We didn't learn my little brother Roddy was hearing impaired until he was six years old. A wave of retroactive shame washed over the family as we thought about all the times we had yelled at him or complained about his "not paying attention." Hearing aids at that time, at least for little boys, were worn in a pocket strapped to the chest, with a long cord reaching to the earpiece. It was an improvement, but primitive by modern standards. About four years later, Rod received his first behind-the-ear hearing aid, which opened for him a whole new world of sounds. Roddy had never before heard a toilet flush, and enjoyed it so much he spent part of that day flushing it over and over. That was also the day he learned that the telephone made a sound even when it wasn't ringing or no one was talking on it. He had never before heard the steady hum of the dial tone. The first time he heard it, he pulled the hearing aid from his ear, handed it to me, and said, "Connie, listen." His first impulse was to share this exciting new sound with me, who for all my 14 years had never given it a thought. I remember it so well because that was the day Roddy began to hear--and I began to see.
Here is a poetic look at the same story:
Hearing Roddy
On the day Roddy exchanged
his better-than-nothing,
chest mounted, hearing aid
for the new
behind-the-ear model,
he heard, for the first time,
the toilet flush
the dial tone hum.
Excitement in his voice,
he handed me the earpiece
and said, "Connie, listen."
And, for the first time,
I really did.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Alone in Neverland
Yesterday I was devastated to discover that I had forgotten a tradition that had been so important when the kids were growing up--pumpkin faced sugar cookies. Shortly before Halloween I always made pumpkin shaped sugar cookies with jack-o-lantern faces. We have been out of homemade cookies for a couple days, which is a tragedy all by itself, and I had been mulling over what kind to make. It wasn't until my niece came over after school and we began to talk about upcoming Halloween activities that I realized I had totally forgotten the tradition. When our daughter married and moved to Minnesota, I paid ridiculous postage to mail Halloween sugar cookies to her because I couldn't bear for her to not be part of the family tradition. (Although it was a relief not to eat the malevolent faced cookies she used to decorate.) Now, all the children are gone from home and my carefully cultivated traditions are dying of neglect. I still want very much to keep the traditions, I just don't know who I am keeping them for. An innocuous cookie fired an arrow of emptiness right into my heart.
I am afraid that the hole in my heart since my children left home will never close, and I am afraid that it will close, and I will lose the magic to the mundane. Will the mystery of being out after dark turn to fear of stumbling? Will I start going to bed early on the 4th of July so I won't be disturbed by the fireworks? Will leaf piles cease to be for jumping and hiding in and only represent work? Am I alone in Neverland?
I grew up starving for a chance to make some occasions stand apart from the ordinary days, but my childhood attempts were always sabotaged by my mother's mental illness. If I couldn't erase the bad memories I could, at least, bury them under layers of good ones with my own children. My children are grown, my niece and nephew growing up, the memories are fading. Now I know why I am so sad. I have nothing new to put between me and the bad memories. Once again writing has become my cheap therapist.
But if I am alone in Neverland, I still choose to be making cookies. My children appreciated the traditions, but they did not begin them and their growing up should not end them. Perhaps in Neverland memories can be made out of cookie dough. Maybe the magic of motherhood is not in having children, maybe it is in me.
I am afraid that the hole in my heart since my children left home will never close, and I am afraid that it will close, and I will lose the magic to the mundane. Will the mystery of being out after dark turn to fear of stumbling? Will I start going to bed early on the 4th of July so I won't be disturbed by the fireworks? Will leaf piles cease to be for jumping and hiding in and only represent work? Am I alone in Neverland?
I grew up starving for a chance to make some occasions stand apart from the ordinary days, but my childhood attempts were always sabotaged by my mother's mental illness. If I couldn't erase the bad memories I could, at least, bury them under layers of good ones with my own children. My children are grown, my niece and nephew growing up, the memories are fading. Now I know why I am so sad. I have nothing new to put between me and the bad memories. Once again writing has become my cheap therapist.
