Easter Clothes

"In your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it, you'll be the grandest lady in the Easter Parade." Irving Berlin

The Easter dresses Mom sewed for her three daughters didn't include bonnets, but they made us feel grand. I searched for the photo today, the one with the three of us lined up on the concrete front porch, wearing our light-weight nylon dresses with tiny green flowers and a narrow ribbon sash.  Judy is the tallest---she must have been about 10, and there I am with my gap-toothed first-grader's grin and cuddly two-year-old Debbie steals the show with her "love-me-I'm yours" grin. We didn't appreciate at the time how much effort it must have taken Mom to sew three dresses in time for Easter while managing four kids—no wait, it must have been five kids---Timmy was born that year in February. But it went without saying that we had to have new clothes for Easter, the time of renewal and religious rejoicing. Oh, and the time we could start wearing our white shoes.

This is the first Easter without my mom.  She died February 24. She wanted to sing the Hallelujah Chorus in heaven, and she's got a new white Easter robe for the choir, one she didn't have to sew.

Things My Dad Taught Me

My dad taught me to drive, even demonstrating what to do when the car ran out of gas—he walked to town for help. Later at home in the garage, our heads together under the hood of the family car, he instructed me on the basic parts of the engine.  He pointed out the crucial difference between the radiator cap and the oil cap, noting that oil and water just don't mix.  He showed me how to read the oil dipstick and where to add the cleaning mixture for the windshield wipers.  He wiggled the spark plugs, demonstrating how to check if they had worked loose.  "If the car won't start, it might be the battery posts are corroded. You can pour Coke over 'em to clean 'em." After the basic instruction he had one last tidbit for me.  "If your horn ever starts honking and won't stop, all you have to do is pull this plug here."  Through the years the car care tips I learned from him became part of the knowledge I used without thinking. 

One Sunday afternoon forty years later I drove several of my girlfriends up into the New Mexico mountains to look at an area where my husband and I were considering buying a home.  We climbed the rolling hills through piñon pine trees and cactus, driving each street of the small rural subdivision.  The last street ended in a turn-around cul-de-sac. Occupying that secluded spot was a house that wasn't as tidy as the rest of the homes in the subdivision. It needed paint and a few nails to bolster sagging porch rails.  Three cars in various states of disrepair lounged in the front yard.  Taking the place of pride parked right by the front door was a monster pickup truck with a gun rack mounted in the rear window.

As we neared the top of the hill and the turn-around, my car's horn started to honk. No, no, I don't want to attract attention right here in front of this place.  The horn wouldn't stop.  A pot-bellied thirty-something guy wearing a white ribbed undershirt and carrying a shotgun came barreling out of the house.  This was not a good time for my horn to be honking.  I knew what to do but didn't want to stop at this spot to fix the problem.  Holding my breath, I turned the car around.  Don't look at him.  I hope he sees we are harmless.  I drove down the hill as fast as its curves would allow.  Finally back at the highway, I parked on the gravel shoulder, opened the hood, thanked my dad for his instruction, and pulled the plug on the horn.


What did your dad teach you?

SIX DINNER TABLES

1957. Long Lake, Minnesota. Mom's polished maple table, sturdy, homely center of my meat and potatoes life. Clichés of "Leave It To Beaver" murmur behind our family conversation. We talk about high school graduation, college plans, Sputnik and the Space Race, the threat of Communism. I'm seventeen; I believe it's irresponsible to explore space while we still practice racial discrimination on our planet. I think Totalitarianism is as threatening to Capitalism as the chasing dog is to the passing car.

1968. Hokkaido, Japan. A shiny black lacquered table presents fourteen tiny covered porcelain dishes. I sit cross-legged on the tatami mat and sip hot sake. Japanese businessmen practicing English for a trip to Chicago ask if I remember Hiroshima, and, do I think Japan should support the U.S. in Vietnam? I'm twenty-eight, what I know about the bomb comes from the searing images in John Hersey's book. No, I don't support the U.S. in Vietnam; I would not encourage involvement by the Japanese or anyone else in any war at any time.
1977. Tehran, Iran. A circle of Isfahan cloth protects the luxurious thickness of Persian carpets piled deep. My host sips scalding tea through a sugar cube held between his front teeth. He pauses to extol the virtues of everything American and to decry the recent assassinations of U.S. citizens in Tehran. He stops abruptly, mid-sentence, as his oldest daughter glides past the open doorway. She is covered completely in shapeless white, the garb of a fundamentalist neophyte. She turns her face away, loathe to look upon the infidel. I'm thirty-seven; I read the father's face and body. His daughter's dedication to dogma alienates and worries him. I wonder if my small children will someday embrace beliefs the opposite of mine.

1988. Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I'm seated on the dais, plucking at invisibles on the starched white tablecloth, nervous about the after-dinner speech I'm about to deliver in Spanish to a crowd of expectant faces. This dinner celebrates the culmination of a year's effort to select and prepare rural Dominican scholarship recipients for two years of college in the States. I'm forty-eight; I know that some of these idealistic and patriotic young men and women will fail. I wish all of them could complete their two years of study abroad and return to make a significant contribution to their home villages.

