So Different, Yet So Alike

I was visiting my daughter in Fort Worth a few weeks ago. Just a day before my trip a massive series of tornadoes touched down just 35 miles southwest of Fort Worth. Consider that one of the twisters was 10 miles wide and the fact that the storm could have hit closer to Tina was more than I would have liked to think about. The devastation and loss was difficult to watch on all the news feeds. It made me think about what was important to hang on to and what is not.

That last statement directly links to the fact that I came here to deliver a load of Tina’s possessions that have lived with me for the 10 years she has been married. I am downsizing after caring for my mother, selling her home, and moving back to my smaller house in Baytown, Texas. I have had to be ruthless in the clean-out process. I simply cannot hang on to things that used to have meaning. I recently wrote a piece about letting go of two commercial sized pattern cabinets stuffed to the brim. While there were a lot of fond flashbacks, I decided I would rarely do any sewing in the future. Many years ago, I had rented rooms in an antique house on Calder in Beaumont to use as a sewing studio. I met some interesting people and made some friends, one of whom would remain a private client for a few years

It was time to move on with my stuff and bring Tina hers.

Along with the lists of items I have already cleared out, I was telling Tina I may play my trumpet one last time for church and sell it. I have even considered packing up my dishes that could serve 24 people at a sit down dinner with a five course meal. I may give the whole lot to the resale shop that supports a battered women’s shelter. It would stock at least six houses, if not more. Besides dinner plates, salad plates, soup bowls, steak plates, serving pieces and canisters - the set has custard cups, coffee cups, matching glasses and glass coffee cups, fruit bowls, chocolate pots and Swish chocolate mugs, soup tureens… awe heck, I would have to take inventory to get it all correct. When I had the kitchen remodeled I told the carpenter the shelving needed to be sturdy enough to hold a Sherman tank. He was puzzled until I told him to pick up a stack of only 12 plates. Then he saw the boxes of dishes waiting.

But I veer from the subject. Oh, wait, you’re used to seeing that happen on this blog. So maybe I will continue to digress.

Back to the downsizing and moving on… I mentioned to Tina I may give up the set of dishes and get something new and lighter in weight. Maybe paper plates from now on??? Just kidding. Since I have had the dishes since before she was born (and she is now 35) she laughed and said she wanted to actually watch that happen. Hey, it could. It will just be tough, like removing part of my history. And the fact remains that they were all used many times over. Every piece symbolizes an event and triggers a recollection of family, children, and festive times.

I have also admitted to my true downfall being books. Something about my days haunting the old Gates Memorial Library of Port Arthur, Texas prevents me from giving up a single work. Now that my daughter has the writing bug, I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. There are books everywhere. In a day and age where a single piece of electronic equipment can hold volumes of writings, she has the desire to possess and hold the real thing. Books are stuffed everywhere. Tina and Ryan just bought shelves a short while back. They proved to be inadequate immediately. Books are in nightstands, the office, and gosh knows where else she can stuff them.

While observing the books, and thinking about my own collection, one book in particular caught my eye. She has a book standing with the cover facing out, not inserted between other books standing in the ranks. It is a book about Audrey Hepburn. Again, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

Back when Tina was in college, she used to tease me about the old movies, my love of elevator music, and my attraction to all things “old.” I decided to introduce her to Audrey Hepburn because, like Audrey, Tina was a dancer and had the form, elegance and balance Hepburn radiated. The first movie I purchased for her was Breakfast At Tiffany’s. After crying over the ending, Tina was hooked. Then she followed in my footsteps on Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe. She continued to find her interest in old films and shared those with her husband’s grandfather, Leonard, another avid ‘old-reeler’ if you get my drift. The two were generations apart, but in tune on the same wave link from a bygone era. I can easily conjure up a mental image of the two of them laughing or singing along with the movie characters who graced another time in our culture. Now that Len has left our earth, she will have those memories to enjoy forever. For that, I am glad she holds on to books and developed an appreciation of an art form she once considered out-dated.

Put her hair up, put a hat on her head and watch her walk.

