Small In Sight

Laura hurried back from the restroom at the New York – Massachusetts border, hoping Mommy would buy her something at the wood-frame souvenir shop.  She hoped to parlay a moment of shopping into avoiding contact with these dull adults – her distant and rarely visited Worcester relatives.  Almost to the shop door, she slid to a stop, apprehensively staring at a man posing by the doorway.  The crowd snapped picture after picture.  Laura stood back and examined him with the cautious eye of a child who has been teased and tricked far too often.

He stood now with straight posture and stared off into the tree line, allowing Laura to creep closer.  His skin was acorn brown and heavily lined.  His solemn expression was tinged with tiredness.  His loosely braided black hair was held by clips on either side of his face.  The hair continued down to the chest of his fringed leather clothing.  But Laura could not take her eyes off the feathers.  Hundreds of white feathers in immense headdress covered most of his hair.  Laura frowned.

Mommy pulled out her battered old boxy Brownie and pushed Laura forward.   Without success she then ordered each family member to stand beside this apparition from storybooks.  “He’s a real Mohawk!”  Mom crowed with excitement.  Laura swayed her short legs and held her hands protectively behind her back.  She was not about to approach another strange man, even if he was two hundred pounds lighter than Uncle Maurie.  One by one the rest of relatives pushed by her and posed with the genuine human artifact and then rushed over to grab the best picnic tables for a last lunch together.   It was unspoken that several uncles were required as counterweights for Uncle Maurie’s table.  In exasperation, Laura’s Mom gave her a dollar to stand next to the Indian, struggling, for a photo that captured her expression as unenthusiastic.  

Finally Mommy turned and rejoined the clan rapidly unpacking lunch.   Laurie still remained watching the Indian, trying to remember a book from elementary school.  When there was a break in the crowds, she edged closer and said “Your feathers – they aren’t….”

He looked around then down and finally saw the expression of the young child before him.  He bent down to her ear, “It s what the shop owners make me wear.  It’s not authentic.  At home we wear the Kastowa or porcupine quills.”  He added, ruefully, “I am old and . . . this pays the bills.”  Laura nodded, forgot him and ran into the souvenir shop to spend her dollar on a small rubber tomahawk decorated with colorful feathers and colorful plastic boondoggle strings.  As she came out, she thought and handed the Indian her change – a whole dime.   “Did your family see the fire tower?”  he pointed.  “That is where the forest rangers go to watch for fires.  It also has a wonderful view of the land.” 

Laura squinted her eyes up the structure beyond a small field.  For the first time on this boring visit to see her distant relatives, she was curious.  She imagined Smokey the Bear at the top of the tower, or how she would see him putting out fires in the distance.  And the Berkshires that Mom always saw as so pretty would be nice at the top of those alluring tower steps.  “I can climb that”, she said to herself. 

The family at the tables chit-chatted politely, trying to eat their sandwiches and keep Uncle Maurie from flipping them over the table.  Everyone ignored subtle slights and past misunderstandings.  Cousins who were Laura’s age played among themselves and drank something called tonic.   Laura grabbed a quarter of an egg sandwich, making sure there were no disgusting green olives in it.  No one noticed as she headed toward the ranger tower. 

It took no time to cross the field.  There was no chain or bar duck under, so she hopped up the first level, and ran up the second.  From the first platform level and she looked down at her family, almost finishing the meal.  Soon they would pack up and make obligatory promises to do it again sometime, soon.   Several colorful leaves blew past Laura, reminding her that Mommy took her on a tightly controlled trip to Vermont last autumn.   It is better to sit and have them blow past you than drive all over and get sick to your stomach from the lurching curves in the roads, she thought. 

By the third flight of stairs, her resolve was weakening.   Her small chest gasped and heaved forcing her to sit down for a moment.  Catching her breathe, she took the last flight one slow step at a time.  It was so quiet.  So nice.   No squabbling family she didn’t know.  She heard a boy chickadee crying for his girlfriend “Phoe—be”.   The fence on the top platform prevented her from seeing Smokey the Bear in the beautiful maple and oak trees in the distance.   She realized that if lifted herself up and balanced on the top of the railing, her view would not be blocked.  She pulled herself up and over, balancing on her belly.  As she glanced down, she forgot about leaves and bears. 

