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A Hot Lunch
(posted May 22, 2010)
TRUDGING DOWN THE crowded sidewalk, I stare at the ground and observe the parade of shoes passing by. An enormous pair of orange Reeboks move in a syncopated rhythm to rap music blaring from a CD player. The rapid staccato click of stilettos punctuates an angry female voice: “So I told him…” Black wingtips glisten beneath Italian silk trousers, above which a sonorous voice barks into a cell phone.
On each street corner the voice of the homeless—Can you spare a quarter for a hot lunch?—elicits grumbles or a sharp, “Leave me alone.” But occasionally I hear the clink of coins tossed into an out-held plastic cup, and I smile.
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As I continue toward my destination, my stomach begins to rumble. “Boy, I’m hungry. A hot lunch would be really nice today.” A brisk breeze catches my open coat and I pull it tightly around me, trying to block out the biting cold. My fingers quickly grow numb, and I regret not having gloves.
I press on, watching the steady procession of shoes arc widely to avoid bumping into me. The sound of the homeless rings in my ears. “Can you spare a quarter for a hot lunch?”
The drone of wheels on concrete reaches a crescendo. Expensive black high-tops glide into view perched atop a neon skateboard zigzaging down the sidewalk. “Man, you stink. Take a bath,” the rider taunts a homeless person. The parade of shoes speeds up as I quicken my pace to get out of the cold.
Turning a street corner, my cheeks are slapped by a stinging gust of wind. I turn up the collar on my thin coat. “Can you spare a quarter for a hot lunch?” Coins clink once more. I tuck my head deeper and press onward.
I reach the entrance to my favorite diner and quickly duck under the awning. Looking down the tattered sleeve of my stained second-hand coat, I count five, six, seven, eight quarters in the bottom of my plastic cup. I open the door to the diner and smile. Today I have enough money for a hot sandwich and a cup of coffee.
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A Swing and a Miss
(posted May 15, 2010)
It was a near brush with tragedy
Dwarfing all others in her 11-year-old memory
The only girl on the neighborhood softball team
Winding up, she pitched hard at home plate
Dwarfing all others in her 11-year-old memory
He was an excellent batter
Winding up, she pitched hard at home plate
The solid crack filled her ears; contact!
He was an excellent batter
His fast-flying hit drove straight into her right breast
The solid crack filled her ears; contact!
She dropped her glove and ran from the field
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His fast-flying hit drove straight into her right breast
Afraid the boys might laugh
She dropped her glove and ran from the field
Refusing to let them see her cry
Afraid the boys might laugh
She raced home to the safety of her bedroom
Refusing to let them see her cry
She lifted her shirt and looked in the mirror
She raced home to the safety of her bedroom
Her breasts were tender with new growth
She lifted her shirt and looked in the mirror
On her chest was the angry red outline of the ball
Her breasts were tender with new growth,
Panic and fear griped her young mind
On her chest was the angry red outline of the ball
Would her right breast stop growing?
Panic and fear griped her young mind
She wrung her hands, not knowing what to do
Would her right breast stop growing?
She didn’t apply ice, afraid it might slow her growth
She wrung her hands, not knowing what to do
Was it possible to kill a breast?
She didn’t apply ice, afraid it might slow her growth
The ache in her chest, dwarfing the fear in her mind
Was it possible to kill a breast?
If only one breast grew, would people notice?
The ache in her chest, dwarfing the fear in her mind
Would she need to stuff tissues into her bra?
If only one breast grew, would people notice?
Her friend Debbie padded her bra with mounds of tissue
Would she need to stuff tissues into her bra?
The girls joked that the size of Debbie’s breasts changed daily
Her friend Debbie padded her bra with mounds of tissue
She’d heard the vicious whispers at school
The girls joked that the size of Debbie’s breasts changed daily
She studied magazine ads for breast enhancement creams
She’d heard the vicious whispers at school
Each morning she prayed, please God, don’t let my breast die
She studied magazine ads for breast enhancement creams
Each night she eagerly looked in the mirror for results
Each morning she prayed, please God, don’t let my breast die
Months passed and the unthinkable began to happen
Each night she eagerly looked in the mirror for results
As her breasts grew, the right was slightly smaller than the left
Months passed and the unthinkable began to happen
She sought the advice of Sue, her worldly friend who knew…things
As her breasts grew, the right was slightly smaller than the left
Sue rolled her eyes, “You dummy, that’s perfectly normal.”
She sought the advice of Sue, her worldly friend who knew…things
The only girl on the neighborhood softball team
Sue rolled her eyes, “You dummy, that’s perfectly normal.”
It was a near brush with tragedy
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Nanna's Dancing Biceps
(posted May 9, 2010)
"Every house needs a grandma in it."—Louisa May Alcott
A WIDE SMILE stretched across my face when my father said, “Nanna is flying up from Florida to visit us.” Although he said us, I always felt his mother’s visits were to see me, only me. In her thick French accent she called me Kat’ryn, dropping the ‘h’ from my name.
Each time she visited she slept on the spare bed in my room where we whispered in the dark. Her nightly stories reduced me to fits of laughter which I muffled by stuffing my head under my pillow. Long after she drifted off to sleep, I lay awake listening to her soft snoring. Her deep inner strength made me feel safe and protected, as though my guardian angel was there in the room with me.
