A Creek Runs Through It

A creek is my favorite body of water. It has a sense of adventure, but unlike a river, it doesn't wander anywhere too far, too dangerous, or too unfamiliar. It is not massive and impersonal like a lake nor small and muddy like a pond. Though it lacks the awesome majesty of the ocean, it has its own sacred rhythm beneath trees and bluffs.

I had a wonderful childhood, and a creek ran through it. I loved that creek at least as well as I loved the woods behind my childhood home.

But now my own family lives in a huge, sprawling city in the desert with a big, arid backyard.

Every so often I ask my husband if we can take our children to play in a creek.

Matthew needs warning. He appreciates nature, but he doesn't feel the need to visit its wilder places too often, and he certainly does not appreciate the condition of the roads that lead there. So weeks in advance I told him I wanted to visit Clear Creek and hike West Clear Creek Trail.

However, on the Thursday before we were to go hiking I had a truly horrendous day with the kids (and they with me, to be fair). Due to exposure to apocalyptic levels of whining, squabbling, shrieking and nagging that day, my adventure and nature-seeking spirit was quelled. I told my man I no longer felt like going; the best thing I could hope for was to sleep in on that Saturday for a very long time, my head buried in his shoulder.

But when we awoke very late the next morning, the adventuress in me had reemerged. I researched anew the directions to the creek and - ever so nonchalantly - acted like plans for the hike had never wavered. My forbearing husband didn't even object when we set out at noon in the 100+ heat.

We had a pleasant drive north until we abandoned normal byways and took a forest road less traveled. As our poor minivan pitched and heaved on the rocky, gutted, narrow dirt track, I was reminded again, as my hands squeezed the armrests, that my sense of adventure only goes so far. I felt an immense gratitude for my stalwart partner in life's escapades, for he drives far more fearlessly and calmly than I do under duress!

Frustration, thwarted plans and occasional feelings of being hopelessly lost or misdirected must accompany any adventure, I think, and we had our share.

Apparently, signs on roads or paths are undesirable in nature.

The forest road seemed to go on for much longer than was implied in the directions. We turned off at a likely and quite pretty spot only to find we were not at the trail head yet. When we finally found the hiking trail, parked and set out in relief, we soon discovered that it was not as "clear" as we would have liked.

There were many footpaths that deserted the trail to head toward the nearest pool of water. They looked like they could have been part of the trail that was supposed to cross the creek several times, but they dead-ended at precisely where there seemed to be a small crowd of people sharing a large swimming hole and perching on coolers. When we asked the patrons of such spots about West Clear Creek trail, we were met with confused faces.

And so we backtracked and took the high, dry ground (marked by pink ribbons) that seemed to eschew the water, and upon the advice of a young man with a backpack and a puppy who seemed to have some wilderness sense, we followed it until it befriended that stream once more and we came to a wide, pristine hole beneath some red rocks. Another family of four was there, enjoying the less frequented places.

It was at this swimming hole that I shed frustration and felt joy while watching my children revel in the water, enjoying nature giddily. They splashed around and fought the current and scrambled up slippery rocks and waded through deep narrow places in the stream, laughing, and I was right behind them, reliving my childhood and drinking from the fountain of youth in the only and best way.

Wading in the creek was an exhilarating experience for me. The water was not the expected frigidity that I had always encountered in the creek of my childhood or in many streams since. Perhaps it was the desert sun and its dry, crackling heat playing on the surface, for though the water was decidedly chilly against my legs, it was invigoratingly so.

We left the kind family who shared space and conversation so generously with us, and I urged my family farther along the trail. We saw a little grotto and crossed the stream once more before coming to a secluded spot with a tiny waterfall. Here our kids tested their strength against the current where it ran no more than a foot deep and two feet wide but surged with concentrated power. This was my husband's favorite spot.

There we also lost the trail, and, anyhow, Gabriella and the other kids were anxious to return to the magical swimming hole. Matthew was anxious to head home, but I whispered to the kids as we kicked up red clay from the path onto our wet shoes and legs that I hoped we would have more time to swim and play.

The large red rock that jutted out into the water over the swimming hole was a perfect place from which to launch yourself into the deep water below. At least, this was what the dad of the other family told me, as they were leaving, when I mentioned it was hot on the trail. He didn't seem the fearful type with his shoulder length black hair, square face and broad upper body, so I doubt he would have understood my hesitation to make such a leap. Berto and Ana? They jumped off that huge red rock repeatedly.

And this is what I did:

My little guy waits for Mama to take the plunge

I sat and looked and looked again. I couldn't quite get past thinking of exactly what would happen if I pushed off that rock into the water.

That's always my issue. I think too much.

Matthew told me to do it; we needed to go! And all the while he waited for the photo op of me overcoming my fear. Berto and Ana went from the rock to the water with words of encouragement for me, my own coaching and cheering squad. So many times, I inched forward, swallowing thoughts and hesitation, only to fall back on my heels. I watched my children be fearless but couldn't seem to catch the brave bug as they dove past me.

Have you ever said a prayer to the Holy Spirit for something you know is silly? Well, I prayed for courage to jump off that rock, because somehow it meant a great deal to me to be brave at this creek in this small way and to have the memory of it.

Matthew had put back on his socks and shoes and gathered up our stuff. His phone was tucked away in his pocket without the moment with his wife he'd waited semi-patiently for, and the kids were moving away from me.

Standing resolutely, Matthew announced,  "Alright, let's go!"

And I jumped without knowing I had made the decision. I hit the cool water and struggled up in the dark, green shadows, sputtering when I reached air.

I felt as happy as I have felt in some time.

"I did it!" I cried, elated, as I did a victory lap in that beautiful, deep water.

And Berto and Ana congratulated me exuberantly.

*******

Only later did I see the carnage on my side of our poor van. Long, wicked scratches ran along the whole length of it, scratches obtained by passing within inches of other vehicles on an uneven, exceptionally narrow forest dirt road bordered by brush.

Adventure always costs a little something, I guess. But my darling Matthew didn't complain.

Anniversary

My husband and I just celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. We spent the evening at home over a simple meal of cheese, meat, fruit and crackers and an inexpensive bottle of champagne. We had cheesecake for dessert and watched the 1961 film The Hustler starring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason on Netflix.

I was glad to be at home, but it wasn't what I thought I had wanted.

After arranging for a babysitter, I spent the days leading up to our anniversary trying to find the perfect date at the perfect location. It wasn't enough to go out for a nice dinner; what on earth would we talk about that we didn't already discuss at home? Seeing a movie was so ordinary. No, this was our 15th, and I wanted  an exciting celebration. I wanted to dance the night away. Unfortunately, the usual place wasn't open on Thursdays.

I tried to find another, even better location: a place not entirely patronized by single twenty-somethings or by pretentious party-goers who cared only about fashion and status; a venue not too dark, claustrophobic, or bizarre in its design; a DJ who would play music we might actually care to dance to. 

My husband, meanwhile, was researching other options in case dancing didn't work out. He and I got into little arguments as we searched for our celebratory place, growing more frustrated the harder we looked. It seemed neither of us really cared too much for the other's suggestions.

Slowly, as irritation mounted, I began to realize my priorities were all in the wrong place. Because it was our 15th, I didn't believe we could just dress up and have a few drinks and a steak dinner. It wasn't enough to simply be in each other's company. I wanted excitement, motion, electricity, a unique night to remember.

What snapped me out of it? The fact that my youngest daughter passed her stomach bug on to her little brother. As the day drew closer, it began to look less and less likely that the date night would happen.

Instead of feeling disappointed, I was relieved. My expectations had gotten out of hand. I was glad to be free of them, brought back to earth by children clutching their bellies and complaining of cramps. 

Ah, this is what it is all about, I thought. It wasn't about what dress I would wear with what heels, or which venue would cater to our kind of crowd, or whether or not we would eat a fancy dinner and pick up a bottle of Dom Perignon. It was about the family we had made together, and the fact that comforting our sick kiddos was more important than any night out - even on our 15th. 

I thought about my own parents and how outrageous my expectations had become in light of many of their anniversaries.

How many times as a child did I see my parents walk wearily in the front door on the summer evening of their anniversary, hot and tired from a long day working in the humid Tennessee woods! They sat in their old chairs in the living room eating a very ordinary meal, holding hands. Many years, we kids performed a sort of play or sang cute songs while wearing costumes for their amusement beneath a homemade sign that cried, "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!"

They never complained about the meal or the entertainment all those simple years.

15 is just a number, I realized; a nice rounder one, sure - but just another step on the journey of love. Thankfully, love's journey doesn't require glitz and glamour and expensive treats. The journey is not about increasing expectations year by year. It's about recognizing and appreciating simple pleasures and blessings in your life, holding your children close while they cry or laugh, learning to place the good of those you love above your own good, and about gratitude for the years you've spent together building a family and being in community.

Just being together, it turns out, is more than enough. 

Nerdy girl and her man

Love and Oldies

Oldies music reminds me of my first true love.

My first love is also my latest love: Matthew.

We used to listen to "oldies" all the time while dating: The Guess Who, Three Dog Night, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, Chicago, Elvis. The oldies are even older now these more than 15 years later.