No one appeared to miss her although the expressions on these tiny figures were too tiny to make out – even Uncle Maurie seemed to be just a soft grey circle.  She waved and said “Mommy!”  There was no change in the figures below.  She took a moment and inhaled a deeper breath of air. 

“Mommy,” she shouted. “I’m way up here!”  The figures now dart like ants communicating a new cache of food.  Suddenly, one head turned up, then another, and another.  Soon all the ants looked up at her.  There was silence, and then one screamed: “Laura!”

At last, she smiled.  They saw her. 

Deep Pain

           “Mr. Richard Smith?  Is this Mr. Richard Smith?”  the operator inquired unemotionally.   

Rick grunted in assent, still focused on his New York Times Crossword puzzle. 

“Your wife is Melody Smith?”  the operator tonelessly pressed on, in order to make certain that her job had been done to its utmost bureaucratically correctness. 

My shaky voice demanded that the volunteer hold up the cell phone next to my ear.  
“Rick, I think I just broke my shoulder or arm or both just outside the SPCA on the sidewalk.  They have called an ambulance. . . an ambulance or rescue thing is coming.”  I waited for the sort of reaction that one gets from loving, emotionally open spouse.  I heard no sign of a raised emotional register, other than his hurried “I’ll be right there.” 

“No, no, don’t bother.  I am being helped, and you have all that work to do.”  I replied, calm and reasonable.   I was surrounded by a crowd of eager SPCA volunteers; visitors searching for a furry new member of the family; and in the distance, a few worried staff, probably calculating the impact of this accident on their non-profit’s financial health.     

I was probably in shock, shaking as pain radiated from my shoulder in two directions; down my arm and across my shoulder blade.  My cell phone rang again, and a helpful hand pressed the button to answer it and held it up to my ear.  It was my daughter, an eighteen year old new mother who had just imposed on me to babysit for a week while she tried to register a week late for classes at a community college that she had no real interest in. 

“Mom!” she said, chewing loudly on a stick of gum.  The speed of her chewing often indicated the number of favors she would ask of me.  “(Chomp … chomp … chomp) Hey Mom, I was wondering if you could --”

Wracked with another spasm of pain as I spoke into the phone with frustration,  “Honey, I love you but I am in pain and have to go to the ER right now!” 

Long pause.  She would neither ask me why nor what was wrong.  As an emotionally disturbed, unattached child, she might blow up at the inconvenience of my broken arm or simply move on to the next target to meet her needs of the moment. 

“OK, Mom, I’ll call you later, but it’s important.  I need to know someth--   (click).”    I dropped the phone.  The motley crew of helpers and gawkers piled SPCA dog owels all over my body to keep me warm, despite my protest that I was comfortable, save the damaged shoulder area.  I hoped these towels were from the clean towel bins and not the ones recently used to clean up dog slobber and other canine bodily fluids.   My boss, B., lumbered over to me, peered down and asked,

“What happened to you?”  

in the careful way that probably led to her gradual  promotions from unpaid volunteer to overworked and underpaid volunteer coordinator, whose main perk appeared to be the right to bring her dog to work.   I looked at all the future witnesses in some future litigation and responded in as casual a manner as I could manage:

“Oh, I felt I was not getting enough attention and drama this week, so I decided that I needed to break or severely bruise something.” 

P., the oldest paid staffer, who would have had a lit cigarette in the corner of her mouth if it was allowed, graced me with the first laugh I had ever elicited in her presence.  Yesterday, she harshly notified me that my favorite dog at the adoption center, Cecil, had been put to sleep before I had arrived to give him some last words and affection.  Today, perhaps she understood that I was more humiliated than injured.  But I began to wonder what led me to this predicament? 

