Don't Forget to Pack Your Whisk

The car was packed, and Bill and I were ready for our four-day journey to Daytona Beach. We were kidless and looked forward to spending time with friends we hadn't seen in ages. I got into the passenger's seat and settled in for the long 4 1/2-hour drive. As we made our way across the state, Bill and I talked about everything we wanted to do when we arrived at the beach - riding the waves was first on the list. The night before, it was freezing outside, so I don't know why we thought for a second that we'd get into the water on the Atlantic coast. The Atlantic water would be much colder than our Gulf Coast. But that didn't stop us from dreaming of catching the huge waves and allowing our bodies to ride expertly on one crashing wave after another. Truth be told, I usually ended up in a mangled heap gasping for air and being pounded by all the succeeding waves.

We talked about Bill's upcoming tennis match (the reason for our trip) and how his team would compete against the state's best fifty-and-over teams. Funny, it wasn't too long ago that we made this trip competing in the under-fifty category. Now, my knee doesn't allow me to play tennis. Bill has graduated from playing singles to playing doubles on the senior team. I guess this is what "aging gracefully" is all about - you accept the next crossroad in your life rather than fight it kicking and screaming. I have accepted my role as a spectator and head cheerleader, and he has accepted his role as half of the number one doubles team. He still is a fantastic tennis player with the agility and speed of a forty-year-old.

When we arrived at the hotel, we met our friends, Maryanne, and Gene, at the front desk for check-in. I was beyond impressed with the hotel Maryanne got for us. It was easily four, maybe five-star accommodations right on the beach - eons away from the last hotel Bill and I stayed at when his team was playing in the state finals. That hotel was on MLK Blvd., and a shootout was behind our room.

 Maryanne even upgraded us to cabana rooms with porches on the beach level. Returning to retrieve our luggage from our car, the valets were waiting. Our little Scion looked forlorn amidst the Lexus and Porches.

The Scion stood out just a tad. The two prominent dents were made even more noticeable by the coat of farm dirt that perpetually hung on our car. I was a little embarrassed by its shabby outer appearance. I just hoped that no one would notice the inside of the car. As I was thinking, I will find a car wash tomorrow; the valet opened the passenger door to hang a tag on the mirror. I almost screamed, "No," but it was too late. The door opened, and out rolled the wire whisk for all to see.

Mary Anne was the first to notice the whisk tumbling out of the car. "Damn," she said mockingly, "I knew I forgot something. Gene, why didn't you remind me to pack the whisk?"

I was mortified as the whisk lay in the road broadcasting our social stratum like a neon sign: HAVE TO PACK A WHISK...MUST NEED TO COOK... CAN'T AFFORD TO EAT OUT. 

"Go over and pick it up!" I ordered Bill, "Before everyone sees it!"

"I'm not picking it up." He laughed. "You pick it up."

We talked about the whisk as if it were roadkill that no one would ever dare approach.

Just then, the valet picked it up and walked toward me. I hid behind Bill. He held the whisk out to Bill. "Do you need this, or should I put it back in the car?" He asked, straight-faced.

"Honey," Bill says to me as he moves away so that I am standing face to face with the whisk, yielding valet, "Will you need the whisk tonight?"

"No," I answer sarcastically, "Maryanne is cooking tonight. You can put the whisk back in the car."

Later, when we were all gathered on our veranda overlooking the water, Maryanne had to bring up the whole whisk incident. "So, I'm just curious. Why do you have a whisk in your car?"

"Well," I retorted, "It's very convenient for beating things."

"Do you regularly beat things in the car?" She persisted in pushing the issue.

"Look, Maryanne!" I screamed, "I don't know why the hell there is a whisk in the car! It's been there since Christmas, and I don't know how it got there. Why do you care so much about the stupid whisk!"

Suddenly, I started laughing at the absurdity of it all. Then, we all started laughing. As my grandmother used to say, "I laughed so hard that the tears started running down my legs."

We were in this hoity-toity hotel with our dirty cars, ratty suitcases, and "casual" attire. Who were we kidding? We were Scion folks trying to act like we fit into an Audi world. I decided right then and there that my wire whisk would be the highlight of our trip. So, whenever the valet brought the car around, I made a big to-do as I handed him the wire whisk and asked him to take care of it while we were out. It became a running joke amongst the valets, and they looked forward to our outings.

