Call
My head has been a mess. I don’t know if it’s allergies or a simple cold but my head goes from perfectly fine one minute to a raging river the next. When that river flows, all the nose-blowing in the world won’t help—unless I’m willing to sit by the tissue box all night. I was too tired to do that last night, so I blew out all I could then went to bed. But it kept coming, faucet on full throttle, with me constantly snorting stuff back up my nose and down my throat. Not only was I on the verge of drowning, but I sounded like a goose honking. Lovely sounds. My husband, who had been sleeping soundly, thought so. “Gettin’ excited over here,” he said, “listening to your mating calls.” That’s one way of casting a problem in a better...
ID
I love caller ID. At work, it keeps me from wasting valuable time with salespeople. At home, it saves me from much more. And the fact that my home answering machine talks to me, keeps me from even having to stop the gourmet feast I have in progress to look at the phone. True, I don’t always understand the computer-generated voice, but I’ve learned to translate. “Ed Vilo Vilo” actually means “8-0-0.” In other words, it’s a 1-800 number. Salesman. Don’t answer. “Hope” and “Mars Hill College” want money. True, I went to MHC and think it’s a great school, but I don’t have money to send them. Again, don’t answer. “Name Un-a-val-a-bl.” If the name of the joker calling is not available, neither am I. I get calls from all over the country: Oregon, New Hampshire, Houston,...
Ghost
Chris was a preschooler, only four or five, when he decided to be a ghost for Halloween. Good mother that I am, I sewed a real costume. No simple sheet for my child. I fashioned a white tunic for him that slipped over his head, elastic around the neckline, and long sleeves, with a separate hood that went to his shoulders and had holes cut for eyes and mouth. Pretty scary looking! On Halloween night, after putting on his costume, Chris decided it billowed too much. He didn’t want the fabric getting in the way while walking through the neighborhood trick-or-treating, so he tied a short rope around his waist and set out, looking very ghostly, we thought, in the dark. One of the homes we visited was that of a teacher from his preschool. She seemed truly...
The Locket
It was gold and heart-shaped with delicate designs etched on its front. My dad gave the locket to my mother in 1943, two years before their wedding. He was in Army basic training in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where he bought it from a small jewelry store for the love of his life. The locket opened to reveal two pictures, that of my dad on the left side, my mom on the right. I don’t know if the pictures were taken in 1943 or in 1945 when they wed; they’re both gone now so I can’t ask. But the pictures were of them, nonetheless, reminders of another day and age and of the love they had shared from childhood. While growing up, my sister, Debbie, and I cherished the times Mother would allow us to wear her locket. It was only on very special...
Teacher
My son is a teacher, a university professor. I find this amazing because, in spite of my father and sister being teachers, I was not born with that ability. My efforts to teach my children piano met with disaster: crying, refusing to do as I instructed, and finally quitting after a half dozen lessons. Though I play the piano well, it does not translate to being a good piano teacher. When I understand or do things intuitively, I can’t conceive of other people not getting it, so I have no idea how to teach them. I repeat: I am not a teacher. Never have been. Never will be. My son, Chris, however, has been teaching me all his life. I first glimpsed his ability when he was only seven. His little sister was in hysterics one afternoon because I couldn’t...
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