I began to remember a long to-do list of too many items, many postponed when my car broke down.   Slowly it came back to me.  I had come in to donate money in the name of a Rottie who had been put down to ease my aching heart.  I became distracted by clients who wanted to see some dogs and took a moment to again pitch in on my day off.  I decided to walk  Rudy, who wore a behavior harness that leads a dog by his nose.  I got outside and found the play area already occupied by other dogs.  I tried to maneuver past these dogs as well as SPCA visitors who viewed us as a petting zoo:  “Please don’t pet him, we are working on training him.”  I got passed a second group of older ladies and suddenly Rudy had had enough.  He lunged.   I said firmly,  “Stay back.”   Just as I felt he was under control, he lunged again. 

Seconds slow down when there is an accident.  My nano thoughts certainly filled a notebook.  I knew that I had wanted to prevent another dog being put to sleep.  I also knew that I could not simultaneously hold his leash and keep my balance.  And so, in a sense of service and resignation, I crashed to the pavement, hanging on to Rudy’s leash with all my might. 

The new problem was that I was horizontal.  Fortunately, Rudy was confused by my new position. 

“Are you OK?  What can I do to help?”  In seconds, two of the customers that I had just shown dogs to came up and offered me kindness.  I said, “One of you go inside and get a staff member with purple dog training out here.  Then someone call an ambulance”.  They scurried to help and it was not until I relinquished Rudy into the hands of an experienced walker that I allowed myself to look down and feel my pain.  My left arm was flat out away from my body.  Someone tried to bend it in and I screamed in pain.  I said, “Leave it” and looked down.  My knees were bloodied.  Pain radiated up and down my shoulder blade. 

Suddenly I heard voices say, “Is this your husband?”  He looked down on my newly broken body and said, “Did you need some attention today?” completely cracking up B. and others who had heard me state the same reason for the damage.  He kept the gawkers entertained while the rescue ambulance arrived and treated me to a free ride on the power lift ambulance gurney. 

            I announced that I had good insurance and told all the authorities within earshot that I was not going to sue for tripping while walking a dog.  In a pouty voice I asked the ambulance crew when the good stuff would be put in my veins.  The young EMT smiled and told me not until I got to the hospital.   They asked the same questions over and over, and I remained calm.   I felt only the slightest twinge when my husband asked if he had to come right away to the hospital, since he had work to do at the office.  I nodded and smiled a thank you that I could not feel. 

            I hide my sadness and pain behind humor.  The ER nurses giggled when I asked them if the ER doctor with “beard, glasses, arrogant manner who was always such a pain in the ass” was on duty tonight.   I made sure that everyone else felt better. 

My husband finally arrived with a cookie and water hidden under a newspaper and I smiled my thanks.  Soon after, the morphine went into my arm and I began to feel the warmth that most people feel from family.   I hardly heard the X-ray technician declare that I had a hairline fracture of the humerus bone nor felt the ice packs arriving late for my now greatly swollen knee. 

Two middle school kids arrived with lacrosse and football injuries.  My small room became full of worried parents.   I whispered for the nurse to set me free from the little space in which my heart had been hidden.   A day later, friends from around the world responded with concern and good wishes through the social media in a way that those who are closer never do.    

Decaying Chakras

This was written in response to a prompt about a piece of music.  Everyone else responded with lovely classical, jazz or even well known bands.  I had an earwhig... The Age of Aquarius!  

Declining Chakras

Sahasrara:  the Crown
Minerva full-grown sprang
From Zeus' grey matter;
My forehead ensconced less
Intelligent chatter.

Ajna:  the Brow or Third Eye
Make vivid mementos
Impress every sight
As my weakening vision
Turns day into night.

Vishuddha: the Throat
A smooth swanlike neck
Once unblemished and fair,
Hangs wrinkled and crepey,
With new chins to spare.

Anahata:  the Heart
"A thoracic aneurysm blows only one time in a hundred patients," my doctor reassured me.
"If those were lottery odds, everyone would be buying tickets," I responded grimly. 

Manipura: Solar Plexus
Gut pain and vomiting bile.
Laparoscopic cholecystectomy
   NOW!  the doctor said.
Christmas in the hospital
Seems like a spa instead
With home life far too stressful
And all my family's woes
For no presents and no gallstones
I'll take morphine at St. Joe's.