From that day on, I always traveled with the trusty wire whisk that appeared in my car out of nowhere (to this day, I still have no idea how it got there). I keep it with me to remind me that who I am is not defined by what kind of car I drive but by how I handle the whisks in my life.

A Series of Unfortunate Events

The van was a bargain at $800. It ran great, had a great body, and It was just what we needed for our family. It was suitable for the farm as well because the seats popped out, allowing us to fit six bales of hay in the back. It was even great for taking sick goats to the vet. Perfect. We bought it. 

Shortly after we purchased the van, Bill took it to buy hay. When he came home, he unloaded the hay in the barn and cleaned out all the soccer clothes that had been left in the van by the girls. He put the clothes in a plastic bag, brought them in the house, and deposited them in the dirty laundry basket. The next day, I left early for work and took the car because the van was out by the barn. When I left, Bill, Lulu, and Katie were still home. I'm not sure what transpired next except to say that Katie decided to take the van to school that day. This decision is where the story gets interesting.

Let me preface this story by saying that my husband can be a bit forgetful from time to time. He will tell you that this is not true, but this story will illustrate that it is indeed true. I, too, am forgetful. I can't tell you how many times I find my coffee in strange places or lose my glasses five times a day. That said, this is a story about a series of unfortunate events based on the fact that Bill and I sometimes forget things.

So, Katie was ready to leave for school when she discovered the van keys were not hanging on the key hooks by the door. She asked her dad where the keys were to the van. He said they must be in the van. Katie went out to the van and could not find the keys anywhere. Now, I know we should have had a spare key, but it was one of those things on my "to do" list that I kept forgetting to get done. So, Katie and her dad went on an exhaustive search. They searched the barn, the storage unit, and the house for the van keys - all to no avail. 

The van had one of those ignitions with tabs on either side of the keyhole. For some strange reason, Katie made a desperate attempt to start the van without the keys by holding the tabs and turning the ignition. I mean, how did she even think the van would start? But, sure enough, the ignition switch turned. Low and behold, the van started! Katie told her dad that she was able to start the van without the key. Bill went out and turned it off and back on again - amazing. 

I don't know how the conversation went after the van miraculously started. Still, the two of them determined that Katie could drive it to school without the key. 

I have to stop here and add my observations. Why the heck did the van start without the key in the first place? And, even though it started twice without the key, who's to say it would continue to start? What if this was just a fluke and halfway to school, the van stopped? What if she got to school and it wouldn't turn off? What if she got to school, parked the van, and then could not start it when it was time to come home? I mean, I'm just saying!

Okay, now I got that out of my system. So, Katie takes the van and makes it to school without incident. Meanwhile, I'm still oblivious about any of this because I am at work. Fast forward to around 5:30 PM. I have arrived home from work and am making dinner when I get a phone call from Katie. 

"Mom," she says in a panic-stricken voice, "The van is stuck in a ditch on the side of the road." 

"What!" I scream into the phone, "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine, but there's something wrong with the van." 

"What's wrong with the van?" I ask innocently.

"It's stuck in a ditch." 

"Okay, I got that part. But why is it stuck in a ditch?"

"Because I tried to turn the corner to go to the gas station and the steering wheel locked, and I couldn't steer it."

"The steering wheel locked up?" 

"Yeah, and the guy at the gas station was going to try to get it out of the ditch, but he couldn't start the van."

"Why couldn't he start the van?"

"I don't have the key."

"Why don't you have the key?"

"I never had the key."

"What are you talking about!"

"I took the van without the key, and the guy wants to know why I don't have the key. The van is smoking too."

"Smoking?"

"Yeah, it's smoking."

At this point, I felt as though my head was going to explode. I tried to make sense out of what Katie was saying, but I was unable to comprehend her end of the conversation.  How in the world had she managed to drive our smoking van into a ditch without the keys?   Bill came into the kitchen and asked me why I was yelling into the phone. 

"Your daughter is saying something about being stuck on the side of the road in a ditch without the van keys," I answered exasperatedly. 

"Where is she?" was all he said.

"What do you mean, where is she?" I yelled at him, "Aren't you the least bit curious how she got there without the keys?" 

"I told her to take the van without the key." 

"What are you talking about!" I screamed again. 