She is imbued with all things Audrey.

 

My Best Impersonation of a Slug

While sitting in my house coat, sipping coffee, watching morning news programs, trapped in the house due to bad weather - I tell my house mate I am going to do nothing today. He tells me he is going to put gas in my car before the rain returns and asks if I would like a donut. My reply is ONE. I tell him if he comes back with more than one he will have to eat them all. He returns with only two donuts – one for each of us. They are the biggest, fattest, Bavarian cream filled donuts he could find. At what point did he not understand that my verbal limit to one donut meant I was trying to limit my intake of sugar and bread at this hour of the day? Well, you’ve read my story on how his mind works . . .  unexplainable.

As I walk to the kitchen to refill my cup, my mind goes the opposite direction of doing nothing. There is a voice in my head saying, “I really need to take inventory of the leftovers in the freezer.” I take another step, and my list of things to organize for Saturday comes up as a mental picture in my head. I am crossing off the two things I have already covered, and my brain is adding to that list before I even have a pen in hand.

While returning to sit down in my chair, I have rolled around phrases in my brain:

I got my mouse to work. I can quit fighting that track pad on the lap top.

I need to check on reservations for Saturday’s brunch after the funeral.

I need to call Bull Creek Grill about Mother’s Day. They said they weren’t sure they needed to take reservations and told me to check back on Friday.

I need to get the sewing machine out and alter my slacks.

I really need to iron some suits in case I get the job.

I kid you not. There’s a lot rattling around in there.

So the next thing I will do after I type this is to get the note pad out and modify my list to add the things flitting through my gray matter. If my thoughts could be heard, one would hear the sounds of a beehive in the room. I have never been able to tune things out or be idle. I have always had a full time job, but never just one assignment could keep me busy enough. In addition to my 40 - 50 hour employment, I taught piano several nights a week, and I have served as the church musician since I was 16. How on earth did I manage to sew my wardrobe and most of my daughter’s all those years? When did I manage to clean a house (which pretty much stayed immaculate, even if the conditions were rather poor)?

All this jibber jabber is to set up what is coming next. Not only does my head swirl all day long, I have something happening that makes me think I am going crazy. It happened years ago, then ceased for the years I was caring for mother. Now that era of my life has passed, I am back in a somewhat normal life routine, and it is happening again.

My first introduction to a ‘presence’ was creepy. I thought I was about to have a heart attack. At the time it initially happened I was under a lot of pressure while I worked, played the organ for a church and was sewing my daughter’s wedding gown. The air pressure around me felt like it changed. I felt like I was going to throw up. It almost felt as if I drew partly away from my body. I heard the faint strains of what could have been Christmas music with tinkling sounds. I heard the household sounds around me, but it was as if they went off into the distance. I felt the air move. I was freaked completely out. Then it stopped. The second time it happened I was driving. I jerked the car over to the shoulder of the road, jumped out and fell to my knees thinking I was going to vomit. It was so strong. Another incident happened as I prepared for a staff meeting at League City. I sat in my chair and I felt something near me. Nothing was there. The urge to cry was almost overwhelming every time. I told my sister about it and she contended I was feeling the angel of death. But no one significant to me died during that time.

Then, one day while I was beading Tina’s wedding dress, I felt it leaning over my shoulder as if it were watching me. I jerked to the right just in case my stomach did the unthinkable on the gown. I literally said, “I don’t know who you are. Go away. You’re scaring me.” I didn’t feel it again.

I do not know who the presence was. Over the years I have lost my father, my aunt Jackie, all my grandparents and numerous colleagues. All I know is that it was intense when it was present.

