Smiling at the Memory

"Oh Mom," I sighed, as I turned away to block my eyes rolling to the back of my head.  I entered my room and turned the tape deck back on to listen to Donnie and Jordan convince me that I had the "right stuff."  Oh, oh, oh, ohhh...oh, oh, oh oh!  Mom had done the inexcusable, ...again,... gotten all dreamy on me as she re-told the story of my first day at school.  Yes, Mom, I remember....How many times can you hear the same story without getting a little impatient?  What's the big deal?  Oh, oh, oh, ohhhh! 

 

Smiling at the memory, my mind blasted back to the present .  It's my turn now, I thought.  The first day of school.  Breakfast was over and I was putting the last of the dishes away.  My little girl sat anxiously across the room at the kitchen table intent on watching the clock advance to the magical hour---the big hand on the 12 and the little hand on the 7.   She swung her legs impatiently, opened and closed her new backpack, checked once, then twice for necessary pencils and crayons and freshly colored picture for her new teacher.  Happily she examined the lunch I had packed inside her overly-sized lunch box and asked again "when is snack time at school, mama"?   My hands rested on the edge of the kitchen sink as I patiently reviewed the schedule of the day with her.  I stared out the kitchen window--my eyes wet, tightly clenched.  

 

After more than five years of being her sole care giver, I found myself struggling with "letting go."  Caught up in the moment my mind swirled in long ago memories from my first day at Kindergarten.  I was so ready! My December birthday made me wait a full year longer.  My daughter's January birthday put her in the same predicament.  A full head taller than most because of age and genes, we had a lot in common!   I remember the day well, maybe because it was retold so many times.  Regardless, I can still feel the excitement of wearing my new blue and white diagonally striped dress.  My hair, freshly washed and curled, was held back with tiny white butterfly clips.  I stepped into the morning air with my brand new orange Snoopy lunchbox and was ready to launch!  But wait!  My Mom insisted on taking me to the bus stop.   When we arrived I didn't hesitate to jump out of the car and race to the front of the line.  Shortly, the bus arrived!  The door opened with a swoosh and as I stepped up I heard my Mom call out for 'one last picture.'  I turned and she caught the moment in a picture  Why the tears, Mama?  I turned and entered the huge yellow cavity; the door closed and a whole new world welcomed me.

 

Now, glancing down at the fresh face in front of me, I knelt down to meet her eye to eye.  She placed her little hand on my cheek and leaned in for a quick kiss.  She giggled.  She recited her teacher's name and wondered out loud where she would put her lunchbox.  Do they have a refrigerator, she asked?  Will I have homework tonight?  Innocence.  Sweet, sweet innocence.  Smiling, I answered each question slowly arguing with time.   Behind my calm smile the back side of my brain exploded with hope, anxiety, love, fear....is she ready?  Did I say all that needed to be said?  Did I teach her all that needed to be taught?  Did she learn?  Will "they" be nice to her?  Will she be nice to them?  Will she be accepted?  Quickly now, brush the tear away, it's time!  Am I ready?

 

With all the excitement of a Christmas morning, we arrived at school.  The car was parked and we made our way through the crowd of school-aged children.  Confidently, my daughter held onto my hand walking ahead, pulling slightly!  Just before we arrived at the Kindergarten meeting area, I stopped her for 'one last picture'.  She obliged and her moment was captured!  A quick kiss and she rounded the corner into her new world, on her own.  The picture has become one of my favorites.  I can't wait to show it to my Mom!  She'll understand why it is so dear to me--my daughter, not so much! It may take a few years - But I'm gonna tell the story over and over anyway...I wonder what teen idol will be around to calm her nerves?

Leanna Judith

I don’t offer myself much time to actually stop and think.  Usually we hit the ground running by 6:30 a.m. and don’t stop until 10 at night.  Days are filled with the activities of the business and our children’s lives.  Often my husband and I only offer each other a quick hello and goodbye as we briskly pass each other through the different corridors of life---busy, busy, busy!  Like the Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland running with the clock dangling at his side repeating “Can’t be late!”  Life!  And then, the inevitable will happen…..

My friend’s baby girl died last week.  It was his third child.  She was 4 days old.  My friend and his wife knew of possible complications.  They had been warned by all the best doctors, but their convictions were strong.  They refused to believe science and instead relied on their faith—a faith so strong it boggled my mind as I listened to his testimony day after day of God’s healing grace.  He did not waiver.  Faith.  Makes me wonder. 

On the day of the baby’s birth I received a text message announcing the news and later I received a call.  His voice was calm.  “Something is wrong.  This is not like my other two babies.  The doctors are talking about tri-something 18.  I will call you when I know more.”  Waiting is the hardest thing, isn’t it?  I am not a good waiter.  I went to the computer and ‘googled’ tri-something 18 and found the news I did not want to read—a chromosome disorder, an extra no. 18 chromosome, which inevitably causes death, either early in life, or by the early teen years.  What remained of my faith withered…how could you, God?

A day later I received another text.  “I don’t know if I can do this.  I love my daughter!”  And after two more days, his little girl died in his arms. 

As any other friend would do, I attended the Rosary.  I arrived a few minutes ahead of time to find that the gathering had burst the side chapel and had been moved to the ‘big’ church.  Quietly I walked inside to see row after row filled with.... well, who?  Who are these people?  I sat quietly.  Alone.  I’m Catholic, so I knew just what to do.  I knelt, crossed myself and reached inside a pocket for my rosary beads.  As I situated myself for the first “our Father” I glanced down to the front of the church and spied a tiny pink casket; a perfectly shaped head rested on a pillow.  Her dark hair was edged with a pink elastic band.  My gaze drifted over to the front pew where my friend sat with his wife—tall, so tall and his wife— poised, but motionless. She rested her head on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the pink nest cradling her daughter.   I shifted in my seat.  God, why?  This is not right!  Why this couple?  They are so faithful to you!