"Calm down." He soothed, "Let me talk to Katie."

He took the phone and spoke to his now crying child. 

I listened to his end of the conversation, still totally perplexed as to how Katie got where she was without the keys. 

"Smoking from where?" 

"Calm down, I can't understand you when you are hysterical." 

"Tell the police that we will be there with the title."

"Did he put the fire out?" 

"No, don't try to start it again."

"We'll be there in a little while." 

"Mom will call AAA."

"Okay, I'm supposed to call AAA?" I said to Bill. (I didn't tell Bill that I forgot to pay the AAA bill, and we didn't have AAA anymore, but I didn't think this was a good time to bring it up.)

"Now, I have to tell AAA that the van is stuck smoking on the side of the road, but we have no key for it?" I said as we gathered up Lulu, the title to the van (to prove that we owned it and Katie didn't steal it) and made our way out to the car. 

"Don't give me an attitude." Bill retorted.

"ATTITUDE!" I shouted, "I'll give you all the damn attitude I want!" I was on a roll now. "Why the heck was my daughter driving a van without the keys in the first place! And why is the van smoking! And why did the steering wheel lock up! Could it be because there was no key in the ignition and the steering wheel locked when she tried to turn the corner!"

The rest of the trip was made in silence. When we arrived at the infamous corner, the van was no longer smoking, and our daughter was talking to a police officer.

"... don't have the key." I heard her saying as we approached. "maybe a butter knife would work."

"Hello, officer." I said in my most pleasant voice, "This is our van and our daughter." 

I handed the officer the title to the van. He looked it over and gave it back to me. He checked my ID and Katie's ID to make sure that she was indeed our daughter. 

"Okay," He said as he made his way back to the patrol car, "This is one for the record books."

It took us a few hours to get the van home. The guy had to grease the tires to get the van on the tow truck without the key to turn the tires.  Unfortunately, since we didn't have AAA, the towing company was cash only. 

We had to stop at a store with an ATM and withdraw the money to pay the guy. When we got to the store, the ATM was broken. I had to buy five candy bars in five separate transactions (each time getting cashback). By the time we arrived home, we were all exhausted, and no one was talking. 

The next morning, we discovered that the "smoking" was from the overheating engine. Why might you ask, was the engine overheating? Well, it was because Bill wanted to make sure the van was okay for Katie to drive, so he put water in the radiator. The only problem was; he forgot to put the cap back on. The van was officially declared dead by our neighbor mechanic, who said the engine block cracked. 

A few weeks later, I was doing laundry. I got to the bottom of the laundry basket, where I found a bag full of soccer clothes. I emptied the bag. Low and behold, there at the bottom were the keys to the van! 

Egg Light

Blank paper begging for words.  Blank mind wanting to find the words hiding behind all the clutter words; bills, worry, family.  Jumping words that bounce through the brian...bounce...bounce...bounce.  Bounce-a-ball, paddle ball, beach ball, volley ballllllllll......there they go....bouncing away.  What’s behind the balls?  The egg light waiting to be hatched?  Where are the words that tell the story?  I don’t know.  They’ve evaded me.  They’ve run from me.  The worry balls keep pounding the words away like a game of dodge ball; they see a word coming across the empty brain and, in the blink of an eye, they pummel the word into dust before it even has a chance to reach my conscience.  

So, here I sit at my keyboard waiting for the words to make it through the dodgeball mine.  The fingers type, but, the story stays stuck in my brain like a piece of toast in the toaster that just won't budge.  You see it.  You want to grasp it and, yet, it is just out of reach.  The knife tries to snare it and coax it out; still it doesn’t budge.  It crumbles into tidbits...word tidbits.  They scatter like meaningless brain crumbs that have no...there they go.  They’ve been swept away by the word broom.  

The words are being swept up and discarded before I can put them into something meaningful and storyful...no stories tonight.  Too bad.  I wish I could find the words and pluck them out of the garbage heap.  I wish I could put them together...but not tonight.  Not right now.  Maybe later.  Maybe never...no I cannot stop writing forever...that would be death.  I’ll draw instead.  

I know the story is here...somewhere waiting for me to birth it...waiting for me to hatch the “egg light”.

