“One of the hardest jobs in this world is to be able to preserve the innocent face of our childhood in our adulthood as well!” ― Mehmet Murat ildan
“Let’s play in my room,” my four-year-old granddaughter says.
I’m accepted as another kid. A genuine compliment. My daughter-in-law smiles. Very few preschoolers have a playmate named Grandma.
I take the observation seat on the floor as our granddaughter begins a run with various dolls through the girls’ dollhouse. She includes a monster at least twice the size of several Barbies. Monster is given the part because her hair is twice her size. Something like a fuzzy hot-air balloon the color of a faded blue dishcloth.
“Ahhhhhhh!” our little girl yells. I suspect the drama is for my benefit.
I watch as each doll slides through the window. Enthusiasm complete.
I grab one of the team from the stack. It is wearing a short, semi-existent top. No pants.
“Uh, I think this Barbie needs some pants.”
“Oh, it’s okay she just wears a butt.” My playmate’s voice sounds matter-of-fact as she finds a fresh antagonist for her play. A rabbit taking on the role of a skunk. Is the show for me or is this a standard activity?
I face fairy tales with a twist.
“What’s wrong with your hands, Grandma?” my playmate asks as she studies the smooth back of her hands.
“Not a thing, sweetheart. It’s a thing called age.”
Oh, well! I guess I didn’t escape reality as thoroughly as I thought.
All creative people want to do the unexpected. Hedy Lamarr.
Bailey, an elderly leprechaun, found a magical four-leaf clover wedged under a pot of gold that belonged to his family.
“Hmmn,” he said to his wife Ginger. “Where did this come from? What should we do with it?”
“Let’s check out the rainbow on the other side of the house. See what we can find when we follow it. Go someplace new and different. This may be some real fun.”
“Okay. As long as we don’t need to go to a Walmart in Ohio, I’m with you.”
Magic works in strange ways. The trip took minutes.
“We are at a Walmart outside Cincinnati! Ohio, my dear, Bailey. How in tune can you be? Whether you want to be or not.”
They landed invisibly and a man with a HELP sign found the magical clover. He tried to pull off a leaf. Instead, it mysteriously shaved his beard. He tried again and he was instantly bathed. One more pull, and his clothes were changed and clean. By the fourth try his heart was healed and he remembered who he was, how he had lost his job and gradually everything he owned.
“I’m going to wake up any minute,” he said, trembling.
Bailey approached him and magically calmed the man long enough for him to put aside his sign and step to the other side of the building. However, the man was still convinced he was dreaming.
“Jack! Jack Harris, is that you?” Another man called as he approached the store. “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. You won’t believe this, but I need an accountant. Yesterday. Got a moment?”
The man held out his hand. Jack took it.
Bailey smiled. Ginger linked her arm to his. “Our job is almost completed,” she said. “Well, we’re going to need to explain magic to our Jack first. Then do another resuscitation. It’s a good thing CPR is included in our training. It doesn’t begin and end on St. Patrick’s Day. Do we need any ordinary fare at Walmart before returning to Ireland?”
“Imperfections are not inadequacies; they are reminders that we’re all in this together.” ― Brené Brown
White blossoms appear like smiles all along the street. After watching the news, I could use them. However, I am told there are too many tree blossoms. Invasive, like the flu. The Bradford Pear. It promises no fruit.
And I see sweetness anyway. For now. If only genuine beauty could overwhelm the land. I consider what I can give. What white blossoms can I share? What kind of pure white will invade despair and destroy it?
I sigh. Too lofty an ambition. Yet, a friend or two, or three, could use encouragement. Heck, a pleasant word at the grocery store can be a seed. A thank you has its unknown power.
While blossoms appear like smiles all along the street. For now. May I realize that imperfect is the norm in this continuing now.
“It`s not how old you are, it`s how you are old.” ― Jules Renard Old People
Old People, Look at the present and savor it because each Day may not be Perfect, but if it’s not Enveloped in pain, it’s okay. Old folk, celebrate the Persons in your lives who Love because it alone makes Existence worthwhile. Love back~
“We make a lot of detours, but we're always heading for the same destination” ― Paulo Coelho
Lost—Again
The directional app on my phone remains mute, while the road twists and my mind twists with it into lost places I’ve been.
Memories explode bully-style inside my brain synapses, creating panic. No sound, but an arrow on my screen says turn left at the next corner. I remember
the shop with the worn yellow sign. And space in my head and heart opens. I know to move through uncertainty. Celebrate my detours. Consider
the possibility that others hide pain behind strange, sour, surly behavior. May peace be made from pieces, one imperfect turn at a time.
Originally published in For a Better World 2020 reprinted previous blog
Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. –Albert Einstein
The Sun Rose Again Today
The sun rose again today. In its light I watch as birds arrive and share our feeder. Three sparrows and a blue jay. Later, a cardinal settles on the right. He takes a bite then brings his color to other streets and zones. There is enough seed and light for all.