Swadhisthana:  Sacral
I feel compression on my spine
Despair sneaks in again
My spirits are held down by pain
I need a little Zen.

Muladhara:  Root
As aging fingers touch the soil
With fall's decaying matter,
I sense an ending similar
Let my ashes simply scatter.

Gate, gate, paragate
Parasamgate
Bodhi svaha.

A Modest Proposal on Adulthood

     It is difficult to recognize the moment that you leave adolescence and attain adulthood in modern America.  In traditional societies, women are welcomed into adulthood upon the onset of first menses, just as menopause and the eventual cessation of fertility signals the arrival of old age.  But here in the States, there is no single, universal rite that announces, “You are now an adult.”   Passing a driving test, registering to vote or for selective service are just bureaucratic processes.   And as for the legal drinking age, why allow a vice that leaves you puking in the streets the first few times to be the moment that announces maturity?  I propose that we adopt as the symbol of adulthood a ritual that is considered taboo in open discussion and virtually unknown to most teens:  one’s first colonoscopy. 

     In my case, adolescence dragged through my twenties.  I was invulnerable, jogging braless and barefoot at night on the asphalt and concrete streets near Syracuse University.  My career was still undecided and I would chase will-o-the-wisps for another decade.  AND there was no likely marriage material on the immediate horizon . . . I had obviously blown the chance to earn my "Mrs" degree as a profligate and utterly neurotic undergraduate.

     I took a dreadful job as a legal secretary (this was before everyone became “administrative assistants” to make secretaries feel more important without requiring a pay upgrade).   The law firm paid each legal secretary almost nothing, and got what they paid for.  I worked for a boozy corporate litigator, who arose from his stupor only when I nudged him off the office couch with a large cup of fresh brewed coffee each morning.  In return, he provided me with regular exercise when he would call me because he had forgotten his briefcase.   I ran in heels over to the courthouse, up two flights of stairs carrying his briefs while he stalled and covered the smell of bourbon on his breath.  The other attorney was the son of a well-known local politician.  It was rumored that the firm allowed him only to fix traffic tickets with supervision for a long, long time.  Today, I smile with grim satisfaction as he advertises on radio and television as a litigious ambulance chaser.   

     Our secretarial pool was run by the daughter of a friend of the head of the firm who cracked the whip like an overseer on a plantation.  She was defensive about her youth and hostile to suggestions.   The younger secretaries feared her.   When I ignored the inflexibility of her rules, she began to time my visits to the ladies; room.  It was in my fourth month confined to my cushion-less office chair that I began to notice a new discomfort DOWN THERE.   No, not DOWN THERE – the OTHER SIDE.  

     I thought it might be my first acquaintance with a yeast infection or worse.  I had no health insurance until I had six months in.  I saved to visit my GP, who sent me to a specialist: a very old and relatively inexpensive proctologist.  My first visit was terrifying although he and his nurse explained everything in a kindly manner.  He had an old-school table that I have never seen since.  It was clear that most of his clients were men – no woman would have put up with this device.  It reminded me of what transpired at the end of weekly church suppers.  Each of the tables would fold in half to be neatly put away.  Except on this particular table, I was told “bend over”.   ANDDD, church suppers are more relaxing -- of course, this was long before proctologists and gastroenterologists made wide use of anesthetics for “small” procedures.  

     I asked for permission to leave the law office for my second visit, red faced and unable to tell my teen mutant supervisor why I needed a day off.  I went to my apartment and began to prep, a process which involved drinking two gallons of a nauseating, foul substance that no amount of ice could make palatable.  When I hear patients today complain about the new prep -- two coke can sized drinks with a choice of three flavors, I want to send them back to the deep dark 1970s and see how entire families suffered through the agony of monopolization of the single toilet household. 

     The next day, drawn and pale, I visited Dr. K’s table of darkness and submitted to a procedure in a part of my body that I rarely thought about.   Determined not to miss work, I spent precious dollars to purchase the so-called "doughnut hole" cushion and thought I had brought it unobtrusively into the office.  Asked the nosy teen supervisor without blinking, “Will that help you stay seated and work longer?”  I decided to seek work elsewhere and within two months found yet another dreadful but temporary position.  