Dennis

Shortly after his mother died, my sixtyish special needs neighbor, Dennis, rolled up next to me on his three-wheeled bike. I was working in my garden. I noticed that Dennis seemed unusually troubled, so I stopped pulling weeds and gave him my full attention. "You okay, Dennis?" 

"I gotta tell you sometin'," he began, choking back tears. "Will you be my mutter now? 'Cause you look like you'd be a good mutter. I wish you were my mutter because my mutter is in heaven now, and she would like you to take over." 

He gave me such a forlorn, faraway look that I started to choke back my own tears. I didn't know how to answer him, but I made a feeble attempt to help him feel better. 

"Dennis," I said, "You have your brother to take care of you now, and I know he loves you. I'll tell you what, though, I would like you to come to work for me when I have the farm ready. Would you like to come to work for me?"

"I gotta tell you sometin'," he replied, "I'm a good worker. I will work hard for you. When do I start?" He gave me a crooked smile that melted my heart.

"As soon as I get everything ready." I said, "Sometime around March." 

He was ready to start work immediately. It broke my heart to tell him that he had to wait because I was still working out all the details of modifying the farm.  I wanted to alter the farm from a boarding stable to a place of employment for special needs adults. 

Dennis is in his early sixties, stands about 5'7" and probably weighs in at over 300 pounds. He has the mental capacity of roughly a five-year-old, but he is one of the hardest workers I have ever seen. I was anxious to allow him to have a "real job." His visit inspired me to double my efforts to get "Hallelujah Acres" (the name I chose for the farm) up and running. Dennis was counting on me. 

It was only a few days after our talk in the garden when Dennis stood on my porch, looking down at me as I opened the door. His three-wheel bike was parked behind him. 

"I gotta tell you sometin,'" he said as he took his notepad and pen out of his pocket, "When do I come to work for you?"  He smiled a huge grin.  "I gotta tell you sometin'," he continued, "write it down, so I know when to come." 

I started to answer his question as I took the pad and pen, but he quickly interrupted me.

"I gotta tell you sometin'...that pen is a good pen. Lots of people try to take it away from me, and I won't let them. I'm a good worker, you know. I will work hard for you. So when do I start?" 

"Dennis," I said patiently, as I started to write March 15th on the paper, "I'm hoping to be ready to start the farm in March." 

"I gotta tell you sometin'," he replied, "When is March?" 

To Dennis March was eons away from January.  I looked at his eager face as I began to write. I got as far as the "Ma" and stopped. "How about you come to work on Monday?" I said.

"I gotta tell you sometin'. When's Monday?"

"In three days." I said as I turned the "a" into an "o" and wrote Monday's date on his paper.

"I gotta tell you sometin'. That pen is a good pen."

"I know it is, Dennis." I said as I handed the pen back to him, "I'll see you on Monday."

Monday arrived, and so did Dennis - peddling up on his three-wheeler right on time. He pulled his lunch box out of his basket and informed me through his practically toothless grin that he was ready to work. 

Dennis went right to work on the farm, planting flowers, rearranging the shed, and helping me with the chickens. When we sat down to eat lunch, I noticed that my cat, Butterscotch, was not acting right. After lunch, I tried to pick him up, and he yowled in pain, so Dennis and I took a trip to the vet's office. 

The news was not good; Butterscotch had several bladder stones that were blocking his ability to pee. He was weak and very sick. The only way he could be saved was to put him under anesthesia and attempt to unblock his bladder. It was risky because he was so sick, and the vet informed me that he might not survive the anesthesia, but we had to try. We left Butterscotch under the care of the vet and went home.

As we walked through the door to my house, Dennis told me to sit at the table. I sat down. "Now, we're gonna say a prayer for your cat." He said as he folded his hands. "What's his name?"

"Butterscotch," I said as I folded my hands and bowed my head.

"Dear God, please take care of 'Butterbutt.' He is a good cat. He will be all better because you won't let him die. Amen."

"Thank you, Dennis." I said through my tears, "I hope he will be okay."

"Oh, I know 'Butterbutt' will be okay," He said happily, "'cause my mutter is up there with God, and she will make sure that God will make 'Butterbutt' all better."

"Butterbutt" came home later that evening and, although he was still very sick, he had a fighting chance. 

The next day, Dennis came to see him. 

"See," he said, "I told you he'd be fine 'cause I prayed to God for him, and God always listens to me." 

