The Shortest Sister

Tomorrow is my oldest sister's birthday.  You would hardly see her as "old" if you met her on the street and most people, though fully cognizant of her powerful self, see the impish, fun-loving leprechaun beneath the porcelain skin and dark eyes.  Few people even notice that she is small.  No sirree.

My sister took me with her to Cloverleaf Ranch bonfires when I was very young and I got to experience being part of a summer camp that we could never afford.  My sister brought me along as she worked as a student nurse and her sweetness still makes me smile every time I drive past Cloverleaf.  I was so lucky to have gone backstage with her.  Free candy too!

I have been the fortunate one, to have had a sister who came when our mother's alcoholism was at it's bitter journey's end and attempted to help me escape the horrifying darkness under which I had lived while Helen cast off every single bit of humanity for some bourbon and coke.  My sister helped me crawl through the window and no one else would.

I was held up by my sister as I came to stand beside our father's bedside in intensive care as he struggled to come out of having one of his lung's removed due to cancer.  He was in so much pain, having had his sternum sawed open and then put back together with staples.  My knees went week and I was slayed that the man who was always so angry at the dinner table was crying out in pain.  My sister held me up and no one else did.

Many years later all three daughters stood on a small yacht in the San Francisco bay, fog surrounding us as we ebbed in the tide below the Golden Gate and began to scatter my father's ashes.  We were all weeping, casting colorful, long-stemmed roses overboard with the last of Frank's remains and my sister began to read what she had written for our father.  She stopped, began to cry and asked me to read her words.  A freighter passed by and filled the air with her ship's horn and we all started laughing.  Yet, I remember that my sister had written that she was the shortest sister, after all.  At that moment, on the deck of that ship, in the fog, in the moment that was surreal in so many ways, I thought, "huh?"

Life has a way of changing course and some of us struggle.  That is my story to be sure.  However, my sister works so very hard in her profession, for her children who do not even seem to understand who has their back, for her friends and those she loves in spite of themselves.  My sister is big.  Very big. 

Happy Birthday Sis.  Thinking of you and looking up!

The View From Mrs. Oliva's Kitchen

Today is my day off and though I did many things before a Dr. appointment, I had a few moments that beckoned me towards Geary Dr., a street that I often pass by marveling at all the lovely homes that appear to represent an idyllic life, something we know little about at our corner.

I am exhausted at the end of each week, having dealt with humans in all their retail colors, some of whom either need an ass whooping or simply, a manners colonic, and the three owners for whom I work who seem to have forgotten what it is like to be "a worker among workers."  I was having a good hair day and taking care of business.  I was glad to be out of the drama zone. 

I turned the Mini down Geary, thinking I would just drive by and see.  What was I gonna see? What was I gonna feel? Putter, putter down a street lined with manicured lawns and tidy planter boxes in a suburb that held the rich kids of the high school where my sisters and I spent our not so great teen years.  I love this area, knowing that I once came close to buying a house here.  I still feel like it calls my name. Putter, putter to roll by the house I was looking for and see a small woman standing on a planter box, turn slightly and dismiss me.

I puttered past, my heart beating a bitter faster and thought, it must be her but do I have the address correct?  I flipped a U turn and decided to buck up and park across the street.  I got out and walked across the street to the driveway.  She did not turn from the window and I approached.  She stopped and turned to me when I asked, "Do you recognize me?"

And so began a reconnection of almost 50 years since I was my older sister's younger one and the friend she had who was The Homecoming Queen.  She was gracious and warm, even in her immense grief, and took me on a tour of her mother's house and backyard that are still sharp in my child's eye.  Her mother died this winter and I wrote a brief note out of great respect, sadness and gratitude for the woman who showed me love and kindness during a sorrowful time for our family. 

We sat in the kitchen, where Mrs. Oliva baked cookies for me and offered what may have seemed like a simple kindness to a shy, quiet me but was, indeed, a poultice for my broken heart.  Mrs. Oliva turned, saw me and loved me and I never forgot her presence.  Sitting in that kitchen, listening to stories about a family and a life, much different from mine, yet lived so close by, gave me wings today in order to see the view from Mrs. Oliva's kitchen. 

I am buoyed by the idea that what we do in life has lasting effects upon those we encounter.  A small act of kindess can last decades and perhaps, a lifetime.  Why not start now?

The Other F Word

Things have not been silent in my mind for the past month yet my fingers have refrained from reaching for the keyboard for various existential reasons.  However, today I was struck by yet another facet to the strange goings on where I work-a small business in a silly little town in not-so-golden California.  Home of the 10% sales tax.

Today, I watched while the psycho co-worker I share my Mondays and Tuesdays with chatted up one of the bosses as is often the case.  I often watch them as we wind our way through the day, clustering as a duo for 20 minutes at a time and it sure looks like some kind of fan club. Let's get matching hats shall we?

