The Joy of Poetry

I have to admit, there has been a long lapse in my life since I have written poetry. But tonight, I felt a need to revisit a place that has always brought me great joy.  I hope you enjoy my interlude of the rhyming word and perhaps you, too, will revisit a beautiful part of our literary world.

Please, put down the hate

And pick up the love.

If you are faltering,

Seek the one above.

We all struggle.

We all feel pain.

No matter our color

We feel hurt the same.

The words spewed

Without thought

Leave us angered

We are all distraught.

If I were you

And you were me

Losing a loved one

We don’t feel differently.

 I hear the pain

That breaks in your voice

And I hope together

We can break through the noise.

That children are children

And all our hearts shatter

When a life is lost

Because every life matters.

Please put down the hate

And pick up the love

If you are faltering

Seek the one above.

Discuss what hurts

Talk about anger

Talk about subjects

And thoughts that matter.

We all have a voice

We all have a place

Let’s discuss our differences

Face to face.

We can do this

We can move forward

Our country has always

Moved upward and onward.

Civility and dignity

Must find its place

So we can continue

To be THE UNITED STATES!

So one last time

With a heart open wide,

Together we can close

This expanding divide.

Please put down the hate

And pick up the love,

If you are faltering

Seek the one above.

Because in the end

I love you and you love me,

And that is the way

We were intended to be.

The Joy of Hope

"I may feel helpless, but never hopeless." I wrote these words tonight on my personal Facebook page after learning of the horror in Nice, France. I hung my head and honestly, I could not even pray...again. I feel like I am stuck in a horror adaptation of Groundhog Day. I wonder if humanity and her empathy have gone on a sabbatical without notice. But, I am reminded constantly that our world has always been at war. This sadness I feel is nothing new to those who lived before us. That this bloody battle that is shown on every news channel 24/7 is old news, but so consequently, is the quiet, relentless, unyielding face of hope.
 I have always felt things deeply and this is not really a "gift" as one might imagine. For with every unbridled joy there is also the despondent despair. For those of us who walk the emotional tightrope of the human race, rarely do we find an equilibrium. My earliest memory of this feeling was when my best friend in Middle School parents' were getting a divorce. I carried her sadness around my shoulders like an afghan in winter. I thought I could comfort her if I took on her feelings - maybe she would not feel the tear of her family fabric ripping as much if I provided a temporary patch. After several weeks of a minor melancholy state,  I remember my Mom asking me what was wrong and when I responded, she quietly said, "Laura, you cannot carry the weight of the world on your shoulders." Little did I know this statement would be my emotional make up kit. And I would pack it wherever I traveled.
Mom was right, but as most children, I did not listen. I knew, yes, I knew, I could fix things. If I could vacuum up just a smidgen of their hurt and cast it out with my often heard belly laughing, the pain of those around me would dissipate. But eventually, you realize you are harboring way more than you are casting off and slowly, you might find yourself sinking like the weight attached to a fishing line.
I guess I was fortunate enough to always have a red and white bobble attached to my emotional line. I am surrounded by amazing friends and family.

