glitter

Glitter in my hands

Lost wilderness

Of glory

How I wish I knew

That yesterdays

Were golden moments

Never to return.

One moment

Lost and spun and swollen

Forgotten

Held in contempt

What a young

And foolish

Bride of circumstance

I was.

moms

Me and My Mama, who is solid gold.

I heard two young mothers talking near me while I was waiting in line.  They spoke with such logic and hope and energy and because the subject went to blogging, my ears listened closely to what they said.

“I read her blog everyday,” one of them said.  She was a cute young mother, pushing a stroller back and forth to keep her infant quiet.  “She’s so encouraging!”

“Yeah,” the other young mom said.  She was very pregnant, keeping an eye on her son, playing with a small truck on the carpet next to her.  “I don’t have much time to read.”

“Well, I read it because it’s short,” the other laughed.  I smiled.  They’d get impatient if they read my blog. 

“And I hate getting parenting advice, really,” the pregnant one said.  “I get enough advice from my mom.  She never stops.”

I listened and my heart sank.  I thought of my mother, who didn’t give me much advice unless I asked for it.

I thought of myself, giving parenting advice unsolicited to my daughter...and hearing the same thing.

If I could, I would have broken in on their conversation to tell them one thing:  they are golden.  They are solid gold.  Moms are solid gold... and they don’t hear it enough.

They hear how they are nags.  Their kids tell them they are the ones who stop the joy, lay down the law and set limits that aren’t appreciated.  My own mom did this – and I did it for my kids.

I also prayed constantly for them – still pray constantly for them.  Because inside of a mother’s heart is a non-stop prayer that pleads for God’s mercy on their children.  Mercy and love and breakthrough.  I laughed with them and for them.  My kids were all lit up inside and funny. 

Mothers are constantly tethered to their kids, even if they can’t be there physically.  The two girls in line didn’t yet know what that felt like.  

They’ll feel it when their kids start going out with friends.  They’ll feel it when their kids are at sleepovers.  They will feel it if they ever leave town and leave them behind.

It is an ache, a joy and non-stop prayer to be a mother.

Mothers are golden.  Tell one today that they are solid gold – I guarantee you they don’t hear it enough. 

That’s why we have Mother’s Day.  

insanity

May is Short Story Month 

This is one of mine.  It's written for an adult audience.   

Please don't read if you have a sensitive constitution 

"Listen carefully," he said, "this won't be easy for you to hear"....

I waited.

“This is the only broom we use in this space.”

I looked at it.  It was impossible. 

“And the place needs to be swept every day, or else she’ll fire you.”

Lunatic? 

“Can I bring another broom in?” I asked.

“No,” he said, incredulously, looking at me like I was out of my mind. “You have to take off your shoes, put on socks and leave your bag in your car and you want to bring another broom in?”

The ad said references required, which I brought.  I ended up having to take them back down to my car once he had read them, since no “foreign matter” was allowed inside.  He interviewed me and found me acceptable but told me right away that only she was to say if the job I had been hired to do had been done well. 

“I was just asking...”

“This is the only broom.”

“Got it.”

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy to hear.”

He left me there in the pristine entryway with glass tables and a white velvet ottoman, handing me the small dust broom and dustpan combination.  They had silver trim in the handles, much like an old Derringer, which I wish I had.

“Begin at the doorway, and work your way into the study,” he said. “Those are the only spaces that need to be swept.”

“Alright,” I said, trying to smile.  His eyes were deep blue and serious, bags all over his face betrayed a lifetime of sleeplessness and worry. 

“The broom is replaced once a week,” he said, softly, looking down.  He looked at me suspiciously before walking away, his footsteps echoing.  The ceilings were at least twenty feet.

 A cameraman on a crane would have shot me from there, and slowly panned around the converted warehouse to show the insanity of the job before me.  The white walls and the white furniture had brief, awkward interruptions of color in wall hangings, lamps and throw pillows.  I would be sweeping at least 3000 square feet of living space.  It was already so polished; I could see my face shining in every surface.

I took the broom and began to sweep at nothing.  No dust, no dirt, and no nothing in the whole warehouse space, other than the textured white floor that was scored and varnished so heavily it looked like water.