To an outsider, or maybe I should just say, to someone who is not part of the work "A" list, it looks to be that my co-worker is groomed for additional authority, special projects and of course, special consideration.  From where I stand with my non-existent stature, it appears that no one else at work is privy to that tryst nor will I ever see what they see in one another save preference and devotion.  Duh!

I always hoped that I would be able to "retire" after giving a Supervisor position a run past my own inner dialog about preference and fairness.  I wanted to test myself to look deeper than all the people for whom I have worked that have seemed to fail the litmus test of fairness and equality in management.  I have begun to feel that I shall not find a way in life to be the kind of Supervisor who instills greatness in those less fortunate.  I wanted to be a part of others being recognized accurately and also to encourage with some authority behind that hope.

Alas, I am part of the grunt class and yet, I have eyes and I see so many things.  For me, that kind of favoritism is the other "F" word.

The Golden Rule And J.A.G.

I have been thinking of Jonathan-J.A.G. to his fellow employees at LandPaths, for over a week now as I worked through a difficult week at work, physically and emotionally.  I am spent today.  Tomorrow, the memorial for Jonathan will be held and I have decided to go for a hike to honor him, think of him and celebrate him.  That pain of losing him is still real and sharp for me.  Perhaps it is just as much about feeling so much loss this past year-jobs, money, Ginger, friends and family, as about Jonathan in particular.

And so I will hope that all of the folks who journey to honor Jonathan Glass tomorrow, including a large contingent of cyclists, will find peace and company in their grief. 

This week, for me, embodied the idea of The Golden Rule-or simply doing for others as we would want to experience.  I would say that my work life has ended up in the dung heap due to some very dysfunctional leadership and a history of inappropriate favoritism where I work.

One would not think it should be this hard but sometimes life lessons carry a punch.  More like an anvil in a glove!  I was able to pass on some love, tucked into small actions, for my coworkers who seem to get as little praise as I do.  Maybe I made a difference for someone.

In the meantime, I am gonna read on the couch with the Greyhounds slumbering nearby.  Peace be with all of us tonight.

 

 

Remembering Jonathan Glass

Perhaps, just perhaps, I am one of the lucky ones.  Maybe. Sometimes. Living with many memories, hopes, disappointments and dark feelings for a lifetime helps one get to know oneself very well.  That voice of despair is always there, a little bit to the left of my left ear.  A demon, a thought born of stress and a very dark upbringing.  Exercise helps and being outdoors can send that demon packing.

Having said all of that, I am remembering a man named Jonathan Glass who died in February.  A brilliant, capable, funny, outdoorsy man who ran LandPaths for many years gave me the chance to show up on Thursdays, clean up the database a bit and be a part of something positive.  Jonathan gave me the chance to allay my own darkness in a time of unemployment.  He gave me a purpose and a place to sit.  He helped me to belong and feel purposeful.  He helped me stay alive.

And so it was with great sadness to know that his own hidden despair ended his all-too-brief life here in northern California.  To say he is missed is not to fully comprehend how Jonathan made open space happen here in Sonoma County.  He was cherished and his absence here is profoundly sorrowful.  There is a great emptiness where that beaming smile lit up the room.

May he now be free and may the rest of us find a way to ask for help, show understanding where we only think of ourselves, take chances, make a statement and know that living does mean that we are one of the lucky ones.

The Lemur In The Backseat

I look up
  from the overpriced plant that I am
  watering,
  in a nursery where I work
  for pittance wondering
  what happened to my beautiful life,
  to see a silver sedan pulling into the parking lot,
  slowly moving forward seeking the perfect
  parking spot,
  and there is a lemur, wide eyed and taking in all that washes
  before her through a  car window,
  short in the seat,
  she is tiny and very real.
I look up
  realizing that my lemur is an old woman,
  shrunken by age,
  viewing the world through eyes
  like pie plates,
  on her outing to the nursery where she will move slowly
  on the arm of her adult child,
  with those huge, hopeful eyes upon all
  that she will be missing.
I look up
  and wonder what happened to all that I had
  planned and know
  one day soon,
  I will become the lemur in the back seat.

That'll Be Me

That'll be me in about 20 years
 with my translucent skin over sharp
 cheek bones,
 asking a retail clerk to get something for me that I cannot
 reach,
 my teeth hanging on by a thread of tissue,
 my eyes will become distant as if I see the end of my life but
 I am not there yet,
 just this frail, petite wisp of a body that
 doesn't walk well or quickly anymore.
That'll be me with my thinning hair and excellent manners which
 tell the story of a much different generation where
 texting was something strange about to take over a nation and
 great Pie was the way we told others
 about our joy for living.
That'll be me with my ache to be seen,
 long gone now as others look past my diminishing body,
 they fail to see themselves or even realize that
 one day
 they will be saying to themselves
That'll be me
too.