October 15, 2006

I was driving home from League City. It was a stormy Sunday. I was driving about 45 miles an hour in heavy rain and wind. I started sliding on the Fred Hartman bridge and landed safely, but  turned around facing the wrong direction on the inside shoulder. I picked up my cell to call Ramon and watched as a pick up truck at the top of the bridge spun wildly out of control at a high rate of speed, heading straight for me. I was screaming and had no time to get in gear, turn around and get away. Traffic was coming in all lanes. He hit me, slamming me down the bridge backward. He rammed me several times, sending me flying down further, then would catch up with me only to  hit me again. We ended up with his truck ramming my little Saturn up onto the concrete divider - both facing the wrong way on the inside shoulder. The tail gate of the truck was 18 inches from my windshield. I climbed out between the bucket seats and out the back door. During all the hysteria, I was terrified to look at the passenger side seat. There was a presence there. I knew it for certain. The officer who came on the scene told me I was lucky. No Duh. This should have been far worse. From the marks on the pavement and the time frame in which witnesses said it happened, the truck was estimated at falling at a rate of 120 miles per hour.

The sensations of the day stayed with me for a long time. I didn’t feel the presence again after that day. I remained curious about it, but it was gone.  I moved on with life and spent a number of years caring for my mother. The presence didn’t bother me, not a single time, while I was occupied with my mom, busy with the closing of her house and the move back to Baytown.

Three weeks ago, I sat quietly in the car as I drove to the grocery store. The air pressure changed. My throat tightened. The sounds from the radio faded into the distance.

It has been back three times since.

After my list of chores swirled in my head this morning, as I sat in my chair, as the TV blared morning news and game show reruns, I mentally tell it to let me know who it is. I didn’t even realize I had stopped typing for that brief moment. It was fainter this time, but it was there.

It was more than enough for me to get up out of my chair and end my pretense of doing nothing today. Not only do I have voices in my noodle creating lists and labeling stuff, I have something else occupying my space. Maybe it is the angel of death. I've often said I am going to go out of this life early while holding a drink in one hand and a medium rare steak in the other.

Hope for the Future

I am often disillusioned with young people. Their manners, their clothes, their personal behavior – all have given plenty of opportunity to worry about the future of our world. I have since learned to look past tattoos and clothes. I have been surrounded by many of the younger generation sporting the weird clothes and plenty of ink and discovered that they can be polite, bright and hard working. However, there are others out there who are clueless to the every day courtesies and respect that my generation was trained to be aware of.

Classic example: A family sitting on the benches in a local cafeteria waiting for the long line to wind down. I entered with my elderly mother walking with the aid of a cane. Not a one of the adults got up to offer a seat, nor did they tell their children to get up and make space. I had to approach a young man and ask if he would be so kind as to give his seat to a lady who could not stand very long. He complied, but the notion to defer to someone who looked like they had difficulty standing wasn’t an auto-response ingrained in his brain.

If someone signals they need to get in my lane on our crazy freeways, I slow down and let them over. I can’t tell you how many times I have signaled and tapped my brakes to indicate I need to merge, only to miss my exit or get forced into a dangerous situation. I don’t care what color someone is – if they are elderly they need to go ahead of me or have my seat. I have pulled over and handed people at bus stops my only umbrella. Umbrellas are cheap and are found in almost every store one can walk into.

My best yard-stick for the personality of many of our youth is my contact with those who work in the food service industry. Some are just working because they need a job for spending-money. Some work to pay for school. Some work to support themselves and family. By and large they are polite, but I find that many are doing their jobs on auto pilot and doing only what is necessary to stay employed while managing to spend more time visiting with their working cohorts and playing with their phone.

A typical experience:

Waiter: May I take your drink order?

Me: I would like a water, a drink and some extra paper napkins.

Ten minutes go by and the drink arrives. It is usually delivered by a runner, not the waiter. The drink is not correct. The lime is missing. They made it tall when I ordered a rocks glass. Clearly, the specifics of my order were not noted on a piece of paper. My words “I ordered a water first.” are lost on the runner. The waiter returns to see if we are ready to order the meal. By this time I have eaten enough chips or peanuts to choke a hippopotamus. I am parched. My words to the waiter of, “I ordered a water first. And extra napkins.” Their reply comes out almost as if I am being snippy with them, maybe even hinting that I never ordered the water in the first place. “I’ll get that right out.” is usually their reply. In the meantime, dinner is ordered.