The joyful mysteries of the rosary were prayed.  It was melodic.  It had been a long, long time.  I dropped into the rhythm easily.  My friend’s sister read a lesson from the New Testament.  His eldest daughter—all of 8—stood bravely beside her aunt and when given the cue spoke clearly into the microphone.  His four year old (known as the feisty one!) quietly waited her turn to speak –“I love my baby sister”, she plainly said and then playfully peeked from around the podium.  Cute, I thought to myself.  How proud my friend must be.  All the more reason to scorn you, God!

The next day I attended the funeral.  The parking lots were filled.  I parked halfway down a street and I was fifteen minutes early!  For pete’s sake.  I had no idea this guy had so many friends.  This time I met another cohort from work and we made our way into the church.  A piano quietly played “When You Wish Upon A Star”.  “This is going to be hard”, I said as I looked over and saw her eyes filled to the brim with tears.  “I know”, she said.  The mass began with a familiar tune, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was for as I turned to look to the back of the church my eyes landed on my friend proudly holding the tiny pink casket in his arms as he led the procession.  His wife and two daughters followed closely behind holding hands.  The daughters wore matching dresses.   Are you kidding me?  My friend’s eyes were gripped with sadness as he moved forward.   He gently placed the casket in front of the altar and joined his family.  The prayers of the mass began and at all the appropriate times the crowd responded.  The priest spoke.  He relayed his experiences with my friend over the past four days and judged it has the highpoint of his lengthy priesthood.  He remarked of the countless people touched in such a short time and gestured to the crowd as witness.  He reminded the parents attending of their own children and the lifelong significance of their position.  He spoke of unconditional love and encouraged parents to be the parents they were intended to be.  The priest turned his attention to the children attending and lightly agreed that while a parent doesn’t seem to know much at times, it was probably best to be patient because one day they would have the wisdom seldom found in youth.   The mass ended.  My friend and his wife advanced to the podium and began to speak.  Each took a turn thanking their church family, parents, relatives, hospital staff, hospice volunteers, and friends for the support shown over the past days.  They explained the chromosomal disorder, Trisomy 18 and reaffirmed their commitment to life, even if it meant losing their little one just days after birth.   My heart softened as I listened.  I began to understand.  My friend’s daughter was brought to all of us to teach the valuable lessons of unconditional love, the irreplaceable role of parenting and the reasons for an unwavering faith.     

The following day I visited with my friend.  I noticed he still wore the hospital bracelet placed on his wrist to identify his rightful title as “Daddy”.  His voice was soft, but his faith shone through his sadness.  He shared intimate details of his daughter’s life and referred to her as ‘my little angel’.  He said he knew she was protectively watching over his family and knew she lived and died to bring his family closer to one another.  I could offer no words of comfort.  He actually comforted me!  He was living proof of faith tested and victory.  He left.  I sat quietly, alone but NOT alone.  Thank you, God, I get it and I will not forget.

For more information about Trisomy 18, please visit www.trisomy18.org.

Rule No. 1: A Hauler's Wife is Not Allowed to Leave Her Post

My family is patriotic.  We can't sing "The Star Spangled Banner" without wiping a tear from our eyes.  When we see a color guard approach, we stand and salute our American flag.  Veterans are our heroes and we enjoy the splendor of fireworks on the 4th of July.  So, I invited my Mom to celebrate our nation's independence.  It would be perfect, I thought, as I dropped into a steady gaze outside my kitchen window imagining the weekend ahead.  I envisioned the hometown parade followed by an afternoon on our back patio.  We'd enjoy the cool breeze and raise our glasses to the birth of the greatest country on earth!  In my dream I could taste the cool cocktails and smell the freshly barbequed hotdogs.  The day would be topped off with ice cream churned the old fashioned way and my girls would giggle with delight at the lyrics of "Yankee Doodle".  The nearby wading pool would keep the kids entertained as my Mom and I quietly gossiped about the latest family drama.  Husbands, of course, were engaged in man-stuff, i.e., keeping an eye on the pressure of the pony keg and setting up the backyard fireworks!  Neighbors would arrive soon and festivities would continue through the night!  Ahhhh, God Bless America! I smiled to myself as I turned to see my husband standing behind me.  He had that look on his face--uh-oh, no fairy tale here! 

"Babe" he began "remember I made plans to meet the guys at the lake"!  "Don't worry, I'm taking the girls so that you can get ready for your Mom's visit.  All the trucks are set with their schedules so there shouldn't be ANY problems.  You'll have to take the 'hauling phone'-- I don't get reception out there.  Don't worry--ENJOY!"  Famous last words, I thought.

Rule No. 1:  A Hauler's Wife is not allowed to leave her post.

"MY" plan did not include the hauling phone today.  Knowing the girls would be gone and that my Mom wasn't expected to arrive before the afternoon, I RSVPd to a baby show -- at a spa!  Each of my friends had chosen a treatment--facial, manicure, pedicure or massage.  I chose a massage.  What fun, how relaxing ... I needed this!  Following our treatments, we planned to lounge in comfy robes, eat decadent finger foods, and share well-deserved time together--without husbands or kids!  Now, with the phone in my hand the picture-perfect day began to dim.  Quickly, I shook it off.  I refused defeat!  Everything would be fine.  My boss said so ...  Confidently, I tucked the phone in my purse and headed out before the festivities of the holiday weekend began! 