Who had been there yesterday?  He said the place had to be swept every day, and it looked like this?  The pay was incentive to stay, but the insanity choked me.

 As I worked, on my hands and knees, I heard the clack-clack-clack of his typewriter in the distance.  When I loked up I saw him, off in a corner, his black socks crumpled around his ankles.  He sat at a small writing desk, a Chippendale (was it a knock-off?), probably the only thing he had brought into the home from his former life. 

A dog barked in the distance. 

Sweep, sweep, sweep. 

I was doing this to pay the bills. 

Living in the city is more expensive than people realize and dreams are luxuries that none of us are entitled to.  There was grad school, then the loans came due.  I worked for awhile at a hotel desk, but the pay was bad and the hours were worse.  I tried to get a job at the magazine where my brother found work, but there was a glut of writers and most of them were snobs or frustrated authors.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

He never waited for the bell.  I heard the carriage return lever click, swoop and advance the paper up a line.  Why didn’t he have a computer? What was it, an Underwood?  What was he writing?  He never waited or stopped to think. Was he setting copy?  Re-typing?  Was there no outlet there?  I looked up. There was one at his feet, a lamp was plugged in there. 

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

The bristles were white, the ends were even whiter.  Where would dust go?  I looked in my pan, but only anemic see-through bits were collecting.  Was it worth it?  How long had I been sweeping?  Ten minutes?

Sweep, sweep, sweep...

I really did love Larry.  He was a fabulous husband and provider but I should have known he was gay.  How could I not see that?  He was so apologetic leaving me and I hugged him for so long, assuring him that it was okay – that he was okay.  He told me that if it weren’t for his lover he would stay married to me because he loved me so much and I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to stay, even if he was gay.   Instead, he left and there was alimony for a few months and then nothing.  Not even a phone call.

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

I had it all written.  It was a feat of note, getting my novel done while I held down two jobs and was coping with my divorce.  Most of my friends had drinks after work in Italian restaurants with a friendly bar.  Instead of fun and a social life, I went home to a studio with a broken radiator and wrote the whole enchilada on my laptop before it broke.  Thank God I saved my work on a separate drive. 

Every agent that read my submission (did they really read it?) said it wasn’t for them but encouraged me to keep looking for representation.  I read each rejection letter the first year and then realized that they all looked alike.  They were all trying to encourage me with rejection.  They were the hug and assurance before saying goodbye.

I stopped reading rejection letters.  I stopped querying.  I stopped writing.  I stopped….

Sweep. 

Sweep. 

Sweep. 

Sweep.

“Listen carefully….” I smirked, thinking of the writer’s words when I came in.  What was I, twelve years old?

Listen carefully. 

Really?

“This won’t be easy for you to hear?”

No shit. 

A lot of things are not easy to hear. 

Clack, Clack, Clack, Clack…..

Sweep, sweep, sweep.

Guess what’s not easy for you to hear?

You... you odd little kept man typing away on an Underwood. 

You are wasting your life. 

You are mentally ill if you are living with a woman who has see-through furniture and fluffy pink pillows. 

When is the last time you slept through the night? 

Are you so afraid of being alone that you accept this insanity as normal?   

You are a moron to be doing this for some woman who most likely doesn’t appreciate you.

She can’t even enjoy sex, judging from this place. 

I wonder what she looks like?

Sweep, sweep, sweep...

You are wasting your life. 

You are wasting your life. 

You are wasting your life.  

short

May is short story month.

A short story can be any length that tells one story that is satisfying to the reader and yet makes them think.  A good short story usually leaves us with the feeling of “What would have happened if…?”  or “What will happen next?” 

The world of readers is changing.   More people are reading than ever before and apple and kindle have figured this out.  Because of this, they are selling more and more short stories to their clients.  These short stories can be read in the time of a normal bus commute, and afternoon at the beach and are offered at lower prices than full-length books.

The minute they were introduced in 2010, Kindle Singles became wildly popular, being shorter and more affordable.