But if I am alone in Neverland, I still choose to be making cookies. My children appreciated the traditions, but they did not begin them and their growing up should not end them. Perhaps in Neverland memories can be made out of cookie dough. Maybe the magic of motherhood is not in having children, maybe it is in me.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Autumn Leaves
I wrote this poem last fall, but didn't want to publish it until the leaves were actually falling (as if I could be sued for false advertising). Now that a regular rain of foliage is falling, I feel free to share.
Autumn Leaves
Autumn leaves
bare, branched bones,
bright colored foliage,
suddenly blown
neither needing, nor needed by, the tree
Free.
Autumn leaves
turning pages
books opened by
junior sages
needing to learn, but desiring to be
Free.
Autumn leaves
empty homes
college bound children,
suddenly grown
leaving their parents, each learning to be
Free.
Autumn leaves
fields at rest,
harvest is gathered,
pantries blessed,
quiet beneath nature's cold canopy
Free.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Brighten the Corner Where You Aren't
Alternate title: Let the Lower Lights Be Burning
The basement bedroom in our house was the most coveted by my children because it has an attached bathroom (after our daughter's time), is as large as the master bedroom and, most importantly, is a whole floor away from the master bedroom. When Will was the favored resident, he chronically left the light in the family room on when he went to bed. I could understand that. Since the only switch for that light was at the top of the stairs, shutting it off meant stumbling down the stairs in the dark to go to bed. It became a nightly ritual for Reed or me to shut off the basement light before going to bed. However, by the time of Tracy's reign in the pine paneled palace, we had rewired the family room so there was a switch to shut the light off at the bottom of the stairs. Problem solved, but nothing changed. Every night we still found the family room light on.
Eventually Tracy left home and there was no one occupying the basement bedroom. That is when I discovered that leaving a light on had become an official requirement in our home because Reed exchanged being the person who shut lights off for the position of Light Leaver On-er. It has been more than a year since Tracy moved out and I still have to shut the basement light off if, for any reason, Reed has been downstairs. If he hasn't been in the basement, he leaves the computer room light on. He tells me he does it because he will be going back in there later. Apparently he means later in the week. I have tried to convince him that modern light bulbs do not require warming up, they will come on again the second he flips the switch, but to no avail. I usually accompany Reed when he travels, but I suppose on those occasions when I am alone at night, I really should leave a light on somewhere. It will be a dark day when I switch off an official family tradition.
The basement bedroom in our house was the most coveted by my children because it has an attached bathroom (after our daughter's time), is as large as the master bedroom and, most importantly, is a whole floor away from the master bedroom. When Will was the favored resident, he chronically left the light in the family room on when he went to bed. I could understand that. Since the only switch for that light was at the top of the stairs, shutting it off meant stumbling down the stairs in the dark to go to bed. It became a nightly ritual for Reed or me to shut off the basement light before going to bed. However, by the time of Tracy's reign in the pine paneled palace, we had rewired the family room so there was a switch to shut the light off at the bottom of the stairs. Problem solved, but nothing changed. Every night we still found the family room light on.
Eventually Tracy left home and there was no one occupying the basement bedroom. That is when I discovered that leaving a light on had become an official requirement in our home because Reed exchanged being the person who shut lights off for the position of Light Leaver On-er. It has been more than a year since Tracy moved out and I still have to shut the basement light off if, for any reason, Reed has been downstairs. If he hasn't been in the basement, he leaves the computer room light on. He tells me he does it because he will be going back in there later. Apparently he means later in the week. I have tried to convince him that modern light bulbs do not require warming up, they will come on again the second he flips the switch, but to no avail. I usually accompany Reed when he travels, but I suppose on those occasions when I am alone at night, I really should leave a light on somewhere. It will be a dark day when I switch off an official family tradition.
Resistance Is Not Futile
This thought was inspired by Curves, not the Borg. Yesterday I worked out at Curves for the first time since my knee malfunctioned. I was supposed to take it easy with my left knee for a week and a half following the cortisone shot--my new bfft, best friend for temporary. Not to be left out in the cold is my left shoulder, which has been doing its own version of the pain and stiffness maneuver both before and after the knee rebellion. Since both my knee and shoulder were being obstinate, I didn't do the computerized routine that increases the hydraulic resistance, so yesterday's work out was more '"out" than "work". I not only didn't break a sweat, I didn't even bend one. Using the machines without the Curves Smart tag had about the same benefit as not exercising at all.