I reached my destination, greeted my friends and slipped into my robe.  We sipped bubbly, while listening to the new mom's ideas for names; some shared "war stories" of birth and others shared rebuilt bodies after birth and mommy hood! Gosh, this is fun, I thought ...then....bzzzzz,bzzzzbzz,bzzzzzzzz--my pocket was vibrating!  I quietly excused myself and answered.  I listened ...  flat tire.  On the roadside, now about 30 minutes behind. The driver had called the next client but just wanted to let me know.  Everything in control.  Check. I returned to the party and soon after was called for my massage.  A bit tense, I flopped on the massage table.  I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes and listened to the soft music.....the lights were dim and I began to relax under the pressure of the therapist's touch...... BzzzzzBzzzBZZZZZZ!  My eyes popped wide open!  Now what?!  I stayed in the still, prone position and the massage continued innocently.  My mind raced...  What could be happening!  I NEED to get the phone. I thought. BE STILL! I reprimanded myself.  I heard the soft words of the therapist urging me to relax....RELAX?  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA OF THE LIABILITY (then, forcing calmness) that is out on the road right now?  Calm down...!!   Everything is going to be just fine.  You hire capable men, I reminded myself.  I willed my shoulders to relax.   BzzzzBzzBzzzBZZZZZZZ!  I inhaled deeply, I exhaled with greater force.  I pinched my eyes closed.  Ahhh, this is NICE!  What a luxury! This..IS...nice, I repeated again to myself.  The therapist had found a tight spot and expertly rubbed it to submission.  My fists unclenched ....relax, I coaxed myself.  Silence at last, then BzzzzBzzzBzBzBzBZZZZZZ.  Damn!

Time crept by and the phone continued to vibrate reminding me of waiting messages.  I endured the session and when it was over I politely thanked the therapist, jumped off the table and before the door closed my phone was dialed for voice mail....WHAT, what could it be?  I stood, half naked and listened intently--"Hi sis, it's Mom...we got down here early and I let myself in.  Where are you guys?  We brought the potato salad and ice cold watermelon.  Take your time.  I'll start the ice cream.  We'll be in the back yard when you get here.  Can't wait to see you!  Bye!"   I put my phone down, tipped my head back and laughed to myself ... My Mom!  

Rule No. 2:  A Hauler's Wife needs to relax!

Where will this day take me?

Coffee is something I look forward to each morning. There’s something—dare I say, almost erotic-- about the fragrance of brewing coffee as I slowly wake up. I poured a hot cup and lazily considered my options for the day: the Zoo, SeaWorld, the beach. I recalled the time when I woke to the sound of an alarm, only to rush through a shower and then fly off to teach “the future of America” ... was that so bad? On this particular morning, my husband had started the pot prior to leaving for work. After taking my second sip, I decided to get my daily chores started before the girls joined me for the day.  The dishes had been washed, but needed to be put away. Laundry was dry, but there was a wet load that needed to be moved to the dryer; another load was ready to follow.  The cycle never ends!

Opening the door to the garage, which doubles as my laundry room, I planned to change the first load of laundry.  It was still early in the morning and the light of day was just seeping through the windows of the garage door. With two little girls and a hard working husband, it seemed like I never got caught up.  It will only get worse, I thought, as visions of teenagers entered my still hazy mind. 

Pain stabbed the front of my leg and jerked my attention to a stack of debris in my pathway.  “What the ... ?”  I stopped abruptly to first survey the damage to my shin and then to peruse the pile.  Damn! I thought.  More shit left here for me to sort through.  As I rubbed the pain from my leg, I stooped down take a closer look: bar stools, framed prints, a box of pots and pans, and a tool box so crammed that the lid remained open. This will all be going to the Goodwill today! 

I stood, leaned against one of the bar stools and sipped my coffee.  The other part of hauling that was beginning to haunt me was the growing frequency of being called to clean out abandoned or foreclosed homes.  The recession came through our communities like a ravaged storm leaving behind a trail of lost dreams.  I sighed as my foot nudged the lid of the overfilled tool box to an open position.  Sarcastically, I asked myself, “What valuable treasures could be so important to justify ruining my morning?” My eye settled on a faded photograph taped to the inside of the lid.  Two beautiful little girls swinging, faces filled with the joy as a slimly built woman smiled and readied herself for the next push.  I knelt to look closer at the picture and began to finger through the odds and ends.  There, placed perfectly in the corner on the top shelf of the rusted tool chest was a small Raggedy Ann doll. Her head tilted to the side, her smile with cheer and her arms wide, almost asking for me to rescue her from the saddened misfortune of being left behind.  Around the little doll's neck was a necklace with a small shiny locket.  Gently I opened the locket to see the face of a handsome young man smiling back-- eyes wide and filled with love.  I breathed in deeply and stared back at the man.  Who are you? I asked silently.  And, where are you now?

Practically Perfect in Every Way

The week was crazy.  Standing in the spare bedroom-turned-office the muscles in my neck began to twist as I gazed over the disorder.  Our normal routine was disturbed by the close of the preschool year.  My daughters, under tow every day--all day, pulled for my attention.  The business phone rang excessively.  The office had turned into the hub for activity -- coloring books, puzzles, and paints were strewn across the floor as evidence of the attempt to keep my 5 and 3-year old occupied while the day's work schedule demanded focus and precision.  Calls to return, a driver's schedule to organize, landscape products to order, pictures of a job prospect to sort and submit with an estimate, and then of course, my favorite--making time to prepare for an unemployment claim fraudulently filed against our struggling to stay alive part-time, gee-isn't-this-fun-business!  My throat began to close off necessary oxygen and the walls began to close in around me as I looked about the room. 