"I bet he does," I said to Dennis as he made his way to his trusty three-wheeler.

The Bible says, "a little child shall lead them." I believe that Dennis, although a grown man on the outside, has a childlike trust in God. He is my "little child" angel. Whenever I get discouraged or start second-guessing my "Hallelujah Acres" dream, Dennis is there to lead me forward. I know I need him as much as he needs me. His unshakable faith keeps me believing that Hallelujah Acres is what God wants me to do. 

"I gotta tell you sometin'," Dennis said as he pulled away on his bike, "I love workin' for you!" 

Soul Drain

My New Year’s resolution is to refrain from engaging in soul draining activities.  That is, anything that does not feed my soul will be willfully ignored, avoided, replaced and otherwise eliminated from my life.  Does this apply to people as well?  Yes, it absolutely does.  I will no longer entertain the soul draining activities of others.  So, If my perpetually drunk neighbor shows up at my doorstep for another handout, I will not feel guilty for turning said neighbor away because I have offered a hand up many times.  I am vowing to eliminate all the people in my life who willfully and repeatedly hurt my soul.  

The soul drainers in my life come in many shapes and sizes.  They are the cluttered papers that sit in my bedroom collecting dust day after day, week after week, year after year until they become so much a part of the landscape that I don’t even notice them anymore.  But, I do notice them - my soul sees them and it speaks to me through my whispering dreams.  I hear my soul’s cry in the breeze and on the wings of the vultures that circle waiting to devour the next small piece of my soul.

Piece by piece I let the clutter vultures take from me the one thing that I should protect and nurture.  They steal my quiet with their white wing noise that clatters in the back of my brain - clean the clutter...clean the clutter...clean the clutter - drumming to the steady cry of my soul.

The soul drain is the empty checkbook with its empty stare as I allow my brain to worry and ponder where the next dollar will come from to pay the next soul draining bill.  The bills, the money worry, the clutter...all drain away the precious part that defines me; my soul.

Then, there is the endless rancid tide of “not good enough” wave thoughts that crash steadily into my brain... not a good enough mother, not a good enough wife, not a good enough housekeeper...the thought pollution piles up until the garbage heap dumps into my soul as the broken record of pain plays its endless mournful tune.

Where do I start to heal?  Should I start with the brain closet or the bedroom closet?  The brain closet is heaped with years of garbage.  Childhood garbage, frustration garbage, financial garbage - it’s all there rotting and festering; bleeding into my soul causing it to recoil and hide.  

The bedroom closet is a mirror image of my brain closet.  I don’t need a clutter doctor: I need a clutter surgeon to perform surgery in the bedroom closet and then continue right through the house.  

The brain closet might be a bit more challenging.  There is no brain surgeon that removes broken records - that I have to do myself.  It will take time and positive energy, but I believe that it begins with surrounding myself with peace.  In my world, peace comes from order in my surroundings.  Ordered surroundings will breathe fresh air back into my brain relieving some of the brain clutter.

This will not be an easy journey, but it is a necessary journey.  I don’t know where it will take me, but I do know that it has to be better than where I am.  I know that my soul has not been able to write because I can’t find it behind all the clutter.  If there is one thing that feeds my soul, it is writing.  I will write every day - even if it is just one sentence - so that my soul knows I have not forgotten it.   

Finally, as I heal my own soul, I will vow to no longer be a soul drain on others.  This is my New Year’s resolution: to get off the soul drain and allow my soul to embark on the soul train.  Let the journey begin.

Wings to Fly

I’ve been trying to write something profound for the new year, but nothing is coming to me.  I’ve done all the usual prewriting exercises like meditation, writing whatever comes to mind without stopping, drawing with my non-dominant hand and playing with clay to get my brain firing on all cylinders - nothing.  My brain is numb.  Or, maybe it is hibernating for the winter, or perhaps it is incubating something wonderful and magical that will hatch when I least expect it.  I just don’t know.   This is one drawing that I keep coming back to:

When I look at this drawing, I see a bird with its wings folded.  I believe that this bird is waiting for the opportunity to spread its wings and fly.  I am anxious for this to happen, but I know that it will only happen if I am patient and observant.  The moment will come and I will give this bird its wings to fly.  But, for now, I’ll rest my wings and wait.