"In many cases, 10,000 to 30,000 words (roughly 30 to 90 pages) might be the perfect, natural length to lay out a single killer idea, well researched, well argued and well illustrated--whether it's a business lesson, a political point of view, a scientific argument, or a beautifully crafted essay on a current event," Amazon said.

A short story is a beautiful fiction read with a fast pay-off.  Most good writers can write a short story and see it like a child, resembling one of their novels, only smaller.  I love Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,”  Isak Dinesen's (Karen Blixen) “Babette's Feast” and anything Flannery O’Connor wrote. 

The most haunting short story I ever read was “Counterparts” by James Joyce, a terrible story of a compulsive alcoholic in a dead-end job teetering on a breakdown.  The reader meets him on a day that he is bullied by his boss.  It was horrifying and strange and immortal.  When I finished, I winced and sat for awhile.  I replaced the book where I found it and walked away disturbed by what I just saw.  I was relieved that it was fiction; I was troubled that it wasn’t. 

A good story does that: it stays with you long after you read it.  Even in the din of our world: the television, the club music,  the gym activity, the kids... a good story transports the reader into another world. 

This month I am looking for guest bloggers with original short stories.  Can you tell one?  If so, email me or inbox me.  I’d love to read your work and then post it here. 

Blessings; happy reading 

haunts

Spasms of memories invade me

From underneath a vapor

A living, breathing time still certain

In the core of me.

Now, removed but not

I see your face, so tender

So defenceless.

Was I mad?

Or was I living out

an ancient evil

lurking deep within?

Now you are a different one,

Are your memories the same?

Have you forgiven the guilt of my sin?

Do you recall my deepest shame?

Don’t ask for my head;

It’s taken.

Attached to me-

The solemn being

Sentenced to cross

A raging river of regret.

re-entry

Alicia, Alannah and I at lunch in Sacramento.
 A beautiful part of re-entry.

There is no true way to entirely prevent culture shock, even when you are re-entering your familiar home environment.  In any society people are affected by cultural contrasts differently. 

Today was our first day back at our church’s main service.  Mario and I have been back for 48 days and after visiting the satellites decided to try the main.  It is where all of our old friends attend.  We jumped back into their lives – seeing them not much different.  If it weren’t for their KIDS who have grown like weeds on MiracleGro, we would hardly notice the difference in the people.

For the last six years we gave ourselves over to a calling of God that was beautiful, rewarding and definitely His will for our lives.  The first two years we did a lot of international travelling – we saw nineteen different African countries and two Asian ones.  The last four years were focused on the local church life in Johannesburg. 

Johannesburg is as diverse as Africa itself.  It is the melting pot of different cultures more than any other place in South Africa.  No city in South Africa can match the diversity of Johannesburg; there are 11 official languages. 

Sacramento is the capital of California, whose economy is the twelfth largest in the world.  The Spanish language is everywhere, but most people speak English. 

I stood in conversation with a friend this morning as he asked us how we were doing.

“We’re good, thank God,” I said.  “We just need to find a home of our own.” 

My thoughts flashed back to the last 48 days here.  We have shopped for (and found) a home.  We began the process of buying it, only to find that its title was not clear.  We shopped for (and found) another home that was in our price range and began the process of buying it.  This is the house we are now praying for.  The problem is, the loan company here needs bank statements from our South African bank – something that they will not provide.  Because of FICA laws, the statements have to be picked up in person by Mario – who is back at his old desk most days of the week, working full time.

“So, you don’t have a place to stay?” my friend asks, genuinely concerned. 

“We do,” I smile. “We have been staying with Nicole.”

“Oh, and how is that going?”  he asks.  

I think of the warm reception that Nicole and Summer have given us.  Their ease and acceptance during this time has been crucial.  We are staying in Nicole's one room garage apartment that has a half bathroom.  It has kept us from staying in a hotel and living out of suitcases.  Even with all of this, we still feel like we are "just visiting" the States again. 

“It’s going very well, thank God,” I say.

“So Mario’s back at work,” he says.  “What are you doing?”