I must confess: I'm a Type A.  It all seemed so innocent, Your Honor.  A clean closet, homework turned in on time, and a high school part time job -- I was even awarded graduation with Honors to continue this behavior into my college days!  And, now look!  Who'd a-thought it could shred my innards and give me hives?  Type A personalities relate to Mary Poppins...."a place for everything and everything in its place"! -- "Spit-spot!" -- and the mantra that rolls through my overly crowded head -- "Practically perfect in every way"!  The truth is, Mary Poppins might have been smokin' something!

If I were to write a Type A marriage manual, my number one caution would be:  Beware!  Do not marry another Type A (don't worry, I didn't).  If you do, make certain his first name is preceded with "Prince" and his address is somewhere on Castle Drive. And because I know the heart always wins, make certain before you commit to have one phrase on the tip of your lips at all times--"NO, DEAR" and then practice using it with various combinations, always with a smile:  "No, dear, I can't work a full time job with two preschool children and manage your business".   "No, dear, I am sorry, dinner will not be ready at 6 tonight".  "No, dear, driving the hauling truck for the week is not okay...it stinks." Lastly, stick to your guns--this "A" world is cruel to those who have fluffed the nest of their homes with too many "Yes, dears...." 

As I write, the children remind me of promised watermelon slices in the back yard, my phone has alerted me that the driver is ready to pick up his schedule, the doorbell is dinging (we don't have Westminster chimes!) announcing the arrival of a package or a Craig's List buyer and my Boss (aka hubby) is calling to be assured that the day went "as planned"...."No, dear, it did not."  The words come out as lightly as I can say them and he, understanding, says in his most princely fashion, "Don't worry, I'm on my way home.  Tell the driver I'll get the schedule to him in an hour, ask the buyer at the door to wait two minutes--I'm coming up the street...And babe, don't worry - I've got dinner with me, so why don't you turn on the hot tub.  I'll help with baths tonight and we can relax after they are in bed."  Music to my ears...."practically perfect in every way."

Me, the Pack Mule?!

As a new wife, it was my pleasure to grocery shop for my new husband.  I regarded the experiences of choosing fine cuts of meats, fresh organic vegetables, exotic fruits, and savory cheeses as just one more gift bestowed on my front porch of life.  My husband, a treasure all by himself, would jump at the sound of our car arriving in the driveway.  Before I could open the car door, he'd have it open and be leaning inside for a quick kiss.  Without hesitation he would turn to the back seat and swiftly gather up all the groceries into one arm (my purse in the other), turn in time to kick my door closed and still have time to step ahead to hold the door to the house open for me.  As I made my way in to the house, my attention never strayed far from my freshly manicured nails; other times, I sifted through the mail as I idly walked through the front door.  If there were more groceries than one trip could afford, I paid no mind.  Hubby would grab them and bring them to the kitchen.  Life was gentle.

Years passed and doggone it, so did chivalry.  I remember the first time I drove into the driveway after my usual grocery spree.  Naively I sat for a minute longer than usual.  I believe I turned to organize the contents of my purse or something.  I wasn't waiting.  But, looking back, -- I was.  When a comfortable amount of time passed, I got out of the car feeling a bit of confusion.  I retrieved the first load of groceries and made my way into the house.  "Hi babe, I'm home."  Silence.  I walked through the kitchen to the living room and found my knight huddled over an X-box remote controller.  "Babe, hi--just got home with the groceries." I said standing behind him.  "Gooood", he responded without looking up, "Did you remember to get tomato juice?--my turn to make Bloody Marys before the game today".  "Yep" I said and turned, still expecting him to join me.  He didn't.  I brought the rest of the groceries into the house.  Never an unkind word was spoken; not necessary, there was no anger.  

Parenthood introduced a whole new element.  My precious, precious cargo!  I wanted to hold my babies!  I cooed into their faces as I buckled them in and out of their car seats.  I didn't want just anyone touching my cherubs' toys or personal belongings.  I was in Heaven as I proudly walked the promenade of motherhood.  I didn't notice the changes taking subtle shape.

Fast Forward....Eight Years...Two Daughters...and One Knight (with slightly tarnished armor)...

I am now a pack mule.  No kidding.  I even refer to myself as one!  Getting out of the car these days requires a sturdy back, strong arms, the ability to balance multiple things with multiple parts of my body and the patience of Mother Theresa.  The usual scene goes something like this:  The car pulls into the driveway.  My husband has been missing from this scene for years, so I don't even hesitate.  Before the kids can reach for the latch on their car seats, the neighborhood kids are beckoning them away to their game.  I literally jump aside as my daughters scoot by.  In passing each reminds me:  "Don't forget....." and they list prizes from the day's events:  the toys they couldn't leave the house without, art projects from their day at preschool, and most certainly their beloved worn to rags blankets and stuffed toys.  And I always say with as much loving sarcasm as I can muster -- "Don't worry, the pack mule will get it"!  -- And with all the innocence of little girls, they laugh as they turn to their friends and say "Oh, Mom, you're soooo funny!"  

Mothers don't just become pack mules....mothers train to be pack mules and I admit it has taken me a while to "get it."  I believe the strongest message came to me as I made my way into our house after an outing.  Flanked with groceries, toys, blankies, and articles of clothing I glanced up to see my reflection grasping the butt-end of my daughter's beloved stuffed dog "Pinkie" with my teeth.  My gait had been slowed as I was deftly navigating my youngest daughter's trike inside the door with my foot.  Good Lord!  I AM a pack mule. 

I believe life is a series of lessons.  My moment in the mirror taught me a lesson.  Funny as it was, I stopped calling myself a pack mule--for two reasons:  (1) I am NOT a pack mule and (2) my youngest daughter got a kick out of loading up the pack mule (me!).  Re-training has begun.  These days we're learning to share the responsibilities of living together.  Each daughter is responsible for her own belongings.  "Bring it along if you must," I say "but remember, you are the one to carry it back into the house".  We've had some unhappy moments when Pinkie isn't around at bed time and it requires a quick trip to car to get him tucked in for the night!  Everyone is responsible to bring one bag of groceries inside and oh, they struggle as their friends call out -- "Come play!"