1997. Roswell, New Mexico. A seat at my dining room table affords a clear view of activity outside the house across the street. A swarm of videographers crowds the gate to the back yard. My neighbor isn't there to answer their questions. They want to see the place where pieces of the crashed UFO were buried fifty years ago. I'm fifty-seven; I don't believe a UFO crashed here, although I would welcome the arrival of friendly extraterrestrials who could tell us how to fix the mess we're in. TIME Magazine announces gleefully that materialism drives Gen Xers. Not good news to me.

2008. Albuquerque, New Mexico. There's no room on my table for dinner. I spread my projects there and eat in the kitchen. I'm sixty-eight and I want the world to be a better place for my grandchildren. I'm sick of listening to the empty promises of power-mad politicians. I read Ekhart Tolle and contemplate my place in the evolution of the human race.

Writing on the Muse Stream

Believing in impossible things may seem undoable, but actually it's all a matter of letting your imagination run free. For example, this morning long before breakfast while I, the Queen of Hearts, lay in bed pretending to be asleep while hoping that the King would roll his plump self out of bed and start the tea kettle, I quite easily believed that I was young and beautiful and would remain so for eternity.

That belief quite naturally led to the next. I believed I saw a giant golden spider weaving a gossamer web to catch my dreams. It took no effort at all to reach up, pluck the web, and watch shining notes of music, quite like a harp, dance across the dust motes toward my ears. When a few notes went astray I caught them on my tongue. Ah, sweeter than any honey made from even the rarest of orchids. I plucked the web again, just to see if what happened would be the same again.

Of course it wasn't the same at all. Without opening my eyes I could see the bright shards of mirror sparkles that shot in every direction, showering me with the fragrance of crushed citrus leaves and pewter cup rims.

It made no sense to lift my lids when I could so completely see and understand the beauty of the universe and the wonder of a life lived from birth onward to the point of finishing whatever destiny was pre-ordained.

The golden spider wove on and in and out until the dream web surrounded me and held me rocking in the rhythm of the tides. This way and that way, back and forth, as gentle as the moon going through phases from new to full.

(My thanks to Mark David Gerson http://markdavidgerson.com and his book The Voice of the Muse: Answering the Call to Write, inspiring writers to write on the Muse stream.)

Japan

Japan has been on my mind. Besides donating money to relief efforts, is there anything I can do? I can tell you a brief anecdote about my experience in Japan that connects me with the nation and the people forever.


LONELINESS

Loneliness. I didn’t know what loneliness felt like until 1968. Until then, family, friends, and familiar culture surrounded me at home, at school, at work. Everything changed in 1968 when I married Fred and flew to Japan to be an Army wife. Many thousands of miles separated me from all things familiar. My new home had sliding paper doors, straw mat floors, no curtains, no hot water, and, worst of all, no phone. I missed my family and my friends. I couldn’t work to pass the time; no Army wives could be employed unless they had teaching credentials. I had always worked – part-time jobs in high school and college, full-time as a social caseworker ever since. I missed work. I even missed my mother, and we had never gotten along very well. Real loneliness.

Fred worked days at Kuma Station and he took the car. We lived off-post and we had no American neighbors. I knew about ten words of Japanese. I bought a basket and walked to the local market every day like the Japanese wives. We nodded and bowed and smiled at each other.

Small Japanese children followed me on my outings. "Baby? Baby?" they asked.

I understood they wanted to play with my baby. But I didn’t have a baby. I should have had a baby; I was twenty-seven years old. Japanese women and American women were alike in that respect; the ticking of biological clocks started earlier in 1968.

"No baby," I replied, holding out empty hands and shrugging my shoulders. No, I’m alone. Day after day for ten hours a day, I’m alone.

Day to day loneliness hurt enough; I did not look forward to holidays when I missed family and friends even more. Fred shared my feelings of isolation -- the thought of staying home by ourselves depressed both of us. We decided we had to go somewhere and do something different. We asked our Japanese teacher for suggestions and he helped us make reservations at a small ryokan (traditional Japanese hotel) in the hot springs resort area of Lake Akan, a day’s drive from our home in Chitose on the northern island of Hokkaido.

The change of scene lifted our spirits. Lake Akan, a crater lake, is known for its rare ball-shaped algae species, the marimo. Left undisturbed, marimo can grow to the size of soccer balls. Bright emerald green, they glow like giant magical emeralds in the crystal waters. We rushed from attraction to attraction, giddy foreign tourists outsnapping the Japanese photographers.

Lake Akan nestles at the center of Ainu country. The Ainu culture dates back to the 13th Century. They are Japan’s indigenous people. We visited an Ainu village and bought several beautiful woodcarvings from their handicraft shops.