I used to sing These Eyes to him in his car or room after we got together...perhaps not the most appropriate song for a budding relationship...and he used to sing The Glory of Love to me over the phone as we managed being more than a thousand miles apart.

Maybe I find myself frequently listening to oldies again because summer is approaching, and that season most of all embodies the tone of music from a bygone, seemingly more carefree age. I associate it with our June wedding and our first months of marriage. But all this nostalgia with its back beats, harmonies, peppy tempos and teenage love homages has me thinking not just about the beginnings of love but about its evolution.

The honeymoon is never over, I believe. Rather, it's seasonal, too - a surprise vacation from the mundane, but one very hard to conjure or manipulate to your desired schedule. When it shows up fickle paradise must be recognized and embraced, clung to. You have to abandon all your hang ups and relinquish them to joy.

This bliss can be recaptured for a few moments when you spy your spouse being adorable, looking cute in his new Adidas soccer gear or realize anew that his smile as it ignites his large eyes is truly winning; it won you. Sometimes if you're lucky it shows up on your anniversary over a bottle of fine champagne. It can even show up when the kids are around, playful but skittish.

Fear never leaves love completely. It sneaks around at its vulnerable borders, a mischievous stalker ready to throw cold water over any situation. It will ruin these little returns of paradise, steal them away greedily, and chip away at trust. Fear would like you to keep your protective distance from your spouse, terrified of being hurt or lied to someday, scared stiff by stories of betrayal from friends and associates. It paints with messy, garish and broad strokes to highlight every imperfection, change and unknown variable as the years progress, as love progresses.

What, after all, is this mature love they speak of?

Sometimes you think Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' song If You Don't Know Me By Now is the most appropriate theme for your 15th anniversary... or 10th...or 20th.

Yet true love is still worth the risk and occasional heartache and irrationality. These eyes of mine still see my man and love him.

All this oldies music for me recalls an era of first dates, first kisses, first sparks, the first time we held hands while on the way to gamble at a horse racing track, and that's a bit of honeymoon recaptured.

That's the glory of love.

I can see clearly now

I have a beautiful life.

There. It's November. Thanksgiving is approaching. And I'll just say it:

Berto, my oldest son, let me hug him on Halloween in front of his friends before I left him at a sleepover. Without embarrassment he accepts my, "I love you!" called out the car window by his school. He even lets me call him a variety of nicknames regularly without complaining. He still laughs with me when I'm laughing at myself. Usually. And he tries to cheer me up by his actions and with his words when I'm down. He will have long, deep conversations with me on everything from theology to astronomy to cinema to sports.

Oh, and he's a genius. Seriously, I have test scores and many awards to prove it.

My oldest daughter Ana never tires of being silly with me. It's like getting to goof off with a younger version of myself. When I was at the gift shop near the White Cliffs of Dover in England, I found a tin box with a picture of a crazy rabbit hopping on its lid. It spoke to me. I offered it to Ana when I got home, and she chose it for her keepsake. Every time she and I are being strange or goofy or singing and talking in one of the many silly voices in our repertoire, we end by doing a fist bump and saying exuberantly to each other, "Conejo loco!" It means crazy rabbit in Spanish. We have our own club.

She's a genius, too, and her beautiful heart shines for everyone. It's a gift from God.

My youngest girl, though a tomboy, still welcomes and invites my company and affection when I walk her into school. Ella offers me a kiss in front of all her friends who know how much she admires Batman, that Dark and lonely Knight. She hugs her ratty but loyal teddy Oonie every night as I sing her a bedtime song about her and Oonie being crime fighters in their dreams. She isn't tired of Mama or of Mama's small, imperfect gifts. And she has energy enough for all of us, especially when planning her birthday celebration. Everyone tells me now that she looks just like me. I have never seen it before, but almost from the day she was born, she reminded me of my Grandmama. I am honored.

She's a math whiz and a girl that will, I have no doubt, blaze a path in this world that others will want to follow.

Danny Sam, my baby, wishes he could still play games with me like we did each day before he started school. This past week he asked me several times until we finally played. I now know how he appreciated that time we had together. He wipes off my kisses in the morning but doesn't push me away before I plant them, His blue eyes are like an angel's; they are beautiful and make me stop and give thanks that such a little boy loves me, was given into my life. He still laughs like a little boy and still gets excited to share a story, classwork or his art with me. He's sensitive and not afraid to show me when he's mad, either.

My Danny Sam will always be my baby. Even when he's 62. But I have no doubt he will be a great many other amazing things, blessing others with his gaze from those great blue eyes and brightening the world with his talents and charm.

And my darling, darling, handsome man. I was amazed when Matthew came home for lunch Tuesday afternoon - something he never does because the commute is so long - with an armful of flowers and the few but powerful words I needed to hear from him. His thoughtfulness is all the more evident as the smell of eucalyptus from among those flowers permeates our home. He strongly dislikes that smell but got me those bouquets anyway; he knew I would love them, their vibrant colors and their heady scent. Taking me by surprise on a Tuesday afternoon is one of the most romantic things he has ever done. I'm in love with a steady, quiet, generous man.

And my life is good.

Rare Family Meals and A Cooking Brother

When my siblings and I gathered in San Antonio more than three years ago, I had the opportunity to eat some breaded trout my brother Nate had pan-fried. It was so delicious that I moved past my comfort zone of poaching or baking, and I tried to replicate it in my own kitchen. My experiment didn't turn out nearly as well.

When I got home in April from visiting my brother's family in the UK, I told my husband all about the dishes Nate had conjured up for my friend Holly and me, how he had spoiled us rotten. I can still recall the aroma and taste of the huge bowl of shrimp fried rice, the golden potatoes and bright onions, the stir-fried vegetables, and the banana bread. Ah, that banana bread! It had cranberries and walnuts and I'm pretty sure a fair amount of liquor, too. Every morning I went to carve myself a thick slice off the fragrant, moist loaf. I didn't need anything else for breakfast, though of course I couldn't say no to Natie's hash browns and sausage.

The first night at my brother's house, I helped Nate prepare supper, showering chunks of salt and spices that I have since forgotten onto the skin of some lovely little fish. Later that week we went to Borough Market in London, and Nate dashed around gleefully, collecting several of the bountiful culinary delicacies we encountered there. Another night he introduced me to prawns. I've never seen such ugly little buggers before. I tried my best to allow the least amount of skin from my fingers to touch them as I attempted to peel apart their hideous, whiskered bodies. The others laughed at me and shook their heads at my hesitation in clawing for culinary heaven. Then they caved and helped me peel a couple creatures, so they wouldn't have to watch the unattractive contortions of my face while enjoying a fine meal. Nate didn't have the prawns. He asked us how they were. When Holly and I began to gush, he laughingly halted us with, "Not you! I know you'll just tell me they're good. Her!" And he swiveled his pointed finger from us to Natalie who confessed, "They're a little dry but still very good." Nate cried, "Ah!"

Great chefs are always seeking perfection, I guess.

When I told Matthew about all the dishes Natie created, I may have been a bit heavy-handed in my hints that men can cook, too, and love it. Though Matthew gobbles up cooking competition shows, he has no passion for attempting their products, and I have always wondered, why watch them then? I love neither the reality cooking shows nor the reality of cooking, so we are a forlorn pair, eating steamed broccoli, canned beans, grilled chicken, and spaghetti more than is decent. However, gallant as my man is and eager to pacify my pleas (or demands) for him to cook sometimes, he did promise to prepare a few of Nate's recipes if I procured them.

His delectable food isn't all I remember about my time with Nate, but not being an accomplished and merry chef myself, I appreciate that gift in others, especially my big sisters and brother. They all claim to have learned at Mom's side growing up. I wonder how they learned, and I didn't. Where the heck did I, the baby of the family, wonder off to when the cooking started? A weird child, I probably spent those minutes telling myself and my stuffed animals stories in the bathroom mirror. At least I have taught myself to bake tolerably well as an adult, but one cannot survive on cake and scones alone. I wish I could! Instead, I think I'll ask my big brother for some recipes.

Just not the prawns.

Charlie Chaplin, Meet the Love of My Life

This is the story of when Matthew and I first met in person. I dug it out from the archives to share with you in honor of our wedding anniversary this week.

Yesterday, I was watching my husband's face as he listened to our good friend. She was telling us lively tales about couples she knew, and his smile in response was broad. Of course, a true smile, as opposed to just a contrivance of the features, ignites the eyes, has magic. My husband's smile is a million watts; it could illuminate the city of Phoenix in a blackout. It could exert a superhuman power to influence people if he unleashed it fully. I am mesmerized by his handsome face when he smiles, and I wonder sometimes if he can see my blatant admiration and therefore wonders why I don't act upon it more often.

Seeing his smile yesterday made me desirous to share a story of the September evening we met in person eleven years ago. I brought Charlie Chaplin along for the occasion, and Matthew smiled.

Maybe it was because we had only spoken on the phone for a few short months with a few thousand miles between us. Or maybe it was because he had implied during one of those friendly conversations that he was unimpressed with the picture I had sent to him, my very own Mr. Darcy (she's tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me), but I sure as heck wasn't going to show up to our first face-to-face meeting alone.