The transition has been slow but re-training is never easy.  My husband and I never discussed my pack mule revelation, but I know he's watched.  Just yesterday, I pulled up into the driveway with the car packed--from around the corner of the house, he appeared and without a word, opened the back door and began to help unloading the days' treasures--first our girls, then the groceries.  I swear I could see something shiny under his shirt.

Teaching Manners

On Monday, the skies were gray and the weather a bit chilly, so I decided to put on my "uniform" (aka, my comfortable clothes) and hoped the girls would be low maintenance. Yeah right!  They were very aware it was "Monday- Funday"!

I attempted to tantalize them with puzzles, coloring books, paints and legos to no avail.  Beaten down, I decided to switch things up quickly.  Hair brushed, shoes on, we all jumped into the car for a spontaneous outing.  But, where to go? I thought hard.  Not the zoo--way too much walking for this lazy day.  Ronald McDonald didn't appeal to me either.  Even in comfy clothes the idea of crawling up those brightly colored tubes to save a stuck child didn't entice me.   

 Before I reached the freeway, I had another idea....Lately, we had been working on our table manners.  Each daughter enjoyed the pleasantries of "please pass the bread" and "may I please be excused from the table"?  We had gone over the use of a napkin and how it was folded gently into one's lap.  I was confident that my daughters were ready to fly solo. "Hey, I know what we could do, girls, let's go to a real restaurant"!

Okay.  So, it was Monday, noon -- maybe not the best decision, but I proceeded naively not remembering what it was like (in my past life) to be on a designated lunch break with only a certain amount of time.  I moved quickly from my seat, closed the door and reached for the passenger door to help my daughters step onto the pavement.  With the door wide open, I encouraged the kids to hurry along.  Unknowingly, three nicely dressed business men were behind me waiting.  Annoyed, one of the men attempted to squeeze through the narrow channel while the other two turned and went to the other passenger door.  I wedged the girls closer to the car allowing him to pass, smiled and jokingly said, "Sorry, it takes a bit longer with my little crew."  Without a gesture or a nod of acknowledgment, he swiftly slid into the already revved car and left with his cohorts.

Since 'manners' was my theme for the day, I knelt down beside my daughters and explained the importance of patience with all people in the world (and especially women with children!).

Taking our place inside the restaurant and reminding them of all the basic manners to remember we ordered our lunches. Our napkins were folded in our laps as were our hands.  "May I please have a grilled cheese sandwich with white bread?  Thank you."  "May I please have chicken nuggets, but no spicy sauce?  Thank you."  Well, that went well, I smiled proudly. Thankfully a coloring book was provided for the wait.  I quietly continued the lesson reminding each to stop their coloring project and thank the waitress when our lunch was served.   

Looking across the restaurant I saw a table where four women sat.  It didn't appear they were friends.  No one spoke.  Two looked off, bored, one was wildly texting. The fourth, however, smiled as she watched my girls color in their books.  We made eye contact and I returned a smile.  My imagination went into high gear as I pictured her as a mom longing to be at home with her children.  What she didn't know, I thought, is that there are days I would gladly switch places. 

I turned my attention back to my table just in time to see our waitress advance with our tray of delicious food.  The girls dropped their crayons, sat up straight and in unison said "Thank you!"  The waitress dropped down to their level and complimented each for using such good manners.  They smiled broadly--"Mom said we had to", the younger one blurted as she reached for a nugget.  The waitress looked my way as she got up to move on, "It doesn't happen often, you should be proud of them, ma’am."  The meal was a success; no spilled milk, no outbursts, and lunch hungrily devoured.  There is no doubt in my mind -- I am here for a purpose -- today, at least!

Integrity - Get Some!

My husband and I made the decision early on in our junk-dealing career that we would not charge our patrons who served in the military, fought crime in our communities or put out fires.  It was our personal way of saying thank you.  Sometimes the decision pinched our pocketbook, but we were always happy to pay it forward.  The other day we inherited a brand new top of the line carpet cleaner.  I was excited!  It was an easy sell on Craigslist and I envisioned the crisp $100 bill that would be placed into my hand.   

On the day I listed the carpet cleaner I got tons of calls!  Sweet, I thought!  A $100 day!  The first call was from a young guy.  We made quick introductions and he mentioned he was in the Navy.  Upon arrival, he took a look at the carpet cleaner, rubbed his chin and confessed he was only interested in the hose attachment kit.  Without hesitation, I unleashed it from the handle and as I handed it to him I said "My husband and I would like you to have this at no charge and thank you for all you do for us..."  He gratefully accepted and went on his way. 

Later that day a friendly older couple came to see the carpet cleaner.  By that time, I had uploaded a lower price as the hose attachment was not included--"Brand new Carpet Cleaner--$75!  They introduced themselves as Al and Sadie and we visited for several minutes as they inspected their prospective purchase.  Pleased with the condition, they handed me a wad of bills.  I tucked it in my pocket, we said our good byes and I headed back into the house to answer the ringing telephone and pull my girls apart from a squabble over whose Barbie doll was going to ride in the pink sports car.  With both issues quickly settled, I opened my hand to count the bills.  Uh-oh!  I had five 20s!  $100!  I checked out the window but their car was gone.  I called the phone number they had used when they first called to inquire -- dang, it was their home phone!  I left a message explaining that they had overpaid and asked them to please call so that we could arrange a time for them to pick up their change. 

