Monthly Archives: March 2014

Shirley, 2013

 

Shirley wants to go to the funeral

It is November, 2013.

“Are we going to go to the President’s funeral in Washington tomorrow?”  Shirley asks several times.  We have, after all, spent quite some time watching the memorials to John Kennedy on the 50th anniversary of his death.  Watched his son saluting after his mother leans down and whispers to him.

I am in Virginia, not that far from Washington, visiting my aunt Shirley and her daughter, my cousin Claire.  Her mother used to call us girls Snow White and Rose Red, Claire the blonde and I the brunette.

After Shirley asks about the funeral, I say to Claire, losing her mother bit by bit, “Let it roll, let’s see where this conversation takes us.”

 

Let’s see where any conversation takes us for that matter.  We are a family of quick and clever and funny commenters, sometimes having a hard time with slow conversations that don’t make immediate sense. Conversations that we can’t yet belong to.

Shirley suits me just fine.

After we exhaust the funeral subject, Shirley asks, “Do you have a beau?”

“Do you want one?”

“What kind of man do you want?”

At 93, she says, “There aren’t that many men around now for me. But for you…”

So we paint a picture of our ideal lovers while I finish knitting my grandchild’s   Christmas stocking, the TV on mute.

“Do you watch television?

How is your love life?

Do you enjoy your pool?  Has it outlived its luster?

How is your love life?

Are you gainfully employed?”

And several times, “How many people are coming to dinner tonight?”

Then she, out of the blue asks, “Do you still feel the death of your brother, Bo?”   My brother died in a car wreck at age 20,  about a year before Kennedy was assassinated.  Shirley knew Bo, she one of the few people in my life now who ever did.

“Can William talk?   Can he walk? Will he ever?”  (William, another story, at 7 ½ doesn’t talk among other things.)

“Do you still work?

Are we going to the funeral?

Do you have a beau?”

“This is the best dessert I have ever had,” eating Claire’s crème caramel she made from scratch.  Then again, “This is the best dessert I have ever had.”  Claire beaming and happy.

“I miss ‘Chick’, my husband.  I didn’t like football, then he taught me to love it.”

And I love football too, watching all those men run around and grab and knock each other down and then help each other up and pat each other on the butt.  She laughs.

“Why do I need to change clothes?   I am not going to.  My clothes are fine.”

Food on her sweater, dog footprints and a little blood from a hurt place on her white pants. 

Because you do.  Because we have company coming.  Because Claire would like it.

Then, the next day, “Why do I need to wash my hair?”

Because you put lotion in your hair, thinking it was hair spray.  And now your hair is all stiff. 

“No, it is not.”

And she does change clothes  and the next day takes a shower.

Then

Somewhere in the middle of this she says, speaking of old age,

“It reaches out and grabs you and takes you down,

and then there are tender moments that I like to see.”

Singing another hymn to her dog in her lap and grinning and clapping her hands together.  

Singing “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.”

 

Alexander and Haiku

Alexander and Haiku

In my hands a branch of plum-blossoms,

Spoke the greetings

Of the New Year. *

We have regular Friday meetings, some in person, but most on Google Hangouts with everybody spread out over the Southeast.  We are a leadership and organizational transformation consulting company.

That IS a mouthful, not a simple haiku.

Organizations, joy

Listening, collaborating

Making new futures

At the meetings, when things get hot or we hit a dead end or we might have drifted to complacency and looking at our iPhones, I have been reading a simple haiku.  Just to bring the mood of awe and gratitude, or just cause it is there to do for no reason.

Company calls

Dead silence or talking all at once

Read a haiku.

I had a stack of haiku books out on my wrapping table before Christmas and grandson from a wise old universe, Alexander, 9, picked one up and started reading it to me.

So simple, he said, a big meaning in so few words.

So I gave him one of the books and he read to us at the Christmas table.

Reading, wrinkling his brow

Smiling

Looking up at us.

A little devil and an angel.  Later, he picks up my meditation bowl and hits it with the stick and listens and waits for the end of the ring, vibrating to silence, shaking his head as if he is listening to rock music.

We have a one-minute meditation practice.

His Guardian angels visit

Do I have them too?

His answer his 4th grade test questions.

 

This book was his favorite gift after his potato shooter and remote control gasoline car.

With both of those, the shooter and the car, they are HIS, HIS turn; the language of mine and your turn is not yet.

With the haiku book, he is eager to share; it belongs to all of us.

As he grows and the shooter and car are long gone, haiku will be here.

By the tree

He reached for the toy

His book tucked under his arm.

The grownups frustrated

Kids are working it out

Generation after generation

Wise

Learning to debate and stand up

Learning to agree and make up.

Taunts, teasing and tempers

Doing what kids must do

Grownups sigh and frown.

Disapproving of this behavior, scornful. 

What would be scorned in my behavior?

if I had a big person watching me?

Interrupting, being impatient, overeating, over talking?

I ask the boys about fighting and they explain with great patience and reason and obviousness. That is what boys do.

And what do grownups do?

Talk too long, you and my daddy. 

Explain too much.

You let us do stuff

What stuff?

Put the mattresses on the floor in the living room and make forts and jump and play on them

And the trampoline too.

 Make us French toast

And make a cooking show video

Soak the good bread a long time

Then tell us stories late into the night about what our dad did when he was a boy.

 

 

*Peter Washington pocket serie