That's where resistance comes in. I've admitted many times in this blog that I am partial to easy but, if I'm going out of my way to stop and exercise, I would like my heart rate to be higher when I'm finished exercising than it was on the drive over. Resistance is not futile. Resistance makes exercise worthwhile. Maybe that is why God doesn't give us all easy, downhill paths on our long circuit to heaven. In order to keep us from becoming spiritually flabby, He allows a controlled amount of resistance to make us stronger. If I can trust an inanimate computer at Curves not to push me harder than I can bear, how hard should it be to trust the God who loves me to program my life for the greatest challenge and benefit. If I want my heart to rate with God, what I need to resist is the path of least resistance. Whether we are working out our body or our salvation, if we aren't facing any resistance, it is an "exercise" in futility.
That's where resistance comes in. I've admitted many times in this blog that I am partial to easy but, if I'm going out of my way to stop and exercise, I would like my heart rate to be higher when I'm finished exercising than it was on the drive over. Resistance is not futile. Resistance makes exercise worthwhile. Maybe that is why God doesn't give us all easy, downhill paths on our long circuit to heaven. In order to keep us from becoming spiritually flabby, He allows a controlled amount of resistance to make us stronger. If I can trust an inanimate computer at Curves not to push me harder than I can bear, how hard should it be to trust the God who loves me to program my life for the greatest challenge and benefit. If I want my heart to rate with God, what I need to resist is the path of least resistance. Whether we are working out our body or our salvation, if we aren't facing any resistance, it is an "exercise" in futility.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Easy Writer
I just submitted my first story to a magazine for publication. I am so far out of my comfort zone I will need a GPS to relocate it. It's not just that having something published would validate my skills as a writer, it would make me feel a lot better about all the time I waste writing if it were actually a marketable product. My goal is to submit something somewhere every week until I run out of material. That should not take long. The story I sent was of the human interest/true/Christian/humor genre so I submitted it to a Christian/senior/90% freelance/pays actual $ magazine.
I have also been "honing my craft" for my pretend profession by attending classes. This week I took a lunch hour comma class. I've had this suspicion that I am overcommaing and I would like to overcome that. It turns out I have been doing them correctly for the most part but now I have the comma rules to know why I've been doing them correctly. The next lunch hour class is on getting organized to write. I'm not sure if I am writer enough to need the class, it's not as if editors are making demands, but anything that makes writing easier sounds good to me. My college major was in Easy. I am not sure where to go from here with my writing, even in this blog.
I have also been "honing my craft" for my pretend profession by attending classes. This week I took a lunch hour comma class. I've had this suspicion that I am overcommaing and I would like to overcome that. It turns out I have been doing them correctly for the most part but now I have the comma rules to know why I've been doing them correctly. The next lunch hour class is on getting organized to write. I'm not sure if I am writer enough to need the class, it's not as if editors are making demands, but anything that makes writing easier sounds good to me. My college major was in Easy. I am not sure where to go from here with my writing, even in this blog.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Anger and Andy
The poetry class I am taking is continuing ed., meaning nongraded. Therefore, though the instructor is free to give assignments, I am also free to ignore them. But I gave myself an assignment. Since nearly all of my poems have come out of my own experience, my goal was to write a fiction poem. I found it interesting and challenging. Two verses into this poem about an unopened package, I realized I had no idea what was in the package. Modern poetry is often abstract, but it still seemed like a good idea for the author to know what was coming next. This is what came next:
Anger and Andy
All through the years he had wondered
what was in the package
but he had never opened it,
partly out of spite,
partly fear
that the pain of her leaving
would come back to him.
It was better to stay angry.
Anger had kept him company
these nine years
constant as a friend
or, at least, a drinking buddy.
They had done a lot of that together--
Anger and Andy.
But the package tormented him, sitting there
in all its brown smugness, looking down
on him the way she had.
