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...
Moving
My son has moved out. He’s twenty-nine, so it was time for him to go. Actually, though, he moved away years ago. To an out-of-state college for four years, then two years teaching school and getting a masters degree in yet another state. He came back home, but only for a couple months until he got married. Then he and his bride lived in a neighboring city while he continued his education. He has now earned that PhD and moved, along with his wife and five-month-old son, to a different state, where he’ll get to be the university professor. While they were loading their belongings onto a very large Hertz rental, we realized there was enough space to hold all of Chris’ boxes we had stored at our house. So the boxes left, as well. Books, artwork,...
Empty Nest
There was a time when I thought the term, empty nest, referred to a one-time occurrence, typically when children left the security of their parents’ home to move to a college dormitory. I have learned this is not so; the sense of loss can be felt many times by loving parents. I realize now that I first experienced it when my children moved from our constant companionship to go to preschool. Although I welcomed a few hours to myself, I couldn’t get them out of my mind, wondering if they were making friends and having a good time, worrying that they missed me. I eagerly picked them up each day, ready to resume our familiar routines, happy that they were gone only three hours each day. I felt the loss again when they started kindergarten. There was...
Electricity
I haven’t felt static electricity run through me in years. When I first learned about it as a kid, I was amazed and did everything in my power to bring on a shock. I discovered that department stores were the best places to make it happen. We would go to Hudson Belk and while my mother was looking at clothes, I would slide my feet on the carpeted floor, almost like cross-country skiing indoors, then touch a metal clothes rack or the metal trim on a display case. How the sparks would fly, with a flash of light and electric crackle, but more importantly, an electric current that would run up my arm. I thought it was so very cool to create electricity that I skied across the carpet over and over again. I apparently was an easily entertained child. Like I said,...
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