The water does not arrive. Dinner is served and, again, I ask for water. “Oh, yes. I’ll get that right out.” is heard again. They are simply clueless or just not paying attention. They certainly are not writing down details. And the devil is in the details.

I am not saying this happens in every restaurant. By and large wait staff are pretty good, just not paying enough attention to detail as expected by someone who is a person who does pay attention to detail. When I stumble on a server who gets it right the first time, I try to ask to sit in their station every time. I will even dine only on the nights they are assigned to work, just to avoid the kids who might write down your drink, but water and napkins are not written down, maybe because they think, in that fleeting nano second, they will remember those two items.

Hence forth comes the story of Anna, a waitress at a local steakhouse chain. The first time she waited on us, she asked me to wait for her to get her pad open so she could write everything down. She even said, “I don’t want to forget anything.” The first item she wrote was water, then paper napkins, then the drinks. I am specific about the drink. She wrote everything down and repeated the order, explaining that, since she didn’t fully understand some bar jargon, she wanted to be certain it was correct. The water and napkins arrived as soon as she turned in the drink orders. The drink arrived in perfect order. She delivered it herself so she could question the bar tender to make sure it was done as ordered. The one time the drink was delivered by a runner, Anna was upset. It prevented her from ensuring it was made as ordered, and, of course, it wasn’t. She took it back immediately with profuse apologies.

After only a couple of trips, Anna quickly took up our routine and was ready for us almost before we settled in our seats. Brief conversations allowed us to get to know her better. She asked questions about us and slowly learned our personalities and things going on in our daily life.

Now, who would expect someone less than half our age to be interested in two old people? I will certainly have no impact on her future. I will have no input in her daily life. I will have no influence on her family and friends. But I do hope, years from now, she will remember an old lady who was quirky and funny. I also hope she will remember how we treated her and pay it forward to a young person in her life's future. My other hope, even though I know she is studying for another career, is that she might stay in the service industry to teach others. I believe she could be management. I believe she could be a game changer. I am sure she will enrich the lives of others, young and old. I am certain she will be successful at whatever she chooses to do. She knows the devil is in the details, and she makes certain she has those details under control.

While others are going in circles, Anna is drawing a map with all the right circles and arrows to get her where she is going. That steakhouse is lucky to have someone of Anna’s caliber.

She is also a prime example of the fact that there are always those exceptions to the rules. She is a blonde. The jokes simply do not apply.

On Being a Big Sister

My younger brother is about twice my size. He towers over everyone. It is a running joke to introduce him as my “baby” brother. In the early years of high school he had a growth spurt My mother, in self defense, made all his pants and shirts that year. He grew an inch a week for a couple of months. His bones actually hurt, and you could almost hear him creak as his body stretched.

Steve started out as a rolly-polly chub of a baby. He was so heavy mother had to make him walk on leading strings as soon as he could takes steps on his own. She simply couldn’t carry him any longer. Back in the day, leading strings  looked a lot like a body harness with a leash you put on a dog. There weren’t cute back packs or bracelets then. And the leading strings were sorely needed with Steve. He was fast. He would dart away from mom in the blink of an eye. We went on a shopping trip to downtown Port Arthur one Saturday. Steve was about three years old, I was about five. Steve, as usual, got hungry and decided he didn’t want to walk any more. He simply dropped down on the sidewalk and refused to get up. Mother could barely lift him. She begged and tugged and made promises the shopping trip would soon be over. Nothing worked. He was holding fast to rolling on the ground like a very heavy sack of potatoes. He needed encouragement from his older sister. In a moment my mother was looking up, I leaned over and clearly said, “Get up or I’ll kick you.” He rolled a bit, I pulled my foot back and he popped up. Mom was praising her little man for doing just as she asked. Then she scolded me for being ugly to my brother. Humph!

