle and melancholy lyric he sang mingled with the rustle of the wind through the trees and the rhythmic creak of the ancient hammock.  We rocked to and fro, up and down, not too fast and not too slow.  Side by side we lay, my small head resting under his long, outstretched arm. 

The chores of a summer day were complete, and we came here to bid farewell to the sun and heat and welcome the cool night breeze and cicadas’ song.  I gazed up at the canopy of oak trees above our heads and waited patiently for the moon to appear in the night sky, through a gap in the branches. 

As my father continued to sing, and tenderly stroke my hair with his hand, my eyelids grew heavy with sleep and contentment.  As soon as he stopped, I’d plead, “Again, Daddy, again?” until I finally slipped into night dreams of all the horses that were mine to name.

All the horses in the land

All belong to Jamie

Black and bay and sorrel and gray

All belong to Jamie

“Again, Mama, again!”

He perched on my lap as we rocked in the old glider, his chubby fists clutching the book of lullabies.  This one was his favorite. 

I sighed and felt a hot tear stain my cheek and run down to blend into his soft, yellow curls as his head rested under my chin.

Of course I’ll sing it again for you, James.

 

Mama's Summer Survival Prayer

Dear Lord,

Please help me embrace the fun that is summer and not worry that my house looks like it was ransacked by wolves and that my brain is not responding from all the noise these children create. 

Please give me the mental strength to persevere through this:

In order to be blessed with this:

Please give me the power to officiate another sibling grudge match, because when it's over, I might be awarded with a sweet dance:

Please give me the patience not to spontaneously combust upon the realization that the price to pay for five quiet minutes to cook dinner was the brand new role of tape I just bought:

Please help me to carve out special time for Big Sister, so I can shower her with the one-on-one attention she so desperately craves:

Please help me to make it through another day of whining, constant eating, complaining and potty training without sticking pins in my eyes.

Please keep reminding me that someday they will leave me, and I will miss all of this chaos.

And Father, last but not least, please do not let me finish the last bottle of wine before restocking the fridge.

Amen and amen.

Joining Memories Captured with Galit and Alison

Don't You Forget About Me

Graffiti on the bathroom stall of my high school. 
Don't worry, sweetie, come back in 25 years, and it'll all be good.
Karma's a bitch, too, so I hear.

Vacation, All I ever wanted,

Vacation, Had to get away.

“Yep, she's got strep throat,” declares Husband across a crackly connection, as I juggled my cell phone and Diet Coke while speeding north on I-45.  Crap.  “Well, you’ll be able to handle everything, right?” I implored.  “Oh, sure, it’ll be fine.  You have fun at your reunion.”  Thank you, Husband-of-the-Year. 

Forever young, I want to be forever young.

Do you really want to live forever?

She came bounding out of the house, her I’m-all-grown-up house, in a t-shirt and shorts, with legs that looked like they hadn’t seen a day past graduation.  Her smile was just as bright, hair equally bouncy.  And when we hugged, it felt like coming home.  We can’t look at each other without giggling.

 

All for freedom and for pleasure,

Nothing ever lasts forever.

Everybody wants to rule the world.

Immature quarrels, unexpected alliances, and lonely days spent playing the odd man out. Hurt feelings, dramatic declarations of we’re-not-friends-anymore.  The empty halls and lockers are echoing these things, but twenty-five years later, I’m not listening.  Friendship, forgiveness, understanding and love are singing louder.

Keep feeling fascination,

Looking, learning, moving on.

Here we all stand, smiling and sipping.  Eagerly hugging some and tentatively approaching others.  Everyone earnest and questioning and listening, no signs of past barriers.  Common ground serves as an open invitation to see each woman with fresh eyes.  Older and more weary eyes, but kinder.

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone’s shadow,

If I fail, if I succeed, at least I’ll live as I believe.

No matter what they take from me, they can’t take away my dignity.

I wish I could tell Mrs. Dorfmeister thank you.  One Spring day, the classroom of girls snickered at her request to close our eyes and put our heads down on our desks while the song poured from a giant silver boom box in the corner.  “Clear your mind and let the words soak in!” she chirped.  “What does this have to do with Theology?” I mentally complained.  But I did what she said because I always did what teachers said.  And I guess it sunk in. 

Walk forever by my side, never lose sight of the day,

When we will run through all our weakness,

On through the fields strewn with our broken dreams.

Divorces, failures and disappointments were freely swapped with joys, accomplishments and triumphs, with plenty of I’m-so-proud-of-yous and I-knew-you-could-do-its thrown in for good measure.  Strength in sisterhood.  So longs and farewell-until-next-times earnestly exchanged.

Freedom, freedom, freedom

You’ve got to give for what you take.

Two Diet Cokes and four hours behind the wheel with nothing but Sirius XM for company, and I finally crossed the county line.  I perked up at the sight of a palm tree and a church van full of eager kids waving at me, noses pressed to the glass window. 

This is the place that is home to me now. 

Everything counts in large amounts.