I smile.  I am writing all of the time.  When I am not working out or visiting my daughter and her daughters I am writing.  I have started a new novel and will hopefully see the first one published soon.  I am grateful for the opportunity to write.  I still have not seen Vince, Joe or David (or their kids) since we have been back.  I have had little chance to see my parents and sisters, too.  Until we get a house we can’t spend much money.

“I write,” I answer.  I blog, I write fiction, I edit.  I even tutor a girl who is in Kansas City via SKYPE.  She has our dogs, Zuzu and Peaches.  They can’t come here until we have a house of our own.

We’ve got to get this house, I think. 

“You write?” my friend lifts his eyebrows and I expect no more questions.  

None come.  

Not “Have you talked to Portia and the boys since you have been back?” – not “Don’t you miss your church?” – not “What about the Ladies Prayer Group that saved your life several times...how are they?”

He just smiles, good naturedly.

“Must be nice to be a woman of leisure,” he says, winking.  I smile.

Yeah....

Lennae

I still remember the day that David, our oldest son, met his wife-to-be.  I was upstairs on the phone and Mario was downstairs, and we were listening as he was telling us about a date he had with a pretty young lady named Lennae. 

I was standing up, making the bed and I rolled my eyes.  David, an astrophysicist computer geek, had the brains of a genius, and the worst luck with women.  His last two girlfriends had drug him to hell and back and I was not expecting him to date again until he had recovered.  His story, made me stand straight up and listen.

“We got into the car and I had Blue Oyster Cult, ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ on, and she said ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use more cowbell.’”

I held the phone in my numb hand and imagined a movie camera zooming in on my face.  I thought, “Oh, no...he’s going to marry this girl.”

He did.

For those of you that don’t follow Saturday Night live religiously (like the Rodriguez family), Lennae was referring to a “Behind the Music” sketch, where the male cast re-enact the infamous taping of the rock classic, directed by a superstar producer, played by Christopher Walken.   Will Farrell imitates a 70’s stereotype rocker, playing a cowbell through the song, and messing up the taping.  The spoof had Mario and I in stitches.  Later, when we talked about it with the kids, it brought comic relief to tense times.  

Lennae knowing the sketch was one thing, but she said a line that we used to say to each other as a private Rodriguez joke – when something was ridiculous or stupid.  If a cheerleading squad did a “cheer dance with spirit fingers at the end”.  Yeah, that was good, but I could have used a little more cowbell....

Mario went before me to meet her (David and Lennae lived in the Kansas City area) and came home with pages of notes about the visit.  Mario loves taking notes about things.

“She’s been through a lot,” he said.  “Her parents are divorced and she seems like she became an adult very quickly.  She used to dance – swing dance.  But since David doesn’t dance she doesn’t dance anymore.  She loves animals and rescued two that are with them now.”  Here he looked up and smiled.  “You have to hear this story...”

He told me the story that melted my heart for her: Lennae used to live in an apartment building that was pretty small; a downstairs unit that had a door facing another tenant.  The other tenant was a dodgy individual and kept a dog chained up by the front door.  The chain was long enough to reach his food bowl and let him poop in the bushes, but short enough for the dog to have no room at all to live freely.  He was put there, mainly to guard the entrance and was pretty mean and ferocious.  At first Lennae was scared of him, since she had to pass there just to get to her door, but she soon realized that this dog had no play, no company and no love.  She began to give him attention, and when she came home, he would shake with joy in seeing her.  She once asked the owner if she could take him for a walk or play with him, but he denied her, saying the dog didn’t need anything like that.  On the day she moved out of the apartment, Lennae turned in her keys to the manager, unhooked the dog, and took him to her new home.  He was one of the most loved animals in the world there. 

“So,” I said, trying to get a picture of her.  “Is she a Cathy or is she a Janet?”  This question, for Mario was a no-win.  Cathy is Mario’s ex-wife, the mother of David and Joe.  She is a blonde, blue-eyed “girl-next-door” type that is peaceful and loving and soft.  Janet (me) is a raven-haired opinionated, passionate woman filled with fire...and repentance when I have to remove my rather large foot from my even larger mouth.  Which was Lennae?

“She is a...” he thought, lookining up in the air and scratching his chin.  “She’s a Lennae.”

Crap.  Now I had no idea what to expect.