I have watched these hardworking people succeed in careers, family, and charitable giving, often taking incredulous risks to lasso a dream, and I was more than happy to have a seat in the front row. I cried tears of joy for every hard fought victory. I was close enough to make a catch if they stumbled, but not quite close enough to interfere with their forward momentum. We discussed why they were beyond awesome and yes, sometimes my hands stung with their over zealous high fives. But I was lifted with their glory, their happiness, and their success. My children laugh at me whenever I watch a major sporting event because I cry. And I mean that down and dirty ugly cry. Because I feel the sacrifice those athletes made to get to that moment. No, I have no Olympic Medal, no Heisman Trophy, no Wimbledon Cup but I "get them" when the athletic journey is over and the realization of every sore muscle, every loss before that one, every coach's word ringing in their ears, every decision to miss a normal life moment is coming to fruition. Truth be told, my daughter placed third in a top tier swimming heat this week, and I seriously, quietly cried. I know people may label me "emotional", but I also know everything that went into Anna scoring those first ever points for her swim team. And I let it all out for her. That is what I do.
But there is a negative to every positive. So these world events lately, are creating a havoc on my emotional system. When I see people of any color lose their life at the hands of  bad people who should protect us, I hurt. When I see bad people take the lives of those who protect us 24/7 without question, I hurt. When I hear racial slurs of any kind, I hurt. When I hear of a young man walk into a church and open fire, I hurt. When I watch angry protesters become violent and burn down a city, I hurt. When I learn of a man walking into a gay nightclub and opening fire, I hurt. When I hear a terrorist claim love for their God and then kill, I hurt. When I hear of a man driving a truck over people and then begin shooting on Bastille Day, killing and injuring an unimaginable number, I hurt. Last week, my husband asked me several times, "Is something bothering you? Are you OK?" and I knew that once again, I was wrapping that emotional afghan around my shoulders, feeling the world's weight, bear down with a force that was almost crippling.
Sunday, we went to church. My daughter and I volunteer in the Toddler A Room every other Sunday. No matter our moods upon arrival, we leave the room laughing, retelling stories of the antics of our very lovable and adorable 18-24 month old charges. We wait in the Lobby for David and Josh to arrive, often talking about various topics. It's probably one of my very favorite parts of my week, because for fifteen minutes, it's just me and my daughter, talking. About nothing. About everything. And I see a flickering light that will continue to burn as her generation begins to transform our world.

In those fleeting fifteen minutes, I feel the hope creeping in around me, quietly removing the emotional afghan, carefully folding and placing it in my mind drawer. I feel a little lighter, and well, a little more hopeful. After we deposited our children in their respective areas, David and I made our way to our seats for our service. I shared with my husband I was warned this was a tissue worthy service. Because of the recent tragedy in Dallas, I thought we would be talking about race relations, violence and how so many feel helpless in the chaos that is becoming a constant in our life. And then Bruce Ham was introduced to our congregation. He is the Chief Development Officer at the Triangle YMCA and our church is partnering with the YMCA to build a wonderful facility in our area. "Oh", I remember thinking, "he is going to tell us how we our going to impact our community.". Then Bruce shared his personal story and the tears flowed for the next ten to fifteen minutes. I urge you to click on the link I have posted at the bottom of this entry - Bruce is poignant, humorous, and honest as he unabashedly reveals the darkness that cloaked his family when he lost his wife and his three young daughters, their mother, to cancer at the young age of 39. At one point, he shared, his youngest asked, "Daddy, can we give Mommy's cancer to someone else?". You see, she, too, was looking for hope in the middle of a storm no child should face, but unfortunately, do. Bruce went on to give us ten tips on how to help people through the grieving process. Ten little steps that lead you toward the path of hope. I wonder if someone had reached out to the man who drove his truck through the innocent gatherers celebrating Bastille Day, would have really delivered ice cream instead of carnage, if he had stepped toward hope and away from hate. That man, that father, that husband, that son, felt hopeless and the rest of us became helpless.
I know tomorrow I will be able to pray again to ask for the healing of the families as they prepare for an empty space at their dinner tables. I know tomorrow I will pray for our world leaders to be wise and direct with those that are violently objectionable to the human race. I know tomorrow I will pray for our communities to talk civilly about hard subjects that begin to heal old, old wounds. I know tomorrow I will pray for a little girl in our community who is battling brain cancer. I know tomorrow I will try to make a difference as maybe I walk someone down the path of hope. Because hope, in the epic game of rock, paper, scissors, will always trump hate. And I find great joy in knowing that while I may feel temporarily helpless, I will never feel forever hopeless. And the people said, "Amen.".
http://crosspointe.org/series/practical-ways-to-love-your-grieving-friends

The Joy of Dad

"When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant, I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." Mark Twain

My brother presented this famous quote on a mug to my father right around the time I was 14. My eldest brother is six years older than me, so you can understand why I thought he was a complete idiot in giving this to our Dad. Lou was starting his own life outside of our house and perhaps had begun to understand the difficulties and the complexities of the man who shared our DNA. And perhaps, had begun to see Dad emerging in him.