The following day I received a phone call from my new friend, Al.  He thanked me for the carpet cleaner, said he and his wife had used it that day and didn't hear my message until the following morning. (Older folks, I've learned, don't check their voice mail as often as we do!)  He wanted to let me know he was pleased with it but that his real reason for calling was to thank me for having the integrity to call him about the overpayment.  He went on and on about 'back in the day' and 'how it used to be' and over-joyfully exclaimed that my action restored a lost faith he had had for the future of our children.  He said he knew that if there were more parents 'out there' like us things would be fine, just fine, he said.   Once again, we said our good byes, this time with my mind exploring his words.  Hmmm....in-teg-rity....I thought of all my recent encounters with the people in my life....integrity----got some?

Is the Sludge Good for the Marriage?

At our wedding, my brother-in-law gave the most amazing 8-page speech. He spoke of their childhood and all the fond memories he has of his big brother.  He said quite a few things (most of which went over my head), but one item he touched on stuck out in my mind. He spoke of the wires that one day may string from room to room in search of a more efficient home. And the potential “experiments” that may one day take over my kitchen. I laughed, thinking this was a funny joke and gazed on at my groom with dreamy eyes.

When we met, he lived downtown in a condo. In his bathroom he brewed small amounts of beer, but that was painless, right? He had one tool box, a car that worked and fewer clothes than me … This would be a match in heaven.

Who would have thought that our 2400 square foot home could be filled so quickly? I remember moving in and thinking who could fill all this space? Who would have thought that the enchanted rose garden would have been transformed into an edible garden? And who would have thought the small, gas friendly cars would transform to large diesels running on bio-fuels?!

I try to gloat about the bio-fuels. I like to tell people that the emissions are far better for the environment. I keep waiting for someone to ask, “But is the sludge good for the marriage?”

I most often love the comment: “Gosh, smells like french fries when you start your car!” Or, even better when someone asks, “After I fry this turkey, can I dump my oil in your tank?”

The jokes keep coming and I keep smiling. I love my husband, I do .. but I think there may have been more to my brother-in-law's 8-page speech than I understood!

A Perpetual Garage Sale

As a high school student, I loved garage sales.  I had this crazy friend who was just like me.  If we spent Friday night together (which was more often than not) we’d get up at the crack of dawn, throw on clothes which we had purchased the week before from someone’s driveway, and head off for the local Circle K for a fresh cup of cinnamon coffee.  Armed with our hard earned money from babysitting jobs, part time pizza parlor stints and a buck or two snatched from my mom’s wallet, we’d head off in one of our almost-working cars to follow the signs to Saturday’s treasure troves.

Time, time, time, what has become of me?....As much as I would love to spend my Saturdays cruising from one sale to the next, my life has pulled me in a most interesting direction.  In many ways, I am living in a perpetual garage sale! 

I’ve never actually initiated having a garage sale.  With working full time, then staying home with my daughters, and adding  the hauling business on to my repertoire the very last thing I wanted to do was greet the 5 A-Mers to haggle over the price of a lamp shade.   But I will participate!  Any time a neighbor asks if I’d like to add to their sale, I pull open the garage door and swiftly move through the collection and select choice pieces.  I do it for a couple of reasons: (1) I really like garage sales!  They are so American ... When else do we sit in the cul-de-sac and visit with neighbors over morning coffee?  And (2)  I do it to clear a path in my garage.  Afterward, I feel so cleansed, so orderly!  I sweep the cleared space and reclaim it for silly stuff like laundry baskets and Costco bulk!  I’ve learned this is just part of a cycle that will repeat itself several times a year.  Stuff appears, crowding my way--I reorganize, shuffle, sell—Then, stuff reappears crowding my way and the cycle begins again.  I’m an optimist, though…I’m certain this is just a phase.   I close my eyes, click the heels of my shiny red shoes and dreamily say….there’s no place like home….

Not long ago I learned that our neighborhood was scheduled to have the “famous” annual HOA garage sale.  To faithful garage sale-ers this is The Big One.  It attracts thousands of people! Some people will have traditional garage sales—others will sell hot dogs and sodas.  Crafters work all year long and set up their table of colorful wares in their yard.  Some come out from behind their front doors with patio chairs just to watch the spectacle!  

Excitedly I began to prepare.   Dishes were stacked in one section, furniture in another, clothes out front—people love to go through other’s closets!  Ceramic pots for gardening, kids’ toys and books—all neatly stacked and priced to sell! Certainly I don't want any of this to make its way back in the house or garage! It took only a couple of days.  And, the garage never looked better!  Boasting, I even left the garage door open for a few minutes for my across the street neighbor to see!  You can never be too proud (even if it is only a small victory)! 

The sale was a success!  We had a great day milling in and out of each other’s yards.  By the day’s end we were beat and a few dollars richer!  As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, I gathered up my kids, said our good nights to the neighbors and headed upstairs for evening bath time.  The girls happily splashed as I sipped a much deserved cocktail.  In the distance I heard the low muffle of the hauling truck lumbering up the street and glanced out….the sides of the truck were bulging! I clicked my heels and silently repeated…there’s no place like home…there’s no place like home.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

My husband has the uncanny ability to proclaim a desire and voila! it appears soon after in a hauling job!  I used to laugh at the coincidence, but I've learned by watching him that it has little to do with coincidence.  There really is something to this "ask and ye shall receive" ...  especially after all the hype from The Secret!  The trick is believing in what you ask for! 

  

Just last week, as he gazed into the back yard he dreamily sighed: “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a bigger composter this summer?  Ours is just too small.”   Okay, I thought … but we already have one. Why would we buy another?   I dismissed the comment but the following day.... a brand new bigger composter showed up on the back of our truck! 

A few weeks ago, same thing... he boldly put it out there:  “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a water softener for the house?”  Really? I mused.  I barely understood what a water softener did--, but soon after, one appeared in mint condition in one of those famous trash outs! 