 

End of the Line



Grandma's house at the end of the line in Norwood, LA

There is a place at the end of the line,

Where the train track stops, as well as time.

Home to few, more ghosts than any,

Forgotten ways and days are many.

The green is lush, the air is thick,

Laced with ivy-covered, crumbling brick.

Hundreds of years of lives and lore,

So many of mine have gone before.

The best of me has come from those,

Who rest here in eternal throes.

The backbone of my family tree,

With branches stretching out to sea.

Across these quiet hills and dales,

Where plantations reigned, then came to fail.

Lazy bees buzz as we stagger in the heat,

The freshly dug grave looms at our feet.

Saying goodbye to another of the best,

Before drying our eyes and heading west.

I claim a piece of you as mine,

As I leave this place,

At the end of the line.

 

Dedicated to Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Jane, Aunt Joy, Gagy & Grandmommie, Grandma, Uncle Tobe, Uncle Tip, Uncle West and Aunt La La.  And Sonny.
 

Big Brown Eyes

A loud smash of bodies on glass jarred my nose out of the book I was reading, and I looked up to find chaos at the front of the gymnastics center. People were screaming, “call 911!” and I saw a man dressed all in black tear out the glass doors into the parking lot with a woman in a headlock.

Fear gripped me, and I thought that someone had been kidnapped, or that there had been a robbery.  Two women who were sitting close to the doors and witnessed the whole scene informed me that it was a domestic violence issue.

A man and woman had been arguing about who would bring their son home from the gymnastics lesson.  Somehow, these women knew that this couple was separated, and that cheating was involved.

The man was violent, and she had told him that he couldn’t come home with her and the boy.  He responded by slamming her into the glass door in a choke-hold.

The police were called, and my mind began racing with worries of whether or not this man would come back inside the gym wielding a gun and take us all out.  The coaches were trying to keep the children calm and distract them from the incident.

With one eye on the glass doors, I began to plot out my actions if he returned.   Estimating how quickly I could reach my daughter at the balance beam on the opposite side of the gym.  Calculating the number of steps, once I reach her, to the giant stack of mats we would use as a shield.  Scrutinizing the trajectory that bullets might take from the glass doors to various parts of the gym.

This is how my brain works now, because of the way things are.

I continued monitoring the glass doors, waiting for the reassurance of a siren and blue uniform, which finally arrived.  The woman had returned safely inside, thankfully, and she was crouched down with her arms wrapped tightly around a young boy. 

The son, caught in this crossfire.

The boy pulled out of her grasp and began to walk in my direction, the direction of the cubbies where the kids keep their shoes.  He stopped at a cubby right in front of me and reached in and grabbed his navy blue Crocs.

As he turned to go back to his mother, my eyes locked with his.  They were the Biggest, Brownest eyes I’ve ever seen on a child, and they were filled with fear, shame and tears.  I fought the urge to reach out and hug him, knowing that a touch from a stranger may do more harm than good, at this point.

But with that moment of eye contact, I poured out everything good my heart had in it:  love, understanding, empathy, sadness, peace, faith and hope.

I don’t know if that child felt any of it. 

I pray that he and his mother are safe tonight.

And I know those Big Brown Eyes will haunt me for quite some time.
 

Summer Reading Red Alert! Don't Miss "11 Stories" by Chris Cander

Photo courtesy of Chris Cander

 

Nothing says summer to me like summer reading, and I’m getting a jump start by posting about an incredible book I just read, 11 Stories by Chris Cander, a local Houston author.

11 Stories is a novel about Roscoe Jones, the superintendent of a Chicago apartment building with a talent for playing the trumpet.  The story encompasses his experiences and encounters with the residents of this building, floor by floor. 

The characters and associated plot lines are so unexpected and unique, I was hooked from the start.  Cander’s writing is delightfully intelligent, but not pretentious, and her writer’s voice feels like it has a slight male edge to it.  This is not chick-lit, discerning readers.  Fluid, lyrical and descriptive, I fell into her story and felt as if I knew each of the characters in a previous life.  

Accordingly, I began to imagine myself as a character in the book, as one of the lives that touched Roscoe.  On which floor of the building would I have lived?  How would my life and seemingly innocuous daily activities have impacted his?  Who is watching me now, today, paying attention to what I’m saying and doing and how I’m treating people?  How would my shortcomings be perceived by a stranger?

These are all questions that I’ve been pondering since I turned the last page.

I won’t give away any more of the goods, but I promise, you don’t want to miss this compelling illustration of how we are all interwoven, and our stories overlap in ways we may never realize. 

Put 11 Stories on your summer reading list right now by visiting Goodreads or Amazon.  And if you're like me, you'll want to follow Chris Cander's Blog and Facebook page.

OK, next up, I’m taking a break from the cerebral, thought-provoking stuff and diving into VJ: The Unplugged Adventures of MTV’s First Wave.  It’s a behind-the-scenes look at the first MTV VJs from the 80s. 

Stay tuned for a review, coming soon to a mindless computer near you, probably from a lounge chair poolside…