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When I talked, she listened—really listened. Her patience and compassion soothed my aching eleven-year-old heart. A compact woman with a no-nonsense voice and mischievous blue eyes, I had no doubt she could take on the Devil himself and win. Easily. She certainly had no trouble taking on my father.
At the dinner table one night during her visit, my brother shared a story about something ornery he had done. Through clenched teeth my father snapped, “When I was your age, I never behaved like that.” Nanna looked my father straight in the eye and calmly said, “Eddie, I’ll never forget the time you grabbed your sister around the neck and nearly choked her to death. I had to hit you with a broom to get you to stop.”
My brothers and I nervously glanced at each other then at our father. But his attention was suddenly consumed by the pork chop on his plate. He meticulously cut and re-cut it, then carefully inspected each morsel before placing it in his mouth.
Surprised and secretly delighted, a wide smile spread across my face which I quickly hid behind my napkin. I snuck a glance over at Nanna and she playfully winked at me. I developed a sudden fit of coughing to mask my giggles. My father looked up and sheepishly smiled, conceding defeat. How could he argue with his mother? After all, we knew she never told lies.
Nanna gently smiled back at my father then launched into hilarious stories about several of our rather colorful relatives. My father joined in. The sound of his laughter filled me with a sense of lightness, as though a weight had been lifted from my heart. When our meal was over, I felt pleasantly full—a feeling that had little to do with the food I had eaten.
In my bedroom later that night Nanna asked, “Kat’ryn, how do you like school?” I sighed and told her the boys made fun of my large biceps. They called me ‘Muscles’ and I hated it.
She raised her eyebrows. “Muscles are a sign of strength. You should be proud of them.” Her eyes twinkled. “Did you know I have large biceps, too?”
“Nuh-uh,” I said in disbelief.
She quickly rolled up her sleeves and flexed both arms, he-man style. Beneath the sagging flesh I saw biceps bigger than mine, much bigger. In fact, they were huge.
She added, “I can make them dance, too.” She placed the palms of her hands against the back of her head and flexed her biceps, making them jump up and down—once on the left side, then three times on the right—in a steady rhythm. Bump. Bumpa-bump-bump.
My jaw dropped as I watched my seventy-year-old grandmother make her biceps dance while slowly rolling her thick hips from side to side. I gasped, “Do that again!” And she did. Over and over, until my sides ached from laughing and tears ran down my cheeks.
“Oh, Nanna, I love you.”
“I love you, too, Kat’ryn. You’re a good girl.”
“But—”
“Hush, now. I said you’re a good girl. Do you understand?”
I nodded and buried my face in her soft, fleshy neck, as tears of relief streamed down my face. I was a good girl. It had to be true. Nanna never told lies.
Straightening my back, I looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Show me how to make my biceps dance like that.”
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She Talks to Angels
(posted May 3, 2010)
“All God's angels come to us disguised.”
—James Russell Lowell
THE DIAL OF the clock glowed green in the darkness of my bedroom. 2:00am. I could tell I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. It was going to be a long day.
At 5:00am I arrived at my brother Steve’s house to drive him to the hospital for hip replacement surgery. He was uncharacteristically talkative during our ride, most likely the result of nervous energy.
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Painted Hands by Kathryn & granddaughter Jayla
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When we arrived at the hospital the nurses buzzed about him like a swarm of bees hooking up his IV and various other monitors and high-tech contraptions. In no time he was whisked off to surgery.
I took a seat in the waiting room where I sipped hot tea and numbly watched TV. Needless to say, I am not a morning person. Two hours later my brother’s surgeon appeared and said Steve’s surgery had gone well. Steve would be in the recovery room for a few hours.
I decided to duck out to my car for a much needed nap. As I was walking out of the waiting room the receptionist said there was a woman on the phone asking to speak with me. I picked up the receiver and said hello. It was the family member I least wanted to talk to. I quickly recapped Steve's situation and started to say goodbye. But she caught me off guard and began rehashing an old situation that was not to her liking. I did my best to remain calm and centered, and quickly extracted myself from the thorny conversation. When I hung up the phone, what little bit of energy I had was gone.
I walked to my car and climbed inside, tired to the bone. I began to pray for the ability to feel compassion for this demanding family member. I slumped back against the seat and covered my eyes with my hand. I must have dozed off because I awoke to the sound of rapping on my car window.
A middle-aged woman stood beside my car, her face etched with concern. I rolled down my window and she apologized for disturbing me. She had been walking through the parking lot and saw me sitting with my hand over my eyes. It looked like I was having a tough time. Did I need anything? Was there anything she could do? I explained that I was tired from getting up so early and from having to deal with a phone call from a difficult family member. She nodded sagely, patted my arm and told me to take care of myself. Then she smiled and walked away.
I sat in stunned silence thinking about what had just happened. A smile slowly spread across my face. This was not the first time an angel has appeared in my time of need. I’m certain that’s what she was, an angel. Sent as a reminder I’m never alone, even when it feels as though I am.
I resisted the urge to turn around and look for her. I might have seen her walking through the parking lot. Or maybe she vaporized into thin air. It really didn’t matter. I had received the message. There was no need to look for the messenger.
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