New storage racks for the garage … got ‘em!

Longer pressure washer hose ... done!

Patio furniture … check!

I'm paying more attention these days because I think he's really on to something.  He might even be like a guru or some sort of manifestation ninja.  

Manifesting....hmmm, let me think. Five bedroom house on three acres in the north county sure would be nice.  "Honey," I call out, "how do you feel about moving?  Can we talk about what I've got on my mind?"

Silver Salad Tongs

I was raised in a family where personal belongings were cherished. They are regarded as treasures and the stories of their beginnings were told with the deepest respect.  My grandmothers' homes are filled with "hand-me-downs" -- tarnished trinkets on dressers, crocheted afghans thrown over aged furniture, collections of teapots, sugar bowls and fine crystal.  Everything has a detailed story connected to it.  I've heard each one several times, as I listened to them being retold by my Mother and Grandmothers.  Here I learned the importance of family history. In the absence of a long passed ancestor, I feel their presence while holding the precious treasure.

As a Hauler's Wife I've collected an arsenal of other people's treasures.  Their stories are lost by the time I come into the picture.  As I gently handle pieces of jewelry, leaf through books with inscriptions, or admire hand knit sweaters I often christen the item with my own rendition of its heritage.  Sometimes I'm lucky to have a faded photo in the mix.  When I do, I match the face to the item and off I go conjuring up my version of what happened and eventually put the item in my treasure box.  My curiosity has become a little ritualistic, or maybe obsessive.  In my opinion all things deserve their last rites...or a new beginning! 

Recently my mind wandered as I held a set of silver salad tongs...to anyone else, it would be just that -- salad servers, for pete's sake.  But this was different.  This particular item was found in an abandoned house -- at least that's what was reported through the pictures.  In the shuffle of "junk" a photo album had been unearthed. Feeling intrusive, but curious, I devoured the pages. The pictures revealed a young couple during their courtship, their fun-filled college days, their eventual marriage and the birth announcement of a child - a baby girl named Elizabeth Claire. Then.. the frequency of the pictures began to dwindle and eventually stopped .  I imagined a couple much like any other that our middle class America manufactures: full of hopes, dreams...and plans of a future together. Life would be grand, they promised one another.  Their smiles were infectious as I flipped through the pages.

But, I had seen the pictures taken the day of the "trash out" and knew there was no happily ever after ending.  The abandoned house was literally trashed -- but the remnants left behind offered clues to a different past.  From the pictures I spied tastefully painted walls with over-sized furniture and home decorations that screamed "HGTV".  This once was a beautiful home. A toddler's yellow and orange minivan was in the background, tipped to one side, door to the car open ... abandoned.  The pictures scanned the back yard to reveal a stainless steel built-in barbeque grill and a volleyball net ripped from the pole; the ball lay off to the side, aged from sun exposure and begging for one last match.  The long grass had grown around hundreds of beer bottles left haphazardly throughout the scene.  The fence, faded with age was leaning toward the street, exhausted from holding the past within.  Here it is, I thought, the average American family gone wrong.   

My mind returned to the salad tongs.  I held them up to examine them more closely.  Stamped with "Wallace Sterling" I imagined engagement parties, giggly girls getting their manicures and pedicures, ribbon bouquets delicately made for the bride-to-be, and the lime sherbet 7-Up punch served in a deep glass party bowl used only for special occasions.  I envisioned the young bride holding the tongs up in the air for all to see and I heard the ohhhs and ahhhs as each relative, cousin, and friend admired the pattern.  In my mind, the proud silver set was passed to each guest to admire more closely.  Along the way, someone made a quip about being the first to be invited over for the couple's first dinner party and how nice the silver would look aside the previously opened mango wood salad bowl.  The bride's Maid of Honor cautioned that friends may have to wait a longgggg time for an invitation because the couple had been "waiting for marriage" to spend the night together! This make believe memory made me smile. 

Snapping back to reality, I gathered up the silver polish and went to work.  I have a remedy for broken dreams.  I may never know what happened to that family.  But, I do have some control over the inanimate objects left behind.  These salad tongs deserve a new beginning.  Once polished they can reign over my family gatherings and one day become a treasure my daughters will speak of to their daughters.

Monday Fun-day

My daughters refer to Monday as “Monday Fun-day.”  It began when they started attending a neighborhood pre-school three mornings each week.  Monday is our "off day" when mornings begin on the lazy side.  We plan an outing together over breakfast: a trip to the zoo, the local mall, or a nearby park … I move their ideas along to activities that I am certain will tire their little bodies out for an afternoon nap -- I'm no dummy!  It thrills the girls to pack their bags with snacks, their favorite stuffed toys, and a book or two.  Sometimes it's just the three of us; other times we invite friends.  

I am always a little leery of which way the day will go as kids will be kids and I do have my "job" tagging along.  I'm kind of proud of my ability to multi-task.  One minute I can be in the middle of the zoo, gawking at an orangutan and the hauling phone will ring.  I step aside politely to answer and as I answer the query on the other end of the line I often spy the "expert" Mom off to side glancing first to me and then sadly to my two orphaned children.  I am that Mom on the phone while her children are seemingly left on their own to come to their own conclusions about why the monkeys pick up their own poop and throw it at each other.  I am that Mom who seems to be waving her children off while enjoying a mindless chat with a girlfriend.  The truth is, I am probably giving directions to a lost driver, trying to play damage control with the client we are late to see or negotiating with a frugal customer.  Most often, I listen patiently as some kindly old lady explains her gardening project and her desire to have a yard or two of compost delivered.  Have you ever noticed how older people just want to visit?...  Don’t get me wrong; I understand this is my “job,” and from my vantage point I believe I do it well -- my girls and my peers wouldn't always agree.  