A goldfinch, his spring color hidden in February, appears. More birds land as the week continues. They join the blended beauty of my integrated neighborhood.
The sun rose again today. May the earth it touches warm hearts and open sleepy eyes to see the ways of the earth. May there be light, color, and seed for all nature’s humans as well.
“Children learn more from what you are, than what you teach.” –W.E.B. Du Bois
The Night of Delirium
A high fever told me I needed to rearrange the drawers in my dresser because the outside colors were wrong. My dresser was ordinary beige. Then, I needed to bring the dresser to school. The fever also decided I had to take the number one million and make it tangible before second-period math the next day. My darkened room gave me no answers; I went downstairs to ask my dad what to do.
I churned my arms as I spoke. One, two, three. Seventy six, seventy seven…lost my place, start over…My mother’s footsteps magnified the rhythm of my count.
“The aspirin. It should be in this cabinet,” she said. “No, this closet. Found it.”
“What is it?” I asked. Enough times to prove planet Earth and I had little in common.
“Aspirin. You are burning up. Listen to me for once.”
“I have to take the numbers one to a million and bring them to school tomorrow,” I repeated. My behavior set Mom into a panic.
Dad saved the moment and spoke to my delirium. “I’m good at math and at fixing things. Tell you what. I will take care of your dresser and put that million together for you. All you need to do is take the aspirin.”
I descended from planet-dangerously-high-temperature madness long enough to swallow the tablets. Then my father carried me to bed. Strangely, I remembered the insanity of the night the next morning. My fever had gone down enough for me to enter the real world again. Even if school wasn’t a possibility until after a round of antibiotics.
The year was 1963. I was a junior in high school. I could never thank my dad enough for that moment. I still do.
Meet your child where they are. That’s what I learned. It may take some guts and imagination.
Thanks again, Dad. I’m waving upstairs. Beyond the ceiling and roof. “If you didn’t make it to the top of the clouds, no one else has a chance.”
When we are children we welcome thinking of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind. Patrick Rothfuss
Nope, No Wedding Yet
The rocky ground at the bottom of the street of my grade school home became my mini-mountain, perfect for climbing. It was hidden behind enough trees to be its own paradise, a place for a kid to climb and become king of the world. When I was nine years old I saw nothing peculiar about a strawberry-blond girl king.
The great play arena eventually disappeared as developers plowed through. But in the mid 1950’s Joe and I claimed the world. He was my self-proclaimed boyfriend. In fourth grade I hadn’t graduated from paper dolls and mud pies, so the notion of a white veil followed by a life in the kitchen sounded as appealing as living with a perpetual mop. I was allergic to homework, much less life responsibilities. Imagination was more appealing.
Joe wasn’t like the other guys in my class. We played as equals. I knew his family wasn’t tidy. I didn’t care. Joe didn’t need the meaner boys around him to be okay. He wasn’t the tallest and certainly not the most popular kid. Mom had never met him. That alone was good enough for me. Outside, Joe and I could always be free. From homework or chores. From real life. We challenged an open space where the air moved freely around our imaginations. And the blue sky was on our side.
“Hey,” he said one day. I saw a kind of shy smile in his brown eyes that didn’t match the same dirty blue jeans he wore all the time, and he planted a kiss right smack on my lips.
I thought, oh yuck, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Joe wore a kindness that transcended grime. You had to face foreign lands on a fun rock to see past the classroom to understand Joe. We never talked about school stuff. Only the next jaunt into places we created.
“I’ve got a special surprise for you since your birthday is coming up,” he said. “Come to my house.”
We cut through two yards and landed on his street in something like three eyeblinks.
“Hey, Mom!” he called. “Where’s the engagement ring I found? I am going to give it to Mary Therese.”
Mary Therese! My at-school name. I groaned. Oh no. Formal talk. Sounded like a nun. Not me. I’d never hit anyone with a ruler in my life. And I would be off balance with a rosary that big at my waist. A wedding would spoil that lifestyle but neither wife nor sisterhood sounded appealing. And call me Terry, my at-home name.
How could I say something about how I thought girls had to at least have boobs before marriage without sounding personal? Joe’s mom wasn’t mine. The question would need to wait.
“Oh Joe, I’m sorry,” his mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “That ring got accidentally flushed down the toilet.”
Joe groaned. Now that I didn’t need to worry about a commitment, gratitude filled every cell of my tiny being. Who needs a ten-year engagement? Or worse, a lost recess for a wedding ceremony? Yet somehow Joe quickly recovered.
Our relationship ended long before puberty. As time passed, I hoped Joe found someone. Later. Much later. Long after the septic system absorbed my first engagement ring. I always wondered whether it had been born in a box of Cracker Jacks or found on a west-side sidewalk.
At least now if someone asks if I ever broke someone’s heart I can say, “No. The ordinary toilet took care of that for me.”
terrypetersen 