I have two very early memories of my Father and they are imbedded deep in my mind and heart. His laugh - deep, infectious, genuine and immediately recognizable. My Mom shared with me that my Grandmother loved to hear my Dad laugh .It was one of the first things she loved about about the man who eventually became a devoted son-in-law. We share that sentiment, my Grandmom and I. The second is his whistle. When I pucker my lips together in a tight O and force air to flow out of the oral opening, dogs cower with hind haunches rolled under and tails tucked  protectively between their legs. Clearly, this musical gene did not transfer to his daughter, for my Dad is the Pavorati of whistlers. His range is unmatched and his melodic rhythm of is simply hypnotic. I could listen for hours and was often disappointed when his concert ended. I am his biggest groupie. In fact, Christmas one year, Mom gave me a tape of Dad whistling - it is one of my most beloved treasures and one I need to transfer to the digital age. Like a soft summer rain, listening to Dad's whistle, brings me peace and comfort and joy. I also learned early on, if you heard Dad whistling, that was the time to hit him up for a big request. But, I digress.

My Dad was always around. So much so, that at times, I found him a nuisance. I mean this man was always asking me and my brothers questions at the dinner table about our days. And then he would actually listen to our answers. And yes, he would argue and tell us we were wrong, but, darn it, he was still there. He would urge us to try harder in our sporting events that he never missed. He always had advice on how we could improve our game. Even when we didn't ask. But he was there, in the stands, cheering at every game. He went to Parent/Teacher Conferences with Mom and asked why I wasn't completing homework assignments when I said I positively, absolutely had completed all my school work. I often wondered why did he care? Didn't he have issues of his own to address? And don't even get me started on the dress code, and being a lady, and manners, and work ethic and love of country and loyalty and self respect. Sigh. He was everywhere. 

Today there are approximately 322 miles between Dad and me. I am luckier than most my age to still have a Dad answer my phone calls. While he may not be at the top of his game, he still gets on the phone to talk to his "girl" and I have to admit, I miss his inquiries. As most parent/child relationships, we were not always on the same page and sometimes our words were not always comforting, agreeable or loving. But, they were always honest. Truth hurts sometimes, on both sides. But the wounds heal and the bond is stronger and in our case, closer.

You see, my Dad has suffered two strokes and while his physical self is not too different, his brain is altered. Sometimes he might not follow our conversations completely but other times, he is connecting the dots quickly and accurately. He doesn't like the phone much and conversations are short. He tires easily when we visit but he is present. But here is the best part. He is softer. His language is gentle and his heart is wide open. Dad never misses a moment to tell us he loves us. He never misses a moment to tell us he misses us. He never misses a moment to tell us he wishes he could see us more, but understands we are busy. Some people say he has regressed but I disagree. To me, Dad is in the best place - kind of like a small child. He is present for each moment, soaking in the life around him, sharing his love with his family and laughing that beautiful laugh that rings in my ears and settles in my heart. And I find myself saying "I love you" a lot more, too. And not just to him.

I am a blessed daughter and also a blessed wife who married a man who loves his children, unconditinally.  Anna is lucky. But she is almost 13 and is struggling to understand the complexities of her highly annoying, yet loving Dad. I have thought about the Mark Twain mug  often and wonder if I should give to Anna for Father's Day.  She doesn't know this yet, but there is no greater joy than the special love shared between a daughter and her Dad. I just wish it didn't take so long to realize they loved us all along. 

Happy Father's Day to all my amazing Dad relatives and friends - you have set the bar high - don't ever bring it down. May you always be annoyingly loving to your daughters.