     A few years later, my first husband invited me to the home of a college friend, Tom, who lived in a a local trailer park with his wife and kids.  His extended family lived in the trailers to the right and left of him.  Despite some degree of poverty, they worked hard for their pay and enjoyed life and family to the fullest, not unlike the loveable characters in the dated but still watchable sci-fi film, “The Last Starfighter”.  Tom’s father stood in the kitchen as we told stories and drank beer.  He refused a second beer, stating openly “It aggravates my hemorrhoids and I don’t want THAT experience again!”    It dawned on me that was with a fellow traveler.   

     I sidled up to him and said “You mean you’ve had that procedure?”  

     Without skipping a beat, he replied:  “That bend over the table experience!”

    “Did they blow up your intestines like a balloon?” 

    “Hell, they humiliated me as all that air loudly departed my body!"

     We began to compare probes and doctors with great laughter.  Long before celebrities urged the public not to ignore rectal bleeding, we discussed, gesticulated, and made human the procedure that forever separates the innocent from the knowing, as we face the recognition that our bodies will one day fail us in ways unfathomable in our youth.  

      Years later, I watched a “King of the Hill” episode in which Hank received the first cartoon colonoscopy – yep, the first animated portrayal of a cartoon rectal exam, with the animated doctor expertly racing through the animated large intestine projected on an animated  monitor in all its plump, pink animated detail.  I laughed with all the audience members across America who have eaten of that tree of knowledge.  

     I now more openly share my experiences with those whom I feel would benefit or are feeling a little nervous about this medical procedure.  At my last colonoscopy, a younger and profit-driven doctor had a group of us lined up in hospital beds on our sides.  As one of the male nurses placed an IV in my vein that was quite uncomfortable, I saw that they were used to terrified, complaining patients.  During a long delay I shared with them the story of one of my father’s last surgeries.  

My dad’s heart operation was delayed by complications of another patient already in the OR.  The minutes dragged on until my father slipped his hand under the sheets and pulled out a small harmonica.  For the next hour, he entertained the nurses and technicians with “Red River Valley” and various Irish tunes.  When it was his turn, he had endured and laughed. . . and when he awoke in intensive care, he was spoiled by every nurse on the floor who had heard of the miraculously good-natured patient who smuggled his harmonica into the operating room.  

     The two male nurses smile appreciatively, and I dryly add, “Of course, I guess all you get around here are a lot of assholes.”  The joke genie is out of the bottle, and these young men know that I will give and take a lot of ribbing as we deal with nervous stress.  After quite a few corny and obvious jokes, they ask if I need anything.  I admit that I am cold and the IV in my hand hurts.  Suddenly they rush to bring extra pillows and blankets and readjust the IV to make me as comfortable as a princess.    

     At least. . . as comfortable as a mature, adult, butt up in the air princess can be. 

The Sweetest Memory

   If I follow the driveway past what was once my parents’ farmhouse, there is a path along a small steep field that burrows into a line of woods dotted by sugar maples, the occasional oak, and battered pine trees on the edge of a vast wetland.   Other paths, less well maintained, lead to large fields once used for baling hay or pasture for our Holsteins.   As a child, I felt great power picking up a stick and shepherding forty placid black and white beasts through the woods, across the road, and into the barn for milking.  Today I can only return to those woods in my ever fading memories.

       I imagine that the disused path is badly in need of clearing.  Many bramble bushes and small saplings have by now sprung up to create a barrier.  Just beyond the hilltop's rocky out-croppings grow old sugar maples that protect the wildflowers of early spring.  If you peer carefully into the thick undergrowth, you will see a faint sign that long ago stood a building used to produce maple syrup.   My father allowed himself to show no sadness when the sugar house, which provided a small income each February, collapsed from age and harsh elements.   Instead, he re-purposed the stones of the crumbling foundation into a retaining wall surrounded by flowers, bushes, and a smoke tree.  These are now enjoyed by the new owners of the home that was in my family for over a century.  Remembering these woods in winter is the ointment I apply each year to a heart that does not easily come to terms with change and loss. 