Late in the afternoon we checked into our ryokan. The hotel staff pantomimed the need to exchange our shoes for zori, thong sandals made of straw. In our room we found yukata (robes) laid out on the futon (bedding) and tea and sweets on the table. After enjoying a private onsen (hot spring bath) and a delicious meal served in our room in at least fourteen small covered dishes, we settled down on our private patio to enjoy the fresh breeze from the lake.

Darkness wrapped around us and we embraced, kissed, and whispered promises to have a baby. We gazed at the stars and out across the water. Against the skyline I thought I imagined the outline of a boat.

At that moment Fred whispered, "There’s a boat. And there’s another behind it. And another and another, can you see them?"

A parade of boats glided silently along the shoals, emerging from the shadows directly in front of our patio. All at once, fireworks burst from every boat. Skyrockets, chrysanthemums of light, exploded in poppety-pop-pop brilliance for a serendipitous exclamation point to the beginning of a new family and the end of my loneliness.

Are You Happy with Your Daycare?

I think it was her eyes that put me at ease. Big, round, and guileless, they reminded me of my daughter's best friend in third grade.

Before she tipped the dental chair back and lowered it to her working level, I caught a glimpse of a Christmas family photo on the desk: my dental hygienist, her husband, their preschool-age daughter, and their infant son. With the hope of having something to listen to besides the scrape of dental scaler against tooth enamel, I asked her if she was happy with her daycare.

Her body straightened as if spring-loaded, and she looked at me with surprising intensity.

"Yes," she said. "But I had doubts recently – which I will tell you about – but first I want to say that I'm very satisfied with my daycare."

I squiggled my head into the wedge of the headrest, folded my hands on my stomach, opened my mouth, and stared up at the bright glass lamp with its foil-wrapped handle.

"The same woman has taken care of my daughter all of her life – she's 2 ½ now – and I planned to continue with her after my son was born in August. It was the perfect situation – she had a daughter the same age as mine, and she was pregnant at the same time – gave birth in July. Then in October, just as I was getting ready to go back to work, the woman's mother called. At first I couldn't believe it. She called to tell me that my babysitter's husband had committed suicide."

The hygienist pulled mirror and scaler from my mouth. I looked into her round eyes, now luminous with sadness. "Oh no…." I said before the instruments returned to their work.

"Yes. Shocking. He was twenty-nine years old." She paused her scraping to reflect on the memory. "I didn't know what to think. I didn't know what to do." Her tools went back into my mouth. "I delayed going back to work – happy to – and I took care of her kids a few times so she could go to the social security office and that kind of thing."

The hygienist sat back again, too deep in thought to continue scouring my teeth. I didn't interrupt. When she returned to the present moment, she dug in with new enthusiasm.

"I don't know how she did it, but she held herself together. She had her kids to think of. I wondered how she would manage – would she lose her home – would she have to find a job? She didn't have any education beyond high school – what would she do?"

"Ung Ung," I said, blinking a message to express my empathy.

"Well, she decided to keep on providing daycare. At first I was a little worried, but she's been fine and it's been good for all of us to have continuity. My kids are the only ones she takes care of and I like that."

As she reached for a different tool, I had a chance to comment. "Did you find out why the husband killed himself?"

"No not really, but the woman's social worker suggested that it might have been postpartum depression."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I know – I had no idea postpartum depression could affect fathers. Of course right away I started to worry about my husband. He's fine, just fine, no problems."

The hygienist wiped my lips with a moist gauze pad and raised the chair to exit height. She put her hand on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze as if to thank me for listening. "All done here. Everything looks good. We'll keep watching that problem area on the upper right. See you in six months."

Taking Risks

Balloonists Richard Abruzzo, native of Albuquerque, and Carol Rymer Davis, Denver, are missing somewhere in the Adriatic Ocean.  They were competing in the Gordon Bennett gas balloon race.

My heart goes out to his wife and their two young children, waiting in Italy for traces of him and his balloon to be found. In my life there have been too many aircraft and people falling out of the sky. I've seen the craters left in the souls of those left standing on solid ground.

Abruzzo's life, and that of his father before him, was focused on ballooning.  He knew the risks, and that most likely was part of the allure of the sport.  Did his wife sign on for sharing that risk?  Did his children?  Will they understand that Daddy loved the sport enough to risk going away from them?

When does risk-taking become foolhardy? In the balloon race, many competitors landed their balloons because of bad weather. The Abruzzo team decided to continue.  One of the last transmissions from Richard was, "I am in a thunderstorm; the situation is not easy. We are headed for coast but not in danger." According to the Albuquerque Journal, minutes later he said, "Descending upon, descended, descending rapidly upon the sea." Reports are that the balloon descended at a rate of 50 miles per hour.

We need to take risks to feel alive. According to some, if you haven't had a little shiver of fear each day, you aren't living hard enough. But how much risk is enough? When does that shiver of fear turn into a drive for the adrenaline fix? What does it take to feel alive?