The Joy of Transition

Random House Webster's College Dictionary defines transition as "movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another.". If you think about it, we are in a constant state of transition - sometimes big, sometimes medium, sometimes small. But we are always changing. For me, my medium change at the moment is shifting from a part-time preschool teacher to full-time substitute teacher for our local school system. I am excited about my new opportunity but as with any change, there is a bit of apprehension. What if I don't have enough hours? What if I don't understand a teaching concept? What if I don't have lesson plans? What if....and then you have to breathe and start over. What if I really like it? What if I have an opportunity to become a long term substitute? What if I absolutely, positively love my new job? Breathe.
Yesterday, at our staff End of Year Brunch, our fearless leader announced she was retiring after leading our preschool for 12 years. There was an audible gasp followed by lots of tears. She has been the steady, loving, patient, wise and faithful friend (notice the word boss is not used) that has guided countless families, teachers and staff through our children's center. Her absence will be felt greatly when the doors are re-opened in the Fall. What transpired after we all wrapped our heads around the announcement was a discussion about change and how most people do not like change. And our wise friend gently reminded us, "People don't like bad change. It's not the change - it's the type of change. People get excited about good change.". Like so many things she has said to me during the past two years, her statement has been on permanent replay in my mind.  And once again, my friend is correct. Breathe.

Let's think about this for a moment. Good change brings a certain level of excitement with a twinge of apprehension. Buying your first car. Landing your first job or receiving a promotion. Graduation. Signing a contract for a professional sport or a lucrative deal in the creative sector. Marriage. Any type of new relationship. Moving into a new residence. Starting an exercise program. Joining an extra curricular activity or a Mom's Group. Winning the Power Ball (although this inevitably leads to bad change). So, let's freely admit we welcome this type of change with open arms and say "Change is good!". Breathe.
And then there is the other side of the coin...the bad changes in life. Divorce. Death. Bankruptcy. Diagnosis. Loss of employment. Unexpected job change. Buyout. Management shake up. Terrorism on your homeland. Natural disasters. Moving to a new state/country without really wanting to leave. Elections. The Unknown. Breathe. Deep.
That word is the true fear, right? Not the actual change but the unknown life altering consequences because of the change. We are witnessing and experiencing unprecedented change in our country right now in epic proportions and people are flat out scared. Who is going to be our next President? Who will be on the Supreme Court? What if the minimum wage is raised to $15 an hour? What the heck is transgender and what is this bathroom law? Why is Target saying people can go into any bathroom regardless of gender? Why are we letting refugees into our country? What if my child doesn't get the teacher I want? What if I don't like my new boss? What if I don't understand the language of my new country? Are all Muslims dangerous? Do we need to scope out their neighborhoods? Zika Virus? Does Congress have any clue what their voters want? What if accepting this job is the worst mistake I ever made? What if I am not in control? BOOM! Oops. Forgot to breathe.

We have become a world of micro-managers who can no longer have a civil conversation. We have lost all aspects of gray and drawn extreme black/white lines with no room for crossover. Because we have become so scared of change, we want everyone to be the same and if they are not, the words "stupid", "ignorant", "backwards", "evil", "moronic" and other hate speech have been spewed like the vicious venom of a Cobra, leaving us paralyzed and inept. We cannot breathe.
We are better, America. The Founders of our country came here to set forth change and bring about a democratic state that welcomed a difference of opinion and encouraged free (albeit thoughtful) speech. Freedom brings choice, responsibility, acceptance, compassion and change. Let's attempt to transition from talkers to listeners. Let's attempt to transition from contempt to compromise. Let's attempt to agree to disagree, yet still respect the person. Take a breath. Pause and change your perspective for just a moment. Like the caterpillar to the butterfly. Once upon a time, I crawled upon the ground and then one day, I sprouted wings. We may not all have the same color wings, but we can soar in the same sky. And, maybe, just maybe, we can transition into a joyful, healthy space - wouldn't that be a breath of fresh air?