My sister Annie had orchestrated our meeting by asking Matthew within moments of seeing him for the first time, "Do you like brunettes?", meaning me. Having introduced us via old-fashioned telephone network, she was coming along to officially introduce in person, of course. In fact, a legion of curious friends, family, and people I did not know were coming on my blind date - a chance to go out for Mexican food in a Tex-Mex town, enjoy margaritas and watch the spectacle of two young people getting to know each other at no risk to themselves.

I needed additional support, though. Dumb support. I needed Charlie Chaplin, that talented, lighthearted fellow. So I took him with me. I didn't ask; I just cut him out of a magazine, dressed as that lovable tramp, folded him up and carried him out to my sister's car where he lay on my lap during the drive downtown to San Antonio's River Walk. When we exited the vehicle, my sister cast me an incredulous look.

"Don't bring that," she said and pointed in disapproval.

I hesitated, but nope. Though 20, I would be a child. I needed my talisman. So we walked into the restaurant, Mi Tierra across from Merchant Square, with Chaplin all wrinkled and sweaty in my hands.

Through the double doors, and there he was by the bakery cases. Matthew who I knew by voice and by a dark picture of him in ball cap, standing by a grill with a barbecue utensil, smiling. Matthew, the Catholic to my Protestant, the Hispanic to my whatever-the-heck-I-am, the young professional to my bum writer.

He had on the worst long black shorts. He was very casual actually. Chaplin was more dressed up than he. I, on the other hand, had something to prove after the picture I'd sent of myself - hair mussed, holding my pet rabbit, and my cousin behind me with red glaring eyes and a wicked smile. My folks jumped to the conclusion that I had sent that ugly picture of myself to sabotage all hope of a relationship with a normal guy. Honestly, I don't know if I did or not. I had certainly said as many stupid things as possible to sabotage it. But whether I had subconsciously done myself in or not, I had my pride, and I was not going to be found lacking in the flesh. That night I was going for the make-him-weep-and-apologize-for-implying-you're-ratty look. With my short printed summer dress, dewy face and basket-weave heeled sandals, I hoped I had succeeded. If Matthew's million-watt smile was the indication, I had - though I could discern no signs of remorse for earlier implications. We stepped toward each other.

I don't remember what was said in those first moments. At least not until I shifted Chaplin from one hand to the other in order to shake his hand.

"What's this?' said Matthew.

I regretted my company then, but I held it out and said nervously but with chin pointed, "A talisman."

It was my misfortune that on the other side of Chaplin was an advertisement for southern whiskey. Jack Daniels to be precise. It was this that Matthew saw first, and he and his friend Nathan began to tease me.

"So you bring a picture of whiskey to our first date? I guess you like your alcohol."

I flipped it over.

"No, Chaplin. I love Charlie Chaplin."

"Oh, sure," he said with that smile. I was too flummoxed to appreciate it.

We soon made it into the bar to wait for our table. I lost track of Chaplin after that. I don't know where he went or what he did. Maybe I shoved him into the depths of my purse with just the Jack Daniels for consolation, but I no longer worried about him. Nor did I need him except perhaps to distract one of my sister's coworkers who turned to me and said genially, "If things don't work out with this, maybe you could meet my son. You two would hit it off."

Matthew was right there across from me. I glanced at him and back at her and mumbled a polite response.

When we finally sat down to dinner, I made sure, very gracefully of course, that Matthew settled on my left, my best side. It would have been very unfortunate if he'd taken a seat on my right; you can see how crooked my nose and mouth are on that side, and I try to surprise people with my flaws little by little, so there's a better chance of acceptance. I remember worrying about my profile, and also worrying about whether I was pronouncing the entrees right from the menu of "authentic" Mexican food. I didn't know then that, although his pronunciation was good, Matthew didn't actually speak Spanish at all. Ah, well. I got splashed with the light of his bright smile every time I got nervous over my words, so all in all, my embarrassment was worth it.

When the evening wound down, and we strolled slowly out of the restaurant, our tongues momentarily tied, Matthew guided me over to sit on a bench beneath the gloam of a tree. Shielded from the flourescent glare of the street lights, he asked me out on a date for that Thursday night, just the two of us. I didn't say no. Perhaps I had a premonition that all was going "to work out with this".

It was less than a year later that I met him before the altar and was greeted by that smile I love so well, at its most brilliant. The photographer caught the moment and gave me my favorite wedding photo. In that picture and in moments shared between us, Matthew's smile is destined to make me feel like a day-dreamy schoolgirl for years to come. Nothing's better than that.

Not even Charlie Chaplin.

Sunday, Not a Fun Day

This week has been something else. Last week bulldozed into this one, piling debris on that I am now attempting to brush off my mood.

My husband had four wisdom teeth pulled last Friday, but he wanted to go to 9am Mass on Sunday nevertheless. During the consecration Matthew's head turned towards me with a very weird expression on his face. My husband then promptly passed out as he was kneeling, eyes still wide open as he slumped against the pew in front. My arms stretched out to brace him, and I attempted to revive him with urgent words, but he was unresponsive for many moments. Others gathered around as Mass went on.

It's the ushers' responsibility to deal with medical emergencies, and our usher did indeed come to assist. Matthew revived, and immediately, fear passing, I burst into tears. A doctor attending Mass came into our pew, explaining that he was a medical professional. Someone asked Matthew if he knew where he was. He replied, "In church." Another woman a couple pews back called 9-1-1, and the doctor made Matthew lie down while an elderly woman propped his legs on her lap to chafe them. Other people brought wet paper towels and cups of water or aspirin, none of which were used by the doctor's orders. It was chaos, and people had to wind around us to get to Communion. I apologized for blocking one gentleman's way, and he hugged me tightly. Then a friend who heads Children's Liturgy of the Word took my youngest two. Poor Ella had been crying over "Daddy". (She's the only one who doesn't call him Papa.) Daniel had been stranded on the other side of the Doc, a pliable, bewildered, but stoic expression on his face. I felt badly for Ana and Berto; they were altar serving and could not come to us. I only found out later that they didn't even know who it was that had passed out.

Eventually the firemen came, and we followed them to the long music room. Matthew became very nauseous in there, and so they recommended having an ambulance take him to the hospital. Many tests were performed, but nothing serious was found. Meanwhile, two very compassionate friends, Diane and Geraldine, took care of our children  by feeding them donuts and lunch, playing games with them and then taking them to the park. There were also many other people in our parish who were very kind to our family. It was an adventurous day for us all, but not my kind of adventure.

Of course, in the days since - what a joy to be obsessive! - I have seen Matthew's wide-eyed face as he slumped against the pew play over and over in my mind. I'm afraid I have fussed over him much more than he would like, refusing to let him drive or go to work on Monday. He is never, ever allowed to scare me so terribly again! That was a very helpless and horrible feeling I had at Mass. I guess we should not have gone, though many of our church family said there could be no better place to faint; everyone can pray for you at once and receive Communion.

At any rate, not only have I been very worried about my man, but I have felt guilty about not taking care of him as I should have after his oral surgery. I made and fed him pudding, jello and watery mashed potatoes, and he was drinking a decent amount of water with his medication, but I feel that I should have been giving him better nutrition and shoving glass upon glass of fluids at him, just as my mother used to do for me when I was ill. He probably was dehydrated or, accustomed as he is to heavy-duty protein from red meat and such, malnourished. I have never been a good nursemaid, I'm afraid, though I really did try to serve his needs.

However, I am, in light of everything, grateful that I did not leave Matthew home alone on Sunday as I had planned to do originally. He is well, thank God, but I warn you, my friends: oral surgery is no laughing matter.

How my life's great love affair is like an Austen romance

I don't think it's been evident here yet, but I'm a rabid Austen fan. I have a great friend, Holly - my very stylish. artistic friend - who supports me in my addiction, even so far as conspiring with me to drag our men to England for a literary tour.

Recently, I've been reading North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell, on Holly's suggestion and watching the BBC series adaptation. It is a tale worthy of Austen, if not quite written with her flair and humor. It borrows heavily on the themes in most great love stories written in an age when society still believed in honor and God and character and men behaving as gentleman and women being ladylike. It's hero, Mr. Thornton, could stand proudly beside Mr. Darcy, Captain Wentworth, and Fairfax Rochester (Of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte) as his equals - tall, proud, passionate heroes skilled in making female readers admire them for their violent declarations of love to indifferent, strong-willed, highly-principled women.

And so I thought, Well, I have a romantic hero in my life, and, crying out loud, no one's more fit to be a spirited, opinionated, principled heroine than I am. How is our great love affair like an Austen/Bronte/Gaskell romance? Let me count the ways:

We met when he came to the country, I went to the city, and I became a governess to his ward (aka illegitimate child)

Actually....well, uh, no. My sister met him a few thousand miles away, and he thought she was quite pretty (the handsomest woman in the room, as Mr. Darcy would say), and she, married and blond, asked if he liked brunettes.

"Umm....why?" he wanted to know.

"I have a little sister," she told him. "She's a brunette."

And he thought, If the sister looks like this one, I'm in luck.