One Monday Fun-day we met a friend of mine and her three children at a nearby mall.  The mall has a child's play area near the local coffee shop with benches for Moms and others to rest.  Nearby is a carousel that we save for the final treat of the afternoon - the grand finale of the day.  Our children know the routine.  They romped off as we sipped our lattes and caught up on the recent gossip surrounding our lives.  We were relaxed, caught in the moment and laughing at our budding acrobats playing together so nicely.  The business phone rang and I sprung into Hauler's Wife mode.  I turned and walked to a quieter area..my friend, understanding, waved me on--my good friends do that, they understand.  I continued the conversation with my attention still on my little angles. Suddenly my eyes caught the wide-eyed panic of my friend -- she shrieked that her two-year old was missing! 

Without a word my friend and I swooped up the remaining children and began scanning in opposite directions, half walking-half running.  Up and down store fronts, quickly in and out of doorways, eyes peeled for any sign of that little boy.  Horror flooded my mind.  Stop!  Settle down!  Breathe!  We continued our search in desperation, smoothly moving through the waves of people.  Tightly holding on to my daughters' hands, I stretched my neck to look over the crowd.  Where are you little one?  Tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them aside and continued feeling as if I would implode.  The panic I experienced was unlike any other … and he wasn’t even my child -- how must my friend feel? My face flushed with anxiety and fear. I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face.

After what seemed an eternity, we stumbled upon the little boy -- delighted to be in the arms of the carousel conductor and waiting his turn for a carousel ride!  Mom and son reunited, she on her knees in front of him, tearfully hugging and caressing his soft hair.  This time I took her children and waved her off, understanding -- good friends do that, you know.  After a few quiet moments, she joined us.  We were in line waiting our turn for the carousel.  I spoke gently to my girls.  They, too, had become frightened with all the commotion.  All together again, we decided to ride the swan that would fit us all!  I tucked my phone into my pocket and turned my full attention to our happy group.  Hauling calls would have to be answered later.  The driver may have to stop and ask for directions, gardening projects would have to wait ...  I sat back against the swan's wings and looked sideways at my friend who had both her arms around her children and one on her lap.  Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted down.  Knowing her as I do I am certain she was thanking God for her fortune.  I silently joined her as the children's laughter drowned out our throbbing hearts. 

Mother Lodes

A semester's end in a college town becomes a busy time for A Hauler's Wife.  The surprising thing to me is that the students are not calling for help--it's the apartment manager calling to "trash out" a place.  In "my day" (am I really saying this?) we packed our well-used furniture in a friend's pick-up truck and moved it a couple of blocks to a new domicile, set it up, rearranged it for the new look and called it good for another semester.  Now, we rarely see anything dated--Well, I take that back.  I do remember a recent apartment filled with Grandma's maple furniture.  The student remained for our arrival and actually apologized for the 'junk' he was leaving behind.  Vintage furniture, junk? Yea right! This is worth a small fortune.  

Today's college apartment is smartly dressed with IKEA furniture, Old World Market dishes and Pier One Import light fixtures and bedspreads.  To my shock, it's all considered disposable in their eyes!  Pantries filled with canned goods; dead or dying marijuana farms (probably a science project I'm sure), exotic shampoos and conditioners and the inevitable carpet cleaner -- all left behind.  Interestingly we don't come across many beer bongs or "water" pipes, so I surmise that some belongings have that old "sentimental value".

By the time we are called, the trash enclosures are so packed with "disposables" that residents can no longer exit the parking structure.  I can always tell by the pitch of the manager's voice just how hectic the situation is--"Hiyahhh, the fire marshal was just here...can you send your guys today? Students are unable to get their cars from the parking structure!" The word "today" is a plea for "right now"!

End of semester apartment trash-outs have been endearingly named "Mother Lodes."   We've all learned from our 4th grade teachers about the California Gold Rush in which "mother lodes" became a very common man's endeavor--akin to today's Mega-bucks lottery!  Quite frankly, I know the old gold diggers exhilaration...As funny as it sounds, I get goose-bumpy excited when a driver calls and divulges “There’s some really great stuff here. You want me to bring the trailer by before we dump it?” Oh, yes ...  It’s like Christmas!  Generally we park our trailers on a vacant nearby lot, but sometimes, I cannot resist--I must have it delivered!!  Again, I bow ever so humbly toward my patient neighbors.  I am certain they have their opinions (I can feel it), but I continue to convince myself that we are such 'nice people'...perhaps they will overlook the intrusion one more time.  By the time it arrives, it doesn't matter -- I am a kid in a toy shop -- I dive in! 

One such load sticks in my mind.  I arranged for the driver to "trash out" the apartment but when he arrived he called:  "Rebecca, I'm not sure about this one.  It looks like people still live here -- the shower has just been used, I can smell toast from breakfast, there are school books on the kitchen table and the TV is still on...What do you think"?  I panicked--what if he was standing in someone's apartment?  What would happen if the students suddenly returned to find a strange man in their home"?  Had I paid my liability insurance?  Panicked, I called the apartment manager to re-confirm the apartment number; she assured me they were gone. Within a few hours he had backed into my driveway and I devoured the contents! 

The following morning, I called the apartment manager. She laughed at my paranoia, only to tell me that the apartment had been rented by two foreign exchange students.  Headed back to China they had little use for the "mother lode" they left behind.  Phew, I thought … I couldn’t imagine asking our crew to re-set-up the apartment they had just torn apart.  Anyway, by the time I heard that piece of news the dresser had already been sanded and ready for a little antiquing, the dishes were donated to the nearby Salvation Army and the textbooks were in my car to be sold back to the school.  Waste not, want not!