The Joy of Running (for me)

Running has always been a release for me, even if I did not know it at the time. Early on, I ran hard and fast to keep up with my older brothers. A feat that was not always easy and definitely not always a celebratory finish. But the continual shrugging off of their little sister did not slow me down, only increased my strength and determination.
Later, I ran in Field Day races, up and down a soccer field, a basketball court, a field hockey field, and around the black tar track that circled a down trodden football field. Eventually, I would find my way down paved and dirt roads, hilly trails, through beautiful campuses and bustling cities, along East Coast beaches, and sometimes, on a detour from reality.

Running, like many interests, is not for everyone and rarely will I try to entice someone to join me on the trail. But if you decide to pull those dusty exercise shoes out of your closet, I will be one of your biggest cheerleaders. I am not interested in your pace, your distance or your stamina. I am just happy you are making a positive health change in your life. There are numerous articles exclaiming the many health benefits of running: improves cardiovascular fitness, strengthens your bones and muscles, helps your mental state by fighting depression and anxiety, and will help you maintain a healthy weight. There are more extensive articles that delve into the chemical make up of our bodies and the positive effects of running but science and math were never my strong suits, so I will leave those interpretations up to your individual research. But here is one thing I do know through my own experience: running makes me happy. When I complete a long run, not only do I leave my sweat and footprints on the trail, but I leave  behind my frustrations, my worries, my anger and my problems. Once upon a time, I was a girl who focused on setting Personal Records (PR's), attempting to get my name in a record book or finish in the top three of my age group. But now, I look at a woman who has dug deep into inner strength to consistently put one foot in front of the other, not only in running, but in life. Yes, I still wear a Garmin. But I don't set my pace timer, I set my peace timer. I click on my GPS and know that the next 30 - 90 minutes are mine, all mine. I rarely take my iPod these days. Instead, I tend to talk to God, look at the nature surrounding me, listen to the gurgling brook, the chirping birds, the squawking squirrels, the laughter of neighborhood children, the happy panting of dogs unleashed and the soft pounding of my feet moving me forward. And I never turn my head to see if anyone is gaining ground.
This year I decided to sign up as a Mentor for our local Fleet Feet Half-Marathon Running Program (shameless plug for Fleet Feet - amazing store, amazing people, amazing products). I had never mentored through a program before so I was a little nervous and anxious about my decision. What did I know about running other than I loved it? I wasn't going to be able to tell someone how to correctly hydrate, how to replace electrolytes through food, how to figure out your correct race pace, or how to eat those liquid goo things that cause their own level of personal frustration for me during a race? Egads! What have I done? What if I become the Charlie Brown of running mentors? What if Lucy keeps moving the finish line? My inner voice is screaming, "You BLOCKHEAD!".
But here is the other thing running has taught me - don't ever settle. Don't become comfortable. And these two gems found on an inspirational quote site: "Running teaches me that I am capable of so much more than I ever imagined." and "We started out as runners. We ended up as friends.". Running groups are aWEsome. Now, don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my solo runs, better known as Mommy's Little Helper. But the group runs are mentally fantastic. The conversations and comraderie that flourish out of these brief evening runs or long Saturday morning excursions are truly a gift in life. When we lived in Austin, I ran with an amazing group of women who had a goal of completing a half marathon. We met three times a week in the wee hours of the morning, long before coffee began brewing or the sun raised her rays to welcome the day. I am not a morning person but I loved these morning jaunts. We laughed. We commiserated. We encouraged. We swore. We competed. We were thoughtful, honest, brutal, loving, sweaty, doubtful, and running our way into friendships that go way past the finish line. And are more meaningful than any medal that sits in a drawer covered by socks and underthings.
This mentoring thing has provided me with another great memory created by my joy of running. This Sunday, my mentee will run her first half marathon EVER and the longest mileage she has ever logged in her lifetime. That kind of kicks ass. We come from completely different worlds even though we live just a few miles from each other. Without the running program, I don't think our paths would have ever crossed, but I am so grateful for our intersection. She is insightful. Hilarious. Blatantly honest. Kind hearted. Real. Thankful. Brilliant. Worldly. Determined. And she has taught me to be a better Mom. She doesn't know this aspect and probably would not believe me if I told her, but our conversations made me look at things differently and at times, forced me to look through a child's eyes and not my own. I may have cheered her on to crossing a line she thought was impossible. But she guided me toward a different life terrain that will challenge me, but make me stronger and happier. All that from a pair of shoes and a trail on which I joyfully run. 