I was Proud and Prejudiced.

My sister Annie gave my number to a strange Texan so he could call me long distance? Boy, was I mad. My dad and I railed for half an hour about how "these things" never work out, while my mom stood to the side and said wisely, "You never know. Give it a chance. Let him call."

He did call, the bold guy, and I learned he was newly baptized Catholic, and I freaked out like any self-respecting Protestant would do for no good reason, wailing to my dad, "He's Catholic! A Catholic! Catholic!"

I was not handsome enough to tempt him

Once I got over my paranoia, for weeks we talked regularly, agreeing not to send each other our photographs. We planned to meet blindly for the first time in person at San Antonio. But I couldn't stand it, and I found the most unflattering picture of myself and sent it by the next post. It was a photo of me and my cousin, both with red eyes and disarrayed hair, and I was holding my pet bunny squashed against my face. The rabbit looked tame enough. I looked feral.

I thought the photo was an authentic representation and was utterly humiliated when Matthew told me in a subsequent phone conversation that he would now have to "wait and see" how I looked in person, whether I at least sometimes had decently coiffed hair, etc., and that he felt certain I had sent a bad picture on purpose.

I vowed, with my wounded pride, never to dance with him at a ball - even if he did ask me - while Dad, eager to marry off his youngest daughter so he would never again have to hear about her weird dreams, claimed I tried to sabotage the relationship before it could begin.

We first saw each other at a country ball, and there was an interfering middle-aged lady

Actually, it was a Mexican food restaurant, and - phew! - there was no chance of dancing, so my vow was safe. Matthew's friend had already informed him that I looked much better in person than I did in that atrocious picture. I could tell that Matthew thought so, too, as I walked by the pastry counter for our first romantic encounter.

We were with a large group of people, and one of them, a stout, well-meaning saleslady, told me over aperitifs  - right in front of my hero - that if our date didn't work out, she had a young relative to whom she would gladly introduce me.

I tried to be as changeable as possible

One day I flirted and was sweet and encouraged him, the next I acted as if friendship and respect were all he could gain if he worked hard. That's a woman's job; we do it well.

I wore a fancy gown, and he was speechless

We had a lunch date, and as soon as the door opened, I knew my power, one might say. He just stared. I was surprised by his reaction, because I had in no way engineered it. It was a simple cotton turquoise dress - no low bodice, satin or lace - that my sister had given me, a hand-me-down. I don't even think he knew why he liked it so much on me; it was just one of those magic moments.

There was a Wickham/Willoughby character

His name was Winters, a highly appropriate name, and he sold private planes for a living. He was dark, suave and debonair, had a fancy estate and an SUV with seat warmers that made me extremely nervous and fidgety on the drive home after our only date. Later, he told me that though he appreciated our stimulating, intelligent conversations, a man and woman should make "apple pie" together. He also asked if I shopped at Victoria's Secret and told me that Matthew had once robbed him of a valuable family living.

We were not suited.

Right before Matthew was to come visit at Christmas, I saw this man trying to ensnare another young lady at the mall and was reminded of how he had charmed me once. After climbing the escalator and calling mournfully, "Winters! Oh, Winters!" under the rain-spattered skylight, I got a sharp reproach from Dad for my silliness. So I murmured with a dignified air, "Go, go. I would not wish you back again." Or something like that.

Dad and daughter were close

My dad and I were buddies. We shared a love of writing, books, chocolate and nature and a passion for talking about God. Still, he did not say bitter-sweetly, "I could not have parted with you to anyone less worthy, Hillary, my dear." No, during Matthew's Christmas visit he suddenly announced, holding a wine glass aloft as if to celebrate, "Watch - these two will be married before the year is out."

I think he was ready to let go.

I had no family connections or fortune

I didn't even own a vehicle or know how to drive...mainly, because I had no money and failed my eye exam.

Though I didn't go sightseeing at his New Mexico family home with my kindly aunt and uncle after rejecting his hand, I did call his Acura "my car" on our second date touring his alma mater. I still don't know how that came about, but I was more embarrassed than Elizabeth on the beautiful grounds at Pemberley, I can assure you, and he teased me mercilessly.

There was a woman with a beautiful voice ready to take my place

An old girlfriend, she didn't call until a week after our wedding (oops - gave away the ending). A close escape, because I didn't want to resort to sticking my hat pin in her bum or pushing her into the nearest koi pond. Stooping to such unladylike tactics would surely have hurt my dignity. Any how, she had a beautiful genteel voice as she asked to speak to my husband, and he got on the phone and said as abruptly and bluntly as Darcy would have done, "I see you just met my wife."

I didn't refuse him but I tried to run away

He did not declare his love for me under a huge old tree or find me alone in the drawing room, because we didn't know where a drawing room was in Texas. Knowing my fondness for long country walks and exotic animals, he took me to the zoo. I noticed his heart beating wildly just before he proposed to me in a little sitting area by a large blue parrot. I tried to flee, crying, "No way! No way!" He kept a firm grip on my hand.

On our wedding day as we at last stood before the Catholic priest, his smile was more brilliant than Mr. Darcy's by far. But he always did have more of Bingley's jovial nature than Darcy's sternness.

****

But unlike the great literary heroes, Matthew never enthralled me with ardent words of undying passion or talk about his suffering. He never stalked the town piercing people with his intense gaze; no, I have to get him really, really mad for that. While dating he did tell me that he compared all women to me and couldn't find anyone like me, but to me that only meant he was still looking - to which I thought, Ha! Good luck, mister. I'm original, alright.

He's a true man, and I know very few who can speak about their feelings as well as women writers have them do in fiction...unless, of course, they're writers themselves. But he did give me his sports watch when I left San Antonio and swear he would give me anything in his possession (even the Acura?!). He also kept a token of me, a cheap little necklace I'd forgotten at his apartment; something I didn't find out until much later.

Once we got married, he found less use for words then before he'd won me. Now he communicates his adoration by smacking my fanny or squeezing my thighs while I'm cooking dinner. The only time he ever says pretty things spontaneously is...cough...never mind.

He has Thornton's business sense, Bingley's steady good nature and Darcy's reserve. He is nothing at all like Rochester...unless...well, there was that time he asked if I was willing to move to another state and be his mistress (I told him an emphatic No), and he did buy me an expensive bauble when we'd barely been together a month. But he's unique. He's my hero - tall, even-tempered (one of us should be), amiable, God-fearing and dark-haired as I knew he would be.

We're made for each other, Mr. Ibarra and I.

Three Funny Things

Half a mother's wrinkles are from stress, lack of sleep, worry, and non-vocal disciplinary warnings. Thank God the other half are from laugh lines:

1. It was getting out of hand. Another uneasy gathering of minds, a new exchange of hard stares and rude exclamations, "It's your turn! Go!" Sighs and grunts and shouts of indignation and dice scattered under the couch and people's legs. I had to do something to promote peace.

"You guys, let's all try to remember how Jesus would want us to behave," I gently reminded.

My husband responded wryly, "I don't think Jesus had Yahtzee."

2. We have a chandelier in a bad spot. It hangs low over a cramped space between the dining area and living room. So many people have hit their heads on it, my husband always gives a shout and applause to any new victim. "Congratulations!" he exclaims. "You're part of the family! You've been initiated." It seems a little late when, after such an exuberant display, he asks if they're alright.

The other day I found my littlest guy, Danny Sammy, standing on a dining chair hitting a toy against this same chandelier to make tinkly music - again.

"You get down from there right now," I said firmly as I walked past with an armful of laundry. Instead of doing what I asked, I saw him lift the toy again out of the corner of my eye. "Don't you even think about!" I called, dropping the load into the washer.

A moment's silence...then I hear my little boy confess, "I'm thinking about it!"

3. The rain was coming down hard, but it had to be done; toys and chairs and bikes and skates needed to be rescued from the elements. My 10-year-old thought his mad dashes into the yard protected only by his papa's rain slicker were a joyride, even as I shouted for him to hurry up out of the storm. But when there came a mighty clap of reverberating thunder, my brave boy launched himself indoors with a shriek, slipping, sliding and arms flaying until he lay stretched flat on the floor, laughing up at me. I joined in gratefully, my first good belly laugh of the day.


This list was loosely based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines.

Matthew, not Gerald (how I traded a dream for my dreamboat)

I went to my ninth-grade prom for the food. Yes, I did. No surprise that I went stag, though it is a bit ironic considering I'm a girl.

Anyway, I got there expecting fancy fixings and was hugely disappointed with the trays of store-bought sandwich cookies, crackers and cheese. Pathetic. I was so discouraged by the offerings that when a boy actually asked me to dance, I replied grumpily, "Isn't that your girlfriend over there? Why don't you dance with her?"

My parents later asked how I enjoyed the dance. I responded with a tirade about the poor buffet. They laughed. So many times in my childhood they laughed...with me, of course; I was a merry child.

You see, as a teenager when I got only measly professions of so-so admiration while boys groveled at my sisters' feet, I was fine with it, because I was sure I would someday marry my perfect man. I wasn't thinking so much about good looks, adventure or stability. I was thinking about food and the avoidance of a certain kind of labor. For the perfect man for me, I was certain, was a French Chef named Gerald, or Gerard.