I met her two days before the wedding, where I introduced myself and went into my nervous story-telling thing that I do in order to explain myself.  She had the greenest eyes, like our son, Vince.  It was hard not to be mesmerized by them.  Her skin was a perfect peaches and cream and she was statuesque and lovely.  She also was very affectionate with David, and he with her.  I was a little uncomfortable around the two of them, but smiled at Vince and Alicia about the whole thing. (Another Rodriguez joke? Smiling and plugging your nose around open displays of affection...) 

When you are a “step-mother” at a wedding, things don’t work out as smoothly as you would think they do.  I prepared myself for the awkwardness, but was very honored that David and Lennae asked me to be part of the first row, with Mario and Cathy by my side.  The wedding was gorgeous, and Lennae was dressed in a silk, strapless gown that showed off the loveliest shoulders since Princess Di...and her tattoo on her back. 

The reception was in a stunning Victorian house, and we gave David and Lennae a copper cowbell that was engraved “I got a fever! And the only prescription is more cowbell!”  It was their favorite gift. 

It turns out Lennae was nervous about the day because she loved each and every member of her family, but they did not like each other and had a very hard time being in the same room with one another.  She had just lost her beloved grandmother, a peacemaker and a joy to her heart.  Looking back, I think Lennae was surprised that Cathy and I loved each other the way we did.  It was easy to – Cathy is a Cathy. 

They honeymooned in the wine country of California, where they graciously added us to their stay for two days.  I played a video of David and Joe singing “Kiss the Girl” to the Little Mermaid – as I promised him I would when he was ten years old and woke the whole house up with a slumber party.  Our cool, controlled computer genius hid red-faced, under the kitchen table, humiliated beyond belief as Lennae laughed her head off and held her arms open to him.  The memory is unforgettable. 

We vacationed in Kansas City with them as a family, where all of our techno-savvy kids played x-box together (we didn’t ever allow it in our house, and all of our kids had become pros).  Lennae was pregnant and unable to keep food down, sometimes even water, and I worried about her.  Even though she was in her last trimester, she never had the “morning sickness” pass, and the sickness lasted all day.  I was very worried about her and said so as we left. 

“Don’t worry,” she said.  “David takes good care of me.”  He did.  It was nice to see the marriage working so well, although they said they never fought.  I saw this as a danger sign.  I didn’t know that the word “fight” had the worst connotations for both of them. 

Laila came one day and changed our lives for good.  We were now grandparents.  The pictures that they sent us were of the birthing tub, a method of drug-free birthing that Lennae had chosen to do.  After looking at them, I felt the same awkwardness that I had felt seeing the open displays of affection that David and Lennae had with each other.  She and David were beautiful, almost sensual in the tub as Lennae gave birth to her first child.  Her face was that of a Raphael painting, not the contorted red devil face one usually associates with childbirth.

Laila Willow was perfect, with the same green eyes as her mother.  The first time she called me “Abuela” I thought I would die for joy.  It was like being fourteen and the popular cute boy says “hi” to you and says your name...but better.

Soon after Laila came Lilliana Grace, then Lauren Caroline.  All with the tub, all without pain meds.  I secretly called Lennae “Mother Earth”, mainly because of the way she championed the birthing process and breast feeding. 

Last Christmas she hosted all of us (except Vince, who couldn’t make it) and we all played Quelf and wii and drank Irish car bombs...and laughed our heads off.  We had tender, gorgeous heart-to-hearts and she showed me her pictures of each birth.  And when I got on the plane I cried....

In my mind’s eye, she is surrounded by confetti and children.  I think she is literally one of the most agreeable people I have ever met, and in a strange way, she has taught me to accept people in my life regardless of their beliefs or convictions.  She is, without a doubt, the best person in the world for my step-son – our son- David...and I would have never ever chosen her if it were up to me. 

For that reason, she is a gift and a blessing to me and to us.  Today is her birthday.  Happy Birthday, honey.   You are a delight and joy and everyone’s daughter-in-law should be like you.

Not like Cathy; not like Janet...but a Lennae.  You are genuinely your own person.

Cathy, Janet and Lennae