Yesterdays

Family Pets, a Rich Legacy

“He looks better than he has for days,” I said. “The medicine must have worked; he isn’t covered with fungus anymore.” “Yeah, his color is almost back to normal,” my college-age son agreed, as he bent over the goldfish bowl. “Yes, he’s actually looking pretty good, almost healthy.” There was a pause “It’s too bad he’s dead.” “Yup,” I said. Indeed, Mr. Fish was floating belly-up, definitely dead. And we felt sad, reluctant to scoop him out. After all, he had been a member of our family for more than eight years. We had become as attached to Mr. Fish as it is possible to become attached to a fish. Also, he was the last of the childhood family pets. We reminisced about the day my son brought the two tiny black fish home from the pet store. They had seemed happy in the fish bowl. Then, about a week…

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Hair Wars

It’s a funny thing about hair, those few square inches on top of our heads that occupy our morning grooming ritual. For those of us who flirt with vanity, a Good Hair or Bad Hair morning is perceived to be a celestial indicator of blessing or curse upon the whole day. We are cautious even then, because we know that even a Good Hair day can be spoiled by a nasty bout of Hat Hair. The truth is, our hair, whether thick or thin, tinted or drab, straight or curly, short or long, graying or disappearing, can easily intimidate and dominate us, taking up too much time and undermining our self-esteem. For some of us, it is even more tyrannical; hair is our enemy. It is a separate entity living atop our heads, forcing us to battle its tendrils and tufts daily. Sometimes the morning’s battle takes up to an…

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It’s Family

My dad still insists on carrying the heavy boxes for me. My mother reaches for the bowls on the top shelf of the cupboard because they are “too high” for me. “Here, let me take that for you.” “Let me get that for you.” I am stronger and taller than they are and I am 51 years old, but their actions seem natural. After all, I am still their child; my childhood is still dynamic. I understand. I catch myself doing the same for my own grown sons. But it is okay; it is what family is all about. By example and precept, we learn empathy, understanding, compassion, and how to nurture and respect others, as well as ourselves. In other words, we are learning how to love— and we are never too old for that. I quote my mother a lot. I talk about my dad, my grandparents, aunts,…

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Seasonal Overlap Syndrome (also known as S. O. S.)

Having chased tinsel all year, I have finally come full circle. Off-season tinsel is a symptom of the household disorder called Seasonal Overlap Syndrome, better known as S. O. S. These silvery ghosts of Christmases past appear out of nowhere throughout the year, taunting me on Valentine’s Day, Easter, the 4th of July, and, yes, a silver strand waved at me from my potted palm as I set out candy for Halloween this fall. No doubt there are strands of tinsel in my house dating back to the 1970’s, lurking in my closets, clinging to the underside of the sofa, and crouched beneath the easy chairs, just waiting to emerge with their silent “Boo!” Sometimes, it isn’t just the tinsel connection that blurs the lines between the holidays. It also has to do with time-slippage. I will explain. This year, while I was waving goodbye to Thanksgiving guests, Advent slipped in.…

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Stump Thinking

I have a morning tree stump where I go to sip hot coffee and think long thoughts. It’s a place where time slows down, where I dust off old memories and make room for new ones. Exploration of ideas and creative imaginings is encouraged here. Faces of family and friends greet me—if only for a moment—in my mind. It is my morning stump, where I plan the day that is waiting for me. It is a place of meditation and prayer. I don’t know why thinking comes easier on a tree stump. I do not believe in some mystical organic osmosis—a “one with the stump” philosophy. But stumps have always been magnets to me. Even as a child I could never resist climbing onto one to test the view as well as the fit. Consequently, through the years, I have become a connoisseur of stumps. While a log or flat…

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The Restaurant

“May I take your order, please?” the waitress inquired as she jumped from one foot to the other. “Do you have any tuna fish sandwiches?” I asked. “Oh, yeah!” my excitable waitress shouted as she ran off to the next room where, presumably, her kitchen was located. “Uh, Miss Waitress,” I called, beckoning her back. “May I also have a cup of tea, please?” With the same exuberance exhibited before, she shouted over her shoulder, “Oh, yeah!” Within a minute, she had bounded back to my chair, handing me a cup and saucer. “Is it hot?” I asked. “Oh, no. I blowed on it. It’s all cool now,” she announced proudly. “And, here’s your tuna fish sandwich,” she said, gesturing to a spot on the tray in front of my chair. “Thank you, Miss Waitress,” I said. “This is a wonderful restaurant and you do such a good job.” “Thanks,”…

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The Vet!

You could see it written across their frantic feline faces. “Why are you doing this to us?” They were sitting side by side in front of the closed pantry door, watching me, intently scrutinizing my face. Cats do not usually stare you in the eye, but urgency and desperation required the effort. Then they looked at each other. “No food or water since last night and no sign that she is going to open the pantry door this morning. Has she gone berserk, do you think?” was the unspoken question that passed between them. Considering the uncertainty of the situation, Hangar opted for avoidance and ran to hide under the dining room table, presumably to stay until my moment of madness had passed. Trouble, however, with stubborn resolve, always confrontational in the face of adversity, turned to face her present adversary, the closed pantry door. First, Trouble tried to slip…

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Tips From an 8-Year-Old Crayon Coach

I was restless on my metal folding chair. I was seated on one of the two chairs scooted up to a long empty banquet table, which was masquerading as a desk. The other chair was empty. It was one of those mostly adult events where we take ourselves quite seriously. I was waiting to be called into service when Sarah, who had been wise enough to bring along her coloring book and a fully loaded activity box, approached me. “Would you like to color?” she asked. Eight-year-old Sarah wore a lavender T-shirt and blue jeans. With her long fiery red hair and beautiful matching freckles, she personified the box of crayons she carried. I was pleased to be asked. “I would love to,” I said. Sarah settled herself into the chair opposite me. With great ceremony she set down and opened her red plastic activity box. She took out and…

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