Our street had very deep drainage ditches on each side. The ditch in front of our house was at least three feet deep. With heavy rains, we had our very own swimming pool. One Sunday morning following a stormy night with torrential rain, mother dressed Steve for church and told him to behave. Being about five years old at the time, Steve couldn’t resist the tug of the water. Like the sirens of the Odyssey, the muddy water called to him. Mother walked past the living room windows and spotted his head bobbing up and down in the ditch. She stormed out of the house, grabbed a switch from a tree and headed for the street. She pulled him out of the water, switched him all the way to the house and redressed him. She shook her finger in his face and said, “Don’t you dare get your Sunday clothes wet again.” Thirty minutes later, she sees the red head with the freckled face bobbing up and down in the ditch again. Oh, my, was she angry. Steve saw mother in the process of ripping another switch off the tree. He stood upright and pointed to the fence while saying as clearly as possible, “But I didn’t get my clothes wet. See? I was good.” Mother turned to see he had stripped naked and every article of clothing was hanging on the fence – each sock, each shoe, shirt, pants, underwear – all were hanging carefully and neatly. He did exactly what she told him. He did not get his Sunday clothes wet. She sat down in the yard and cried, then she started laughing. Needless to say, we were late for church.

Time rocked along and we graduated high school. Steve graduated high school in 1976 and immediately joined the Navy. He was deployed on a nuclear submarine that traveled the world. He would never tell us where they went, but hinted years later that they could often hear Russian music. He would never tell how fast that big sub would go. We would ask questions like, “60 miles an hour? 80 miles?” His only answer was “fast.” In 1978 I gave birth to my daughter. Steve was deployed on a 90 day mission. There was no way to make a phone call to let him know he was an uncle. My parents contacted the Red Cross for advice. They were advised that a telegram, referred to as a familygram, could be sent. In the situation of a non-emergency the sub would get the message when they surfaced. Other methods were used in emergencies. My mother, armed with the knowledge that the telegram had to be brief, dictated the following:  "expected package arrived stop small but powerful stop." Okay, so did this sound like the stuff of bombs and espionage to you? Well, apparently it did to the officers on the sub. I never knew whether or not they put him in the brig while questioning Steve over the unusual verbiage of the telegram. I know he was upset and probably blamed me.

(I don’t know if I have written about this before, but Steve is a lot like that character in MacGyver on the old television show. If it goes wrong, Steve can fix it. If you are stuck in the Gulf of Mexico on a boat with a broken motor, and you have a choice of my brother or a computer genius, give Steve a piece of bubble gum and a bobby pin. He will get you home. Needless to say, when I have a mechanical issue baffling me, I call Steve.)

When Steve came home after several deployments to actually see his new niece, we all gathered at my parents’ home for a big family dinner. Steve gently cradled Tina in his giant arms that hovered several inches over my head. He followed mother into the kitchen and quietly asked if I had been ill during pregnancy or had been sick with a serious illness. Mother was puzzled, said no and asked him why he was concerned. He said, “Because Cheryl looks so little and shrunken.” She laughed and said, “She’s always been that size. She just had you fooled into thinking she was bigger, meaner and tougher than you so she could take away your bike.”

So I guess the real job of being a big sister is to tell all. Sorry, baby brother.

And I didn’t take his bike that often. He usually let me have it if asked. At least, I think that’s how that went.

Officially A Rat

As many of my friends know, I spent a short time being unemployed before I found work – not my dream job, but one that gave me some pocket change. I took a position with a unique legal firm in Houston, Texas. It was a far cry from anything I have done in my life. I had a whole new language to learn, new routines and a handful of law partners to learn how they wanted things done their personal way. I told each one of them they were like newborn babies for me, and we all know babies don’t come with an instruction manual tailored to each one's individual likes, dislikes and all the unknown variables that can be factored in.  The office was housed on the 13^th floor of prime real estate on Post Oak Boulevard. That is Houston’s version of Rodeo Drive. [If you guys don’t know what Rodeo Drive is. . . . Google it.]

Another aspect of this new adventure was the fact that I joined the commuter realm. For years I lived in areas where the drive to work was either simple, short and sweet, or I was going the opposite direction of the main flow of traffic. I was able to drive right up to the first spot by the entrance and sashay in with ease. Not so with this job. I had to drive on congested freeways and side streets. It took me weeks to find a path that got me off the interstate and into my section of town in less than 90 minutes.