Why a French Chef named Gerald? Well...

Chef - because I needed to eat decently, something which I've always loved to do

French - well, aren't they the best? Why eat simply decent when you can eat extravagantly? Cheers!

Gerald - there's no good reason

As a child I was never at my mother's elbow learning how to cook. I was, however, at her elbow to ask when food would be ready, to snag a pinch of pastry dough, swipe some noodles, or to purloin a spoonful of pancake batter.

My sisters told me that I had the appetite of a horse, and I don't think they meant it as a compliment. It would have been practical, burdened with such a love of food, to want to learn the art of cooking. And I should have. My only excuse is that our kitchen was always so hot, and it seemed to be a place where by-standers were expected to work at preparing food or cleaning dishes.

I did eventually discover that I could make chocolate chip cookies - my one culinary skill. If push came to shove, I could subsist on cookies, canned Bean w/ Bacon soup and green beans, and bananas until I met Chef Gerald.

Then when I was twenty, I bungled the dream. I fell in love with a handsome business professional named Matthew, and he firmly believed in the adage Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime. So he prepared his mom's spaghetti for me one evening; then he gave me the recipe. We got married and lived happily ever after a few months later.

Except....

six days a week for that first year of marital bliss we dined on microwaved potatoes, Tuna Helper and frozen pizza. On the seventh day we ate spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies.

Now almost thirteen years on in our union, things aren't that bad in the sustenance department. We eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, raw fruits and vegetables. When we feel creative we steam them (not the fruit). I have learned I can work a bit of magic with most things that require batter. Life would be easy if supper could be whipped up every night and poured into a mold, or if it could be breakfast fare - pancakes, biscuits, waffles, eggs. I can happily make breakfast for dinner every day, but I have to exercise caution in my zeal. Every once in a while, I see the look in my Man's eyes, hear the panicked cry of, "Hold the breakfast! Please!" 

It's just too bad that I was never at my mother's elbow, that I never learned to be a martyr of meal-planning. I preferred to be out running in nature, writing mysteries with a eye-patch-wearing-girl-detective, or even cleaning dishes to the tiresome business of putting two savory ingredients together. That's why this past Valentine's Day, the options for dinner were waffles, spaghetti or pizza. We ate pizza (for the memories, of course).

Yes, cooking should be a labor of love, and how I love my Man and my kids!

But every now and then - once or twice a day - I do wish I had a very altruistic cooking friend, Chef Gerald, in my life.

Arch Queen of Accidental Disaster

I have prayed over major appliances, only expensive ones of course - or ones that belonged to somebody else.

Prayers such as Lord, please may this stereo experience a revitalization of its necessary components, so my brother-in-law won't kill me, and please, I ask that this dishwasher be able to process that huge chunk of glass that's stuck in its filter.

I need the intervention of a higher power, because I am Destroyer of major appliances, Public Enemy No. 1 of all things breakable, and Spoiler of white, immaculate things. I am, in fact, the Arch Queen of accidental disaster. I have put permanent stains on my parents-in-law's creamy white carpet during two separate visits. I have broken half the stoneware and three-fifths of all drinking glasses in every home in which I have lived for more than a month. I have annihilated numerous irreplaceable objects, created stains on other people's clothing from a respectable distance, and lost the personal property of family members while on vacation.

I am on the fourth microwave in my married life and the fifth set of dinner plates.

And Matthew, my poor, poor man, is married to me. When he breaks something, loses something, spills something, like the coffee yesterday that he left by the couch, what do you suppose I do? I rejoice! I keep the score. Sure, it's my 3,984 accidents to his dozen or so, but every new tally on the Matthew page gives me an itty-bitty bit of leverage for compassion when the next accident strikes via Hillary. And it will, probably in the next five minutes.

Last week I busted a whole case of beer after I shoved it beneath a shopping cart. "It's wedged," I said lightly to Matthew, even as I heard the faint squeak of that inner warning voice, now so weary and hoarse from years of shouting and clamoring for the attention I so rarely give it. But it gets plenty of validation, as it did when that beer fell with a splendid crash against the pavement as my husband traversed a speed bump with the shopping cart.

"Yeah, it's wedged." he said acerbically as he bent over the damage, flicking beer from his fingertips.

It was face my husband's disappointment over the loss of pricey beer, or shamelessly ask the store for a new case. By now I am pretty shameless. I'm an old pro at acknowledging the catastrophe, garnering sympathy, gaining forgiveness of my debt and/or compensation out of pity. I should carry my own liability disclaimer into every home and place of business I enter. Because a case of beer? That's nothing. I've broken three cases of vintage soda in a novelty store/restaurant by swinging my child and their carseat into a carefully-arranged display, and all that after forgetting my wallet at home and finding myself unable to pay for my breakfast.

One of the worst moments I've ever had in my prolific accident career happened after Thanksgiving. I realized our car keys were misplaced as we were leaving our friend Camille's house to head home across three states. Sickening, but even more sickening to know that this colossal accident would go on my extensive tally sheet. I had reached a pinnacle of shame. We turned out my purse and the diaper bag and all suitcases, searched every room in my friend's house, scanned the driveway, crawled through our vehicle, literally dumped our dirty laundry out in the street.

And then....then I found them on my tenth or so desperate dig through the dirty clothes in the chill Oregon air. They were in the zipper pocket of a pair of pants, and those pants belonged to...Matthew.

I cackled and danced like Rumpelstiltskin in triumph. I gloated and shouted exuberantly that it was in fact NOT MY FAULT! I skipped and laughed as I rattled the keys for my Man and everyone to see. This is not to say that I went out of my way to make my wonderful husband feel bad about it. No, no - my joy was was not bridled by such petty feelings. I simply felt liberated from remorse and justified, innocent when naturally assumed guilty. Amazing! All hope of such a thing had seemed increasingly slim with every year of marriage to my non-accident-prone, near-perfect man.

Of course, my lovely guy did apologize, and sincerely, albeit with a look of shock on his face. I needed something to celebrate my rare good fortune, so I begged a piece of Camille's birthday cake from her to take on the road.

She replied, "I already gave a piece to Matthew for you." Aha! His gift to acknowledge his false accusation, I thought, but then she added, "And he asked for it before he knew he'd lost the keys."

Well, well. He got me an enormous piece of chocolate cake for the road even as he thought I'd lost the keys to our new minivan several hundred miles from home? What a wonderful, long-suffering man!

But it still went on his accident tally. It can't quite even things out, but it is a BIG boon for me in future beer-busting situations. Hey, I love the guy, but I need all the leverage I can get.

Time and Chance...and Gratitude

I had a healing conversation with my parents recently, one in which they let me cry abundantly until my cellphone and ear both felt permanently moistened.

 

It's been almost two weeks since the accident, the first five of those spent in the hospital. I thought I was a trooper while in that cozy, safe hospital bed. I knew my blessings quickly, and I had no anger (unless you count yelling at the officer who told me I actually needed to talk instead of nodding, and I replied, "I...don't...want...to!", or when I scolded the ED nurses and docs for leaving me on a backboard and in a neck brace for what felt like 20 stiff hours). Nevertheless, my rattled emotions have blindsided me since I've come home. Yesterday, I heard a neighbor's motorcycle while my kids and I were in the front yard, and it upset me badly. My children crying, especially my youngest two, has the power to discombobulate me completely.

Ella, my youngest daughter, and Danny Sam, my littlest boy, were with me when a black motorcycle, entering my left line of vision like a torpedo, blew a red light and T-boned our van where the driver's side door hinges September 28th. Suddenly I was looking through a splintered windshield and an emptiness where my driver's side window had been. My sideview mirror was gone, wires dangling like mangled limbs, and my door was bent into my intimate space. Blood warmly dripped down my arm and hand.

The horror of knowing you are where you are in that moment and that there will be consequences to that fabled time and chance that happens to us all is indescribable.

And it was nearly unbearable. I was in physical pain immediately from a collapsed, bruised lung and broken ribs, and I selfishly closed in on myself those first several minutes. But the pain of hearing my children scream and wail for me until the first responders came was more terrible and haunting. I couldn't reassure them; I could barely speak, though I tried to wave my right hand in a calming signal and eventually tried to lift my voice above the cacophony of noise to breath, "I'm okay..."

I knew by their strong voices, their undulating cries, and their confused questions that they were okay and had no idea what had just happened. They were both sitting on the same side of the van as myself, but I don't believe they glimpsed the same black hulk I did before the crash.

They were not hurt, praise God. That would have been unbearable. They were not hurt at all, except for a tiny scrape on my son's thigh that I think he got as the fireman accidentally knocked glass from the window.

There is a part in the book The Walking Flame where the main character Aram must face horrendous environmental conditions. Beings called Astra wrap their enormous wings and strange bodies around him, shield him. I really don't care how it sounds: that is the image that sprang to my mind in the hospital regarding how my kids were protected from harm. Their guardian angels enveloped them.

I suppose people could ask: Well, what about you? You were seriously hurt.

You must have faith to understand. God never left me. He never left us.