There was no more money
for liquor tonight,
not even beer.
So Anger did Andy one last favor
before he left for the night
to keep company with some other drunk.
Together they torn open the package,
the mocking memory of his marriage,
tore it to pieces.
A picture fell to the ground
his son, in a broken frame,
the mangled memory of his murder.
Torn to pieces
when he went through the windshield
as the car nosed into the ground
because his drunken father
was angry for having to do the favor
of picking his son up that night
when his wife normally did.
He'd had only beer,
no hard liquor.
He thought he was sober enough
to look after his only child.
Tormented he remembered
looking down at the small brown coffin
a package forever unopened.
Nine years she had stayed away;
his wife would never come back to him.
She left behind only the package--
and Anger
Anger and Andy.
Anger and Andy
All through the years he had wondered
what was in the package
but he had never opened it,
partly out of spite,
partly fear
that the pain of her leaving
would come back to him.
It was better to stay angry.
Anger had kept him company
these nine years
constant as a friend
or, at least, a drinking buddy.
They had done a lot of that together--
Anger and Andy.
But the package tormented him, sitting there
in all its brown smugness, looking down
on him the way she had.
There was no more money
for liquor tonight,
not even beer.
So Anger did Andy one last favor
before he left for the night
to keep company with some other drunk.
Together they torn open the package,
the mocking memory of his marriage,
tore it to pieces.
A picture fell to the ground
his son, in a broken frame,
the mangled memory of his murder.
Torn to pieces
when he went through the windshield
as the car nosed into the ground
because his drunken father
was angry for having to do the favor
of picking his son up that night
when his wife normally did.
He'd had only beer,
no hard liquor.
He thought he was sober enough
to look after his only child.
Tormented he remembered
looking down at the small brown coffin
a package forever unopened.
Nine years she had stayed away;
his wife would never come back to him.
She left behind only the package--
and Anger
Anger and Andy.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Never for Donny
I'm not sure why I usually don't publish a poem on this blog until after I have had it critiqued in my poetry class. Everything else I write is off the cuff, and I don't even wear cuffs. But we didn't have poetry class this week because a visiting author was holding a book reading. I am proud to say our poetry class was well represented, which was a good thing, since few others attended. Because of this event, the two poems I wrote during my muse mugging last week have been hiding in my nightstand while I have been stumped for subjects to blog about. So today I will publish one that, with or without a critique, pleases me. A person who knows me well enough to read this blog will understand who this is about.
Never for Donny
She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do
she was a big sister, not a mother,
she had no grown up wisdom to share.
So she let him rest his head on her shoulder while he cried.
She wished she could tell him
everything would be alright
but she couldn't,
she couldn't make everything alright.
He couldn't hold it in all the time--
the way he got treated because he was different.
He had been born different.
She could make the neighborhood kids
and her own friends
treat him like a normal person--
not call him RE tard,
but she couldn't control what happened in school.
So she just let him cry
big, sloppy tears on her shoulder
and tried not to get upset about the snot on her shirt.
She could clean that up later.
The tears would dry.
She and Donny would start teasing and fighting again.
Everything would go back to normal
except for Donny--
never for Donny.
Never for Donny
She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do
she was a big sister, not a mother,
she had no grown up wisdom to share.
So she let him rest his head on her shoulder while he cried.
She wished she could tell him
everything would be alright
but she couldn't,
she couldn't make everything alright.
He couldn't hold it in all the time--
the way he got treated because he was different.
He had been born different.
She could make the neighborhood kids
and her own friends
treat him like a normal person--
not call him RE tard,
but she couldn't control what happened in school.
So she just let him cry
big, sloppy tears on her shoulder
and tried not to get upset about the snot on her shirt.
She could clean that up later.
The tears would dry.
She and Donny would start teasing and fighting again.