Oh, and Fridays? Try getting home from Houston to Baytown on a Friday afternoon. There is a total Exodus starting at three in the afternoon. I think folks take off from work as early as possible to get the heck out of Dodge. ALL OF THEM. At the end of my first week I found myself in the fray of truckers, families, and single people all attempting to evacuate the city in a frenzy. There were people racing in and out of traffic, barely hitting brakes in time before plowing into the person in front of them, veering into the next lane with no signals – causing total panic on the driver they just cut off. It was a mess. A drive that should have taken 45 minutes took almost two hours. Ouch. I wondered if I could make enough money at this job to buy a helicopter. Ha Ha. In my dreams.

I also had another new experience – the parking garage. Placed next to the 22 story high rise where I worked was an eight level parking garage. On my first day of work I was handed my new parking garage key card. No instructions were included. I found the entrance I was to use. That was easy. The first two were labeled Reserved Parking. They may as well have said Big Shots Who Can Afford Reserved Parking or just plain Fat Cats. The ceiling clearance was posted at 6’ 4”. I had no clue how tall my Honda Odyssey was, so I held my breath and entered slowly. Needless to say, cars were honking for me to hurry. The loudest one was the jacked up pick up truck behind me. So I took it that my little van would fit. I found the contract parking section marker that steered me away from the free visitors’ section. I wound my way through to the machines with the magic lift arms that would allow me in to my sector. I rolled up to the machine and searched for the place to insert my card. In the process of my confusion trying to fine the slot, my card hovered in front of a panel and a beep was heard. The arm lifted. Duh. Airport parking and museum garages manned by humans taking your ticket have been my only experience with this situation.

So now, instead of driving up to the entrance doors and sashaying in, I have become one of hundreds of underground creatures scurrying through dark level after dark level of a parking garage searching for a prime parking spot. Oh, wait, prime doesn’t come into play here. The prime spots are from levels one to three. I have seen the cars parked in the spaces numbered 101 – 150. My lifetime income will never total what these people make in a month. By 325 – 400 they are nice SUVs and sedans. These levels have posted speed limits so you will drive slower to avoid turns that may scrape a car your insurance company couldn’t possibly afford to repair. They also have speed bumps to further slow you down lest you accidentally bump one of the big dogs running in the River Oaks circle. You know how the Houston Museum of Natural Science has the levels marked with colors and the names of dinosaurs? I could imagine colorful pictures on ground level of a priceless Arabian stallion. Three levels up is a fluffy Persian cat perched on a padded pillow. Go higher and images of show dogs decorate the walls. Keep climbing and the levels change from birds to turtles, to possums, to snakes and to my level, the slugs. Oh, and there are no speed bumps on Slug Level. You get points for mowing us down.

After level four you will continue to find reserved slots with numbers painted on the floor. These are all near the elevators. The unmarked slots for regular people are found at a distance just short of a cross county race. Once on my level, it is discovered that every good parking slot is taken by people who live close enough in town to avoid the dreaded freeway commute. I continue up toward the sunlight and find the only place I can bend this boxy van into – on the roof. Mind you, rain is slated for my first day. Great.

So I have evolved backward. Like an old building infested with rats, I now crawl around with the rest of the vermin undeserving of superior parking in the underbelly of a parking garage as we forage for a place in this building trying to avoid the traps of dimly painted reserved numbers and finding glee on level seven at the farthest end of the garage that still has some form of cover from the elements. The walk is still endless, but I tread the path with the knowledge that, if I get up early enough, leave home early enough, hope for the best of traffic conditions, and just plain luck out – I won’t get soaked in the rain or sweat for more than 20 seconds on my way in to the office. You know what they say about Houston and our humidity. “If you have to walk outside, there is a twenty second rule. Any longer exposed to our heat and humidity you’re going to sweat and stink up the office.” With my hike from parking place to elevators – yeah, I’m probably going to be a little rank.