He was present in the two kind, sober-faced men who stopped to ask if I was okay, who when I shook my head, responded, "Hang in there. We're going to get someone to help you."

He was present in the firemen who finally comforted and calmed my children, who were cheerful in speaking to them, who gave me a great, extraordinary gift when they got my children to speak back to them, who told my babies their mama was going to be okay, who asked about the teddy bear and doll buckled into the seats of our van. My respect for what those men and women do in traumatic situations is multiplied tremendously. They were sooo calm, so miraculously cheerful, that it comforted me and let me wholeheartedly trust them with my children when I was unable to take care of them myself.

God was present in the policemen who kept me lucid and engaged and speaking, who bent my driver's side door all the way back, so I could be placed on the stretcher. He was present in the EMTs who tended me all the way to the hospital, who were kind despite my extreme grumpiness, who told the ambulance driver to step on it already and put on the lights.

And He was present in my husband who rushed to be with us after I weakly told him on the cellphone that we'd been in an accident - to just come. My Man dashed like Flash Gordon across a long field to get to the scene, was stopped by a female officer, and had to wait in agony for the "all clear" to come see us. He barely got to me in time to grasp my hand and say, "Baby, I'm here...I'm here," before the ambulance took me away. But because he was there so quickly, he was able to take Ella and Daniel into his arms and familiar papa care. They weren't removed from the scene by strangers from Social Services, and I am so glad.

Good things come. I understand now what Job meant when he said of God to his misguided friends, If He kills me, I still trust him.

I've now witnessed the light of God shining brightly through people. And I know what it is, the Peace of Christ, to forgive someone when they have injured you badly and could have hurt your beloved children.

Don't Try to Force Your Man Out of Doors, Nakey

On Sunday my Man refused to sit on the back patio with the magic combo of our children, me, the newspaper, and breakfast. Just awake, he peeked out the sliding glass door to alert us to his presence. As he examined all the green, blue and brown of the outdoor realm with supreme disinterest, I became desperate for his company just this once. It was surprisingly nice out at that early hour, but my pleas and tricks were to no avail; he even tried to switch my allegiance by telling me CBS Sunday Morning was on. Really! I knew I didn't marry a nature-seeker, but sometimes it drives me wild all the song and dance I have to do just to lure him outside.

When I defected to the inside for coffee, I threatened. "If you don't learn to come sit outside on the patio with me by the time we're an old married couple, I'm going to put a cardboard cutout of you out there...or, better yet, I'll stuff an old man doll and stick it in a rocker on the front porch for company."

"Sounds like a plan."

Rotten old man.

The war of natures escalated when he discovered while grilling our lunch that the children and I had scattered bird seed all over the yard while he slept.

"I don't want all those stupid birds in my yard!" he cried. "They're going to poop all over everything and perch on the roof waiting for the next big seed party."

Other than the risk that our backyard could turn into a bad Hitchcock movie, I didn't see his point.

"So? They're part of nature."

"So, I even found some seed on my white table that I cleaned off."

"Your table? Yeah, right! When do you ever sit at that table?"

"Fine then. I'll leave them to poop all over your table and won't bother to clean it up next time."

"No...well...thank you," I amended. "But I'm the one who cleans those tables most of the time anyway," I added, still nettled. "And you're just scared of nature! Ha!"

That did not go over well, especially when our eldest son cried, "Yeah!" Matthew does not tolerate insubordination from offspring. We backpedaled and tried to mumble how we just wanted his company outside sometimes to sit and play, but it was too late.

Matthew and I finally made up that afternoon the way all exhausted parents do: over a nap. When we woke up, the kids, robbed of more television, had nothing better to do than look out the windows. Soon afterward they started telling us excitedly about all the birds in the backyard (the little rats even counted them for accurate reporting). I giggled nervously as my husband turned his smug gaze on me.

"Ix-nay on the ird-bays," I growled at the kids. "Nobody needs to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cooking french toast and bacon for dinner that night, I passed by my husband and made smooching noises instead of actually kissing his lips. I didn't want to get too close to the frying pan.

"So that's how you two kiss when you're cooking," said Berto, our eldest. "It sounds like what you do when you're nakey."

Instantly, I went on the defensive.

"Listen, Berto," I said, waving my spatula and trying to keep it matter-of-fact. "If you walk in on Papa and Mama when we're like that, it's your fault. That'll teach you that you should always knock."

"I think he said, 'what you do with Nike'," corrected my Man, enunciating slowly and giving me a look as he referred to our pet hamster.

"Yeah," said Berto, confused. "That's what I said - Nike. The kissy noises you make at Nike."

"Oh." I went back to minding my french toast. "Well, then, just scratch that and...uh...ignore it."

Knight and Kind Stranger, Rescue Me

Sometimes you need a hero, whether he's trying to put the kids to bed or not, and if he can't gallop up to you on his tall white steed, nowadays you can usually reach him by cellular.

I didn't plan on being a lady in distress that night. No, I planned on simply going to a small artsy theater in the affluent city of Scottsdale, Arizona to see an Iranian film with a couple of friends. This small theater I had been to twice before, but I couldn't quite remember how to get there. Instead of looking it up on a map before I left, traditional or Internet, I decided to wing it, fully expecting to recognize the necessary turns I needed to take when I met them. (Yes, I don't have a smart phone. I'm probably the only person on the planet who doesn't have one and lacks the insatiable desire to acquire one.)

Everything in Scottsdale was supernaturally dark when I turned off the highway and headed west that night. Either that city is inhabited by ritzy, uppity vampires who work diligently to maintain their ideal nightlife environment or my uncertainty and poor eyesight made me acutely aware of the absence of any familiar guiding light. I became irrevocably confused between two streets - Goldwater, Drinkwater...huh? I made a wrong turn and then another. Then I circled back to the main street, so that I could yet again take the wrong street to the wrong fluorescent lights that glared like a false, malevolent and mocking beacon. I knew my east, west, south and north, but I had no clue about local landmarks. Everywhere I looked there were fancy low-light clubs, tall dim buildings, fancy (vampire?) people, and I was often sandwiched on the main thoroughfare between sleek, gargantuan hummers and tiny, haughty sports cars which almost careened off my back bumper when I stopped abruptly at lights.

My anxiety grew as the car's clock dialed toward 7pm. That was the showtime for the movie, and I needed to make it before then, because I knew my artist friend did not like missing her previews.

There was hope...until I lost it somewhere on Camelback, Fifth Ave, Goldwater, Drinkwater, Indian School...bleh, it was all a terrible mess. And the darkness was cruel, cruel! I began to twitch at every light, slapping the steering wheel and shouting, Come on!", rushing to God only knows where only to get more confused. The stress of being lost was eroding my practical self, and emotion was seeping into the brain, muddying my already muddled faculties. At one point I considered calling into cars that stopped next to me at lights, pleading for directions from their drivers, but I couldn't tell if that was rational or lunatic.

I didn't have my friend's cell number, and I didn't have the cell of our friend who was joining us. My panic was intensifying as I passed the same little strip of shops that seemed to be the only light-emitting things in Scottsdale. There was only one thing to do.

"Matthew, I'm lost!" I cried into my phone. "And I can't reach Holly. I'm going to be late, and she'll miss her previews. And I keep making the wrong turns, because it's so damn dark. I can't see anything til I'm right on it! Stupid Scottsdale!"

He tried to calm me, so he could clarify my damsel in distress circumstances. After much back and forth and cursing from the damsel (me), he extracted from me the street where I was and name of the theater where I was supposed to be. While he was trying to look up my location, I panicked and hung up the phone, thinking it was taking too long and hoping by sheer dumb luck or by magic that I could finally find my way. Unfortunately, I had lost all sense of where I had begun. And as I was doing another lap, my man called back, asking if I had yet figured it out. Upon my emphatic No!, he told me which way I should turn to make contact with civilization, and I turned the opposite direction (being already in the wrong turn lane). By this time it was after 7pm, and I was desperate. I turned back at the next road and then sped down a pitch-black and absolutely indifferent residential street that made me feel as if I had been inked out of existence. A radar sign flashed "Slow Down - Slow Down" like a ghostly refrain to Matthew's "Calm down!" I braked and tried to breathe in some common sense.

"Everything's so dark! I just need to come home," I sobbed, defeated. "I don't know where I am at all. I'll never make it in time."

"No, you need to go to your movie and have fun," he vowed. "Especially now. If you take a right at the next street, you'll be fine. Goldwater splits off from it."

I took the right, kept right, and then had the panicky feeling that I was again lost as the lane I was in curved away and up into the dark as if taking me to a highway.

"I took the wrong turn again!" I blubbered into the phone in absolute despair, my body shaking violently with freely erupting emotions.

But, no. Lo and behold, on a small hill to my right emerged a vaguely familiar set of red and blue fluorescents, and this time the beacon was sincere, the harbor clear.

"I'm here; I'm here. I found it!" I exclaimed in joyous relief.

"You're there?"

"Yes, thank you, honey. Thank you, thank you so much."

You're not running?" my knight asked after he heard the car door slam. "Don't run."

I wasn't, but my voice was still quavering with emotion as I walked to the ticket window with my wet face and my stricken eyes.