Everything would go back to normal
except for Donny--
never for Donny.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Bio Hazard
My assignment for my third and final Freelance Writing class this week is to write a bio. One needs to be two to three paragraphs the other, two to three sentences. You would think this to be a fairly easy assignment, there is no one I know better than me, but I am struggling as if it was quantum physics. The first hurdle is in identifying myself as a writer; this statement would not hold up in court. Until now being a writer has been my own private hope and delusion; committing that to paper is intimidating. The other hurdle is that I want to make it funny and I'm pretty sure that isn't appropriate. When Will was in high school he frequently received the following comments on his assignments from his kind English teacher, Mrs. Wilson, "Very good Will, but this was actually not supposed to be humorous". Apparently I have the same problem and if I seriously want to be published, I should write a serious bio since they are presented as if coming from the editor. My Facebook philosophy is "If I can't say something funny, don't say anything at all". That is usually my blog philosophy also, come to think of it, that is my life philosophy.
With neither humor nor writing credentials my 55 year bio fits in one sentence. "Connie Lamb is a writer (wannabe) who lives in Kalispell, Montana with her husband." By Wednesday night I need to get a life. I have serious problems being serious.
With neither humor nor writing credentials my 55 year bio fits in one sentence. "Connie Lamb is a writer (wannabe) who lives in Kalispell, Montana with her husband." By Wednesday night I need to get a life. I have serious problems being serious.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Strange or Passing Through?
As I was coming home from jiggling my curves at Curves today I saw a box turtle crossing Woodland Avenue. Apparently it was misled by the name, Woodland Ave. is not actually in the woods, it is one of the main roads across town. The speed limit is only 25 mph but I am guessing that exceeds turtle speed by quite a stretch. So I pulled over in the Jehovah's Witness parking lot (God will understand) and retrieved the turtle. It hissed when I picked it up, meaning this turtle was a female. I learned years ago that female turtles hiss, males grunt (much like their human counterparts). Regretfully I didn't learn this fact until after the demise of my pet turtle whom I had inaptly named Sam. I carried the unnamed female across the street to the grass on the other side where she could walk quite a ways before encountering a road, and it was all downhill. Even a turtle should make better time walking downhill. For all I know she turned around and headed right back into the road, but rescuing the turtle was still the right thing to do.
I mention this not just to show how kind I am, or even to tie in this great title I thought of days ago, but to segue into earlier blog entries about our spare sons, the homeless boys who lived with us over a two year period. Many questioned the wisdom of letting virtual strangers share our home (when I put it like that it does sound a little crazy), letting them have access to our possessions and hearts. And I admit I wondered at times what good it would do when there are so many more wanderers out there and when they had already been so badly damaged, but I comfort myself with knowing I shared God's word with all of them. What God does from there is His business. Rescuing them was the right thing to do.
Most of the people we encounter in life are strangers, many are downright strange and all of us are only passing through, maybe the good we do for those who cross our paths doesn't change their lives, but it is still the right thing to do. It changes us.
I mention this not just to show how kind I am, or even to tie in this great title I thought of days ago, but to segue into earlier blog entries about our spare sons, the homeless boys who lived with us over a two year period. Many questioned the wisdom of letting virtual strangers share our home (when I put it like that it does sound a little crazy), letting them have access to our possessions and hearts. And I admit I wondered at times what good it would do when there are so many more wanderers out there and when they had already been so badly damaged, but I comfort myself with knowing I shared God's word with all of them. What God does from there is His business. Rescuing them was the right thing to do.
Most of the people we encounter in life are strangers, many are downright strange and all of us are only passing through, maybe the good we do for those who cross our paths doesn't change their lives, but it is still the right thing to do. It changes us.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
10 Things I Will Never Hear My Husband Say
1. I think we should talk.
2. No, I don't like your haircut.
3. Yes, that does make you look fat.
4. This isn't how mom made it.
5. Give me your honest opinion. (He never needs to ask.)
6. Why can't you be more like your sister?
7. Don't take things so seriously.
8. Try a bite of what I ordered.
9. That was really clever.
10. You were right. I was wrong.
2. No, I don't like your haircut.
3. Yes, that does make you look fat.
4. This isn't how mom made it.
5. Give me your honest opinion. (He never needs to ask.)
6. Why can't you be more like your sister?
7. Don't take things so seriously.
8. Try a bite of what I ordered.
9. That was really clever.
10. You were right. I was wrong.
10 Things I Will Never Say to My Husband
1. You look good in that suit. (Because he will not be wearing one.)
2. Thanks for sharing your feelings.
3. You planned this just for me!
4. What's that cologne you have on?
5. Where did you buy that nice (insert clothing item)? (He relies on a personal shopper--me.)
6 Why don't you see what's on the other channels?
7. Wow! You cleaned out your car/truck. (He has to make room for even one passenger, no matter how many seats in the vehicle.)