          As a child of five or six, I experienced some of the deepest lake effect snowfalls in New York history.   By the sixties my father's old but reliable tractor had completely replaced the draft horses that once plowed a route from the sugar house to the mature maples throughout the woods.  The path had to be cleared regardless of weather conditions.  After  a tediously long time, the deep snow was plowed and the sugar house was officially re-opened.  

     Profit margins were too small to waste a penny, so the old tools, buckets  and machinery were checked for damage and repaired if possible.  My father and several hired hands would then drill  small spouts into each sugar maple.   My father carefully supervised the placement of each tap, for if the new holes were drilled too close to old ones, large sections of the wood would be damaged and the tree slowly die.  Only then did the workers hang a bucket on each tap, in readiness for those days in late January or early February when sunny days were followed by nights of bitter cold.  On these days, the sweet watery sap flowed upward and out be emptied by hand into a large vat.  The tractor pulled the vat through the woods until full.  The vat was then brought up the hill that nestled against the sugar house and the precious liquid emptied into a holding bin.  From the bin, the sap flowed downhill into silvery evapor-ating pans deep in the sugar house. 

       In an image reminiscent of salmon working their way upstream through man made ladders, the sap was heated and evaporated through a series of parallel pans.  The process was monitored as long as the season lasted.  If the temperature was too high, the sap would boil over dangerously.  Small pats of butter were ready to be tossed in to lower the bubbling syrup back to a safe level.  Wood that had been cut and stacked all summer was now used in a  roaring fire until forty-six gallons of sap boiled down to produce a single gallon of pure maple syrup.  As it entered the final pan, a small amount was poured into a vial and its color  com-pared to vials of different gradation.  Only the light amber grade A syrup commanded the public’s top dollar – the darker syrup was kept for home use or to make maple sugar.  We felt ourselves the luckier consumers because the dark grade tasted stronger and sweeter.   

      Unless he was milking cows in the barn, my father stayed in the woods in the uninsulated sugar shack until all that day’s sap was boiled into syrup, sometimes not finishing until four in the morning.   The lonely, tedious job was relieved only by the rare visitor to give him respite.  Few tackled the bone-chilling elements to see syrup made in these snowy woods.      

        I now imagine myself at age five or six being dressed at the farmhouse in so many layers of pants, sweaters and coats that if I fall down, I may never rise again.  My hands are covered by warm, if unmatching mittens, my feet in layers of socks and stuffed into somewhat waterproof boots.  My mother opens the door, entrusting me with sandwiches and a Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar filled with warm milk and a generous dollop of Hershey’s chocolate syrup.  I begin the slow walk up the hill, fighting the snow that has again drifted across the trail. 

      As I struggle through the beautiful but often hip-deep snow, my breath turns into the whitest fog.  There is no social worker to accuse my parents of child endangerment.  But I know these woods well, and confidently conquer the crest of the hill using the sweetly scented thick smoke rising out of the rooftop chimney as my reassuring guidepost.  

        I round the bend past the enormous pile of wood and enter a door on the far side.  My dad greets me in a wool cap, ear flaps down, his twinkling blue Irish eyes warming me more than the hot chocolate I bring in my hands.  We greet each other and then I sit patiently as he wolfs down his supper.   I assist here and there, bringing in a small piece of wood, funneling out the imperfections like sugar sand or dropping a big pat of butter into the evaporation pans to see the magical lowering of the boiling liquid.  But more often, I try to steal a bit of the thick nectar and wait for it to cool enough that I can sip its delicately fragrant sweetness.  

       I must leave to walk home alone before dusk.  But if I wait for my father to close up, the sun will have set and the black silhouettes of the trees will be lit only by a sparkling blanket of deep snow.   He will place his large work glove covered hand over my small one, and walk us slowly and deliberately over the hill and out into the field that overlooks our home.  

            As we cross the field, his boots sink deep into the snow but mine float on a thick crust formed only on the chilliest winter nights.   The first stars appear above us in radiant assur-ance of happiness and security.  Although this promise cannot be kept, it will remain in the memory palace of a young girl’s heart.