"It's been...a rough night," I said haltingly to the young lady behind the glass. A gentleman in a dark suit and glasses to her left glanced up as he sorted through receipts or cash. "I got lost on the way here. Have two women come through...?" The young lady was gave me a blank stare and raised her shoulders, so I suggested desperately, "One of them was named Holly..."

"Really, I have no way of knowing," she said, but upon my request she gave me leave to look for them in the lobby.

Of course they weren't there, so I asked the lady taking tickets for permission to scout them out, and I promised to come back and pay for my ticket if found them.

In the theater where A Separation was the feature, previews were no longer playing. The movie's opening scene was running, and everything was again dark and impenetrable to me. I had no hope of spotting anyone as I wandered down the aisles, and again I was feeling cursed by the lack of light, but in my dejection I was spotted. My friends waved me down from a center row, and I exited quickly and returned to the ticket booth once more where there were now six or seven people in front of me in line. I would lose more precious time, so I took the opportunity to call Matthew back and let him know I had found the girls.

"Good," he said. "Now get some chocolate to make you feel better. But not that fancy Scottsdale kind! Not the $50 a bar variety. Tell them you want the $20 chocolate."

I laughed at Matthew's joke, and in doing so I felt so much love for this man who could deal with me while I was sobbing and hysterical and, yes, rude with fear over a silly little trip to the movies. And not just deal with me, but treat me with love and kindness while rescuing me and guiding me, then make me laugh after.

As I was hanging up the phone with my Knight, I glanced up to find that the man in the dark suit and glasses had emerged from the ticket booth and was near me.

"Your friends are here?" he asked.

"Yes," I said and smiled.

"Then, here," he said, extending his hand and a stiff bit of paper. "It's on me."

"Thank you!"

I thought he was indifferent to my rididulous plight when I'd seen him earlier beyond the glass, so I was stunned as I followed him through the doors and past the lady taking tickets. My simple thank you did not seem to suffice for this wonderful act of kindness and generosity. For heaven's sake, he had redeemed Scottsdale by his action!

As he turned away toward the offices behind the concession stands, I called again, "Thank you...thank you so much..." but my voice broke as the tears surged back in gratitude.

"You're welcome," he said, and added over his shoulder, "That movie's not going to make you feel any better."

He was right. It was a movie about things falling apart, kind of like my night. Still his generosity did make me feel better, as did the love, strength and calming influence of my man. The boisterous laughter that a friend inspired in the parking lot afterward did, too. Then I finally let go completely over a very belated meal with my artist friend after the movie. We shared wonderful spinach/artichoke dip and great conversation about our high brow soap opera, Downton Abbey, and our super steady and long enduring husbands.

Afterward, I made it home just fine.

Love...true love, Bennet, and the best bouquet

I love my husband, and so sometimes - as crazy as it might seem to some with our 10 years of marriage - I pine for him during the day. Yeah, I said pine - especially if I'm bluesy, dejected, mentally malnourished. The pining starts pretty soon after he walks out the door in the morning, as do my preparations for his return home. Before I shuttle the kids to school, I put on more makeup than just a dash of color on the lips or cheeks, and I hope it holds til evening. I dress in nicer clothes, even my heels; though I know with running after kids, they'll have reached their time limit a good few hours before I see him again. And I think about him. It's not some lame dependency. I just know what will cheer me up - his conversation, his humor and his touch.

Luckily, today as I thought of him, rubbed vigorously at the eye makeup badly irritating my lash line, and wiped perfume samples from the Wednesday paper on my wrists, I had a romantic CD to listen to, something that reminded me of My Man.

The CD has Lady Gaga, Amy Whinehouse, Carrie Underwood, Michael Buble (Matthew calls him Mr. Bubble), and k.d. lang among others, and they are all singing duets with Mr. Tony Bennett. Matthew surprised me with this collection of music after we watched the recording sessions on PBS and realized that Tony Bennet has a remarkably good, strong voice for a man of his years; he can still carry the standards so well. And the songs are some of the music I love so very well but listen to so seldom - the swing with your baby around the living room or dance cheek to cheek in the dark variety.

If you still believe in dancing cheek to cheek with your lover instead of romancing phone to phone, Tony Bennett Duets II could be a V-Day treat. Sure, it could use a few more swings songs, but The Lady Is A Tramp w/ Gaga is fresh and fun, and Don't Get Around Much Anymore w/ Buble is spot on. Buble's voice is of course perfect for just such material, and I've come a long way to say that. I have a natural disdain for any man who confesses in an interview that his female fans throw their underwear at him while he's on stage, but, well....I heard him sing I'll Be Home for Christmas for the tree lighting ceremony in Rockefeller Center a few years ago. I was so impressed with his simple, poignant rendition - nothing new, just brilliant in its clear simplicity - that I have not looked back since. I'm a Bubble fan (though very far from the underwear-throwing kind).

There's also a song in the Bennett collection that reminds me of a very special day for My Man and me. The song is Blue Velvet. The day was Christmas Eve 2000. As we sat in his rental car outside my parents house, Matthew leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I love you." To which I whispered back, "What...what did you say?" You can imagine his joy at my response, but the point is that I was wearing a long blue velvet dress when he said those words, and then said them again. Though the song Blue Velvet is sad, it reminds me of my first true I love you.

Approaching Valentine's Day has me thinking about that profession of love and about love generally and the tokens of it, especially flower bouquets. Men have long given women these perfect emblems of beauty judging by the very old songs with lyrics like "flowers for my lady's hair...". Nowadays, these divine gifts from nature are most likely to be genetically altered for color and length of life to the detriment of their gorgeous scent, and they are very often delivered to the door by some online floral affiliate in some exotic bouquet. The chosen flowers represent, as best the man can tell, the nature of the woman he loves. I've received a fair amount of bouquets from my husband. Some, like my perfect little square vase of daffodils, given for an anniversary. Others, like the many bright gatherings of daisies from the supermarket, given simply because I'd had a tough day with the kids (those arrangements have stopped coming; I suppose I complain too much now).

Passing our wedding picture yesterday, I was reminded of how my wedding day bouquet was not quite me. It was perfectly round, smaller, comprised of roses which though absolutely classic have never given me palpitations. My dear sister made it for me, so I am by no means ungrateful. For heaven's sake, I'm the one who opted to have no floral arrangements at all in the church for the ceremony, and I wasn't really bothered by the aesthetics of my special bouquet either. Yet in remembering how symmetrical and tame it was, I thought of how wild and free form I would have liked it to be. Then I was reminded of the best bouquet I have ever received, given to me before my marriage.

The bunch of buds came from My Man and were for absolutely no occasion at all. They were plucked from a roadside field in Texas late in the evening as Matthew was coming home from work. He saw them, thought of me, and picked them out from their abundant fellows by the headlights of his car. He presented them to me at the door where I met him after a long day apart. They cascaded over his hand as he offered them up, fragrant and wild and leafy. I was so thrilled I could barely mumble my thanks as I took them and looked up blushing into my fiance's beaming face. Wildflowers chosen for me! In my mind's eye I could see him kneeling in the dewy grass in his work slacks, pulling flowers from the earth. The romance of it is still a sweet memory.

So there is my valentine as I wait for My Man to come home today - a Tony Bennett CD, the hope of dancing cheek to cheek with My Man to it while wearing sexy if uncomfortable heels, and the memory of a bunch of wildflowers making me flush.




A little addendum: I was flipping through my wedding album tonight and had the opportunity to bestow on the memory of my wedding bouquet more than just a mere passing glance. It was not comprised solely of roses. It had purple and yellow mums with yellow roses, as well as white daisies. Honestly, it was quite beautiful to look at. Yes, the blooms were very meticulously bunched together and as near symmetrical as they could be in design, but I cannot fault my bouquet's flowers, colors, or beauty.

Also, as enduring symbols of passionate love, a dozen deep, deep red roses might indeed have the power to give me palpitations if they came from Matthew's hands.

Vile Intruder

I would tar and feather it if I could. Burn it in effigy while dancing in a circle. But I can't stand to touch the little plastic thing. Can't stand to look it in its narrow hard face. Cannot bear for it to touch me with one stiff thin antennae. My son knows this, and he thinks its hilarious.

Dammit. My husband swore he'd take the blasted thing back to work, get it out of my house and out of my life. But he hasn't. He only takes it away from my eldest son now and then, smiles with a "now cut that out" expression, and tucks it away somewhere he thinks is safe. Well, as you can imagine, every few months my son discovers it anew, then begins to laugh oddly for no reason I can see. That is until I come around the corner and he throws it at my feet or I open a drawer and it pops out at me in full grotesque glory. He can set me up several times in a day, and I scream every time, jump back, and tell him to get rid of it, cut it out, don't do it again. But I can never bring myself to touch the thing, to actually show nonchalance or jaded amusement. So it goes on and on until I'm half laughing and crying, and my four-year-old comes to hug me and says, "It's alright, Mama. I'm here."

To understand my irrational fear of something which I know is fake, you must know about the times when I have discovered the real deal in my proximity.