8. You've held that baby long enough.
9. What's for dinner?
10. Did you have a good time at the wedding?
2. Thanks for sharing your feelings.
3. You planned this just for me!
4. What's that cologne you have on?
5. Where did you buy that nice (insert clothing item)? (He relies on a personal shopper--me.)
6 Why don't you see what's on the other channels?
7. Wow! You cleaned out your car/truck. (He has to make room for even one passenger, no matter how many seats in the vehicle.)
8. You've held that baby long enough.
9. What's for dinner?
10. Did you have a good time at the wedding?
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thorny
The apostle Paul said God gave him a thorn in the flesh to keep him humble. Nothing God has given me thus far in my life has made me humble, but the method God seems to use most often on my long journey to humility is humiliation. Either I do something incredibly stupid or thoughtless or I forget to do something even a stupid or thoughtless person would think of. Despite regular occurrences of the aforementioned incidents, my humble pie is taking a long time to bake. I do however have a thorn in the flesh or, in my case, a barb in the brain--migraine headaches. Harmonizing the existence of pain with the goodness of God is a puzzle for far greater minds than mine. All I know is that the same pain which our Enemy would use to distract and discourage us is what God uses to focus and grow us.
I have come up with five things I have learned from my seasons of pain, alliterated because that is just more fun. Pain teaches me to:
Pay attention: When I am looking to God for answers, I am more likely to be listening.
Prioritize: If I only have a certain amount of productive time, I need to spend it well. I am amazed to discover the world does not come to an end when Competent Connie isn't up to running it.
Pathos: I can not only empathize with other migraineurs (headache professionals) but with anyone suffering.
Perception: Sometimes I need to push through the pain, sometimes I need to rest. Knowing which method is called for requires the usually overlooked skill of listening to my body.
Patience: I hate learning patience. None of the things that teach us patience are pleasant: helplessness, waiting etc. I heard a woman tell how she used to pray for patience, six children later she recognized the pattern and stopped. Patience is a bummer but it comes in handy, mostly to the people who live with us.
I have also found that between my dislocating kneecap in childhood, three natural births and migraines I have developed a really high pain tolerance and that comes in handy as well, but it doesn't start with a "P" and I was not attempting to make an exhaustive list because of the idea of exhaust. Being exhausted gives me a migraine. I can buy thornless raspberry plants or roses, but I prefer my life the way God has given it--thorns and all.
I have come up with five things I have learned from my seasons of pain, alliterated because that is just more fun. Pain teaches me to:
Pay attention: When I am looking to God for answers, I am more likely to be listening.
Prioritize: If I only have a certain amount of productive time, I need to spend it well. I am amazed to discover the world does not come to an end when Competent Connie isn't up to running it.
Pathos: I can not only empathize with other migraineurs (headache professionals) but with anyone suffering.
Perception: Sometimes I need to push through the pain, sometimes I need to rest. Knowing which method is called for requires the usually overlooked skill of listening to my body.
Patience: I hate learning patience. None of the things that teach us patience are pleasant: helplessness, waiting etc. I heard a woman tell how she used to pray for patience, six children later she recognized the pattern and stopped. Patience is a bummer but it comes in handy, mostly to the people who live with us.
I have also found that between my dislocating kneecap in childhood, three natural births and migraines I have developed a really high pain tolerance and that comes in handy as well, but it doesn't start with a "P" and I was not attempting to make an exhaustive list because of the idea of exhaust. Being exhausted gives me a migraine. I can buy thornless raspberry plants or roses, but I prefer my life the way God has given it--thorns and all.
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