The first memorable confrontation in Arizona took place in our apartment when I was eight months pregnant with my eldest son. It crawled out of the drainage pipe in the sink, its body at least three inches long, as I went to wash my hands. I flung myself back against the wall and wailed with an undulating scream to rival any I produced in natural labor. My husband came skidding into the bathroom.

"What...are you...?" he panted, looking my full trembling body up and down.

"Cock...roach," I breathed and pointed.

"What? You can't scream like that for a cockroach!" he scolded, blithely approaching the sink to beat the hell out of it. "I thought you were in labor." (It was our first pregnancy, you understand. He had no clue what a laboring woman should sound like at feeling that first contraction.)

But the time I remember best, the time that still makes me glance to the ceiling in dread now and then, is the time when my husband had to do full battle with the cockroach of all cockroaches - the General Woundwort, the Napolean, the Sauron, the Genghis Khan of cockroaches. It simply wouldn't die easily.

We were watching The Kennedy Honors on TV, a most respectable and cultured means of entertainment when your children are asleep. Whoever was being honored was someone we found truly fascinating. Nevertheless, my eyes roamed at one point up toward the ceiling, and there it was - the ghastly thing! - black, large...on the stinkin' ceiling. I flattened myself against the couch cushion, drew my legs up - ready to dive, spring or hide - and asked Matthew while pointing with an unsteady finger, "What is...that?"

I feared I knew. He got up, examined it with wide eyes, and said softly, "A cockroach....get me something."

I looked about for something heavy, something to inflict pain on this vile intruder. I didn't want to move from my position, but I ventured centimeters away from the couch, stretched my arm out to hand My Man a rolled-up magazine.  He took aim, swung, missed, and the thing took off running. It didn't scurry or crawl. The thing darted like an insect cheetah across our ceiling. I give My Man props, because he took off after it instead of huddling pitifully in the corner, whimpering and negotiating - offering it all the junk food in our house if it would just leave us alive (as I would have done).

He finally knocked it off the ceiling, but then we searched, and we couldn't find the carcass. We were determined. We needed proof, something to put on a toothpick in the front yard to intimidate fellow nasty insects. But nothing. Nothing! Until it occurred to us that it might have fallen into the bin of Christmas wrapping paper that was still residing in our house that chill February evening.

My husband carted the plastic bin gingerly outside, and the brave, brave man began to sift through its contents to find the evidence of the giant cockroach's demise as I watched from the safety of our doorway. Nearing the bottom, he tipped the bin over on the driveway, and out the damn thing ran, right at him. Such flailing of arms! Such wild prancing as he chased it, thumping the magazine down the length of the drive in a fight to the death. At length he stood over that Woundwort of Cockroaches, just beating it every few seconds to make sure it wouldn't reanimate itself like some horror movie villian. Then, weary, he took a crumpled bit of festive paper, picked up its mangled remains and dumped it in the outside trash can.

He stumbled to the door and pronounced, "It is done."

No, not really. He came shaking his head and said something like, "Wow," and, "I knew I had to get rid of it or you'd never let me rest."

So true. Now, I am sane. Truly. I do know COUS (Cockroaches of Unusual Size) are everywhere on this planet, eating our food when we're not looking, infecting us with horrible diseases, throwing parties in our cupboards when it's dark and we can't catch them. I also know that the city where I live regularly sprays the sewer heads in this town to control cockroach numbers, and that's why every little bit the revolting creatures have the audacity to come into homes, trying to escape their fate. Because they come into our homes and make us wet our pants, urban legends exist such as, An enormous cockroach ate my lap dog, or I found a cockroach in my kitchen, reclining in the chip bag and drinking my tequila, and An army of gargantuan cockroaches invaded my shower; I had to scale the glass sliding doors and pitch myself over the top to escape.

I don't know if those urban legends are true, but my story about the battle between My Man and General Woundwort Cockroach is sadly so. It's why for months after that incident I couldn't come out into our dark living room, my baby son in arms to nurse, without feeling incredibly uneasy and/or queasy as my eyes scaled the twilight of the ceiling wondering what was looking back at me. It's why to this day I kick, pat, or knock against the furniture on dark nights to discourage any insects from bearing me company in my chair.

I can't get rid of cockroaches. They're part of life, like spiders, crickets or flies (none of which I mind nearly as bad). But I have taken my stance against the plastic impostor kind, and the nine-year-old boy who aides and abets it. If he attempts to scare me again with that hideous thing, he'll be standing in the corner for an hour. And if it ever ends up in my clothes, hair, purse or car seat, I will get my husband's hammer and pummel it gleefully to see if plastic is really as strong as everyone claims it is.

Beloved Betsy: The Wreck and the Empty Parking Space

You always think when you love someone madly that you'll have a funny inexplicable feeling in your gut when something's happened to them, no matter how minor. Well, I didn't. Maybe I have a lazy sixth sense, or maybe it was haywire during my third pregnancy.

Around 7:30am one August morning in 2007, just a few days after My Man's birthday, the telephone rang. I answered immediately, certain it was not a telemarketer at such an hour, thinking perhaps that Matthew needed to tell me he'd forgotten something or that I shouldn't forget to call and make such and such an appointment....

"Hello?"

"Honey, I don't want you to worry," said Matthew's voice. "I've been in a car accident, but I'm fine."

I didn't know how to respond. A swell of emotion and confusion had followed those words: car accident.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Except for some burns on my arm from the airbag."

He briefly told me that Betsy had not fared as well. There had been sudden braking on the freeway, the domino effect as each car attempted to avoid hitting the car in front. Successful attempts ended with the van behind my husband; it slammed into the rear of Matthew's car, propelling it forward under the SUV directly ahead. Betsy's front end folded up like a paper bag, the air bags bloomed and burst, and the chemicals from the airbag left nasty burns on Matthew's arm. The paramedics gave him some ointment for it, but, thankfully, with no casualties or gravely serious injuries, they fled off to the next scene of rush hour catastrophe. Matthew was stranded at the side of a busy highway, wondering how he'd get to work.

Next time I heard from him he had hitched a ride with a police officer to a gas station. He ended our conversation abruptly when he saw an associate from his company. I heard him call the gentleman's name over the noise of car's engines, and then he told me he loved me, and he'd check in later.

The realization of what could have happened and how lucky we were didn't strike just then. I felt as if I was in limbo. Matthew was okay, thank God, but shaken; Betsy was in bad shape. I roamed around the house with no purpose, restlessly waiting for that next phone call, explaining now and then to our two young children that Papa had been in a car accident, but he was alright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone told Matthew he needed to take the day off, go home, and work out all the little details thrust upon a person after a sudden event spins life around on the great roulette table of trouble. Matthew finally conceded; he was already spending most of his time on the phone with our insurance company. So I headed north across town with Berto and Ana to pick him up in our minivan. From there we drove to the tow yard where they'd taken Betsy..

I wasn't prepared to see the wreckage. Couldn't comprehend before hand how I'd feel. After many long moments talking to the individuals at the tow yard providing proof of ownership and figuring out just where they had hauled Betsy to, they opened the gate for us and Matthew slowly drove down the center of a wide, full lot of wrecked vehicles. That's when I was hit with the realization that, as King Solomon said, " time and chance happens to us all". Matthew turned the van between two surreal rows of mangled cars and braked.

"There she is," he said.

She was to our left. I saw her, and the sight of her hit me hard; I finally understood from her sad state just what had occurred that morning while Matthew was inside her. Intercepted by the emotion I'd seen in my periphery all day, my full pregnant body shook with it as I stared at Betsy - bent, maimed, compacted...wrecked.

Matthew got out and opened her driver's side door for the last time, collecting CDs, old key rings, papers...finally her dented license plate. A Journey CD played on my van's radio as I watched him and cried. I was remembering life with Betsy - remembering lunch dates to our favorite Chinese restaurant when Matthew and I were first dating, remembering late night conversations and kissing sessions beneath her sun roof that lay open to the stars as her radio serenaded us, remembering carefree trips to San Antonio's River Walk when we were first married without kids, and recalling longer trips to New Mexico and Idaho when her interior was so crammed with kiddie stuff and luggage and Christmas gifts, there was barely room for us and our kids to move. Though the kids and I had long since moved our mobile selves from Betsy to the roomier minivan, I was remembering our life thus far in that sporty little car and how it had unfolded, and I was mourning her future absence from it.

The kids were troubled by my crying as we waited and also fascinated at seeing Papa's car in this strange form and place, so I tried to explain why I was sad and how immensely grateful I was that Betsy, and not their Papa, had sustained most of the injury.

When Matthew returned to the van, I looked back as we drove away from Betsy until we turned and I could no longer see her, and I knew I wouldn't see her again. I held her battered license plate in my hands.

When we pulled into our driveway at home that afternoon, Matthew laid Betsy to rest so abruptly that I was shocked: instead of going left into the van's usual designated parking space, he purposefully drove right up the middle, partially in the van's space and partly in Betsy's.

"Oh, Matthew..." I said in distress, my voice catching. "Right in the-the middle? That's...not...r-right!"

And then I sobbed.

Matthew had said his goodbye in the wreckage yard, for I was mystified by the calm in his voice when he replied.

"She's gone," he said firmly but gently. "It's time to move on."

And so we have.