.
 PS: My Mentee never called me Blockhead, out loud.

 

The Joy of Love

Friday, November 13, 2015 terrorists viciously attacked innocent civilians in Paris. As I write these words, 129 people have died and 352 were injured under a cowardly act tightly wrapped in hate. By definition hate means: "to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest" (Webster's Dictionary). Hate is the vilest of the human emotions and most of the time, I believe hate is born out of heresy and misunderstandings. Differences can sometimes stoke fear in people - a fear that ultimately leads to decisions with horrendous consequences.
The Islamic State has declared war on the West. But their type of fighting and heinous humanitarian crimes committed throughout the world in the name of religion is foreign to many of us. These people are international bullies attacking people who are unarmed, unprepared and usually in the midst of enjoying life. Westerners are confused, mystified, horrified, disgusted and angry. As leaders of the free world head to the G-20 Summit this week, formulating a strategy to defeat ISIS will be at the top of their list. I am not a military strategist, but I do know this: ISIS does not appear to understand love and eventually, that will be their undoing.

ISIS keeps coming with one brutal attack after another and yet they never seem to grasp that we do not cower in fear or surrender to their violent demands. Instead, we unify. Lighting candles, linking arms, raising voices in song, raising flags in defiance and strengthening our stance against you -  in love. Yes, we will come after you. In the end, because of the atrocities you are committing against humanity, the people of the world who do not condone violence, will defend their right to life in a way you are not prepared to defend. Military strikes are a small part of the strategy and sometimes governments announce these strikes giving you time to defend yourself. Or sometimes, in your mind, giving you permission to hurt civilians instead of armed militia. But know this ISIS. People are praying for you. People are forgiving you. People are hoping you will see the error in your ways. People are listening to a voice that says above all else, love one another. Is this why you are angry with us? Many Westerners do not follow the path of wealth, greed and power. No, many of us follow the path of joy, hard work, family, love, tolerant religion and forgiveness. Did you hear those bells ringing through the streets of Paris on Saturday? Did you see people on their knees with tears streaming down their cheeks? Did you see the tiny tea lights illuminating Paris - the city you desperately are trying to darken? Here is the thing. Your acts of hatred strengthened our love and illuminated our light toward a higher ground. People around the world, in churches, communities, driving cars or walking on their own, were sending out prayers for healing. And here is the other thing - they were not all Westerners and they were not all Christians. They were humans that understand love is always the answer and hate will eventually dissolve like sugar in hot water.

Eventually, the ripples of hope will reach your hate camp. And these love circles will surround you like the people you tried to encase in the concert hall. But the ones we touch won't run screaming and won't be dragged down an alley drenched in blood. They will just leave you. That is eventually happens with hate. You entice lost people with dreams of power, money and greed - the very concepts you kill innocents for every day. But humans grow weary of hate. The emotion is tiring, degrading, and unfulfilling. Eventually, your recruits will look for something more - something that does not involve death and destruction. Eventually, they will follow the path of forgiveness and redemption, the path of light, the path of love, the path of life. So, one day, perhaps our paths will cross and you will take my life. But know this, you never took my light. And someone else will pick up my torch to carry on the fire of love that darkness can never extinguish. Joy, my friend, joy will always have a place in this world. And Paris, will always be the city of light and the city of love. Vive le France!!!!
 

The Joy of a Preview

As you may know by reading my blog, a long held dream of mine is to write a book. So, that is why my blog has been so quiet. I have been pursuing my dream in between raising my children, teaching preschool and enjoying my family life that has been blessed, bittersweet, hilarious, unexpected and well, mine. All mine. And authored by a higher power than me.
Deep breath. I am getting ready to give you a sneak preview of what I have been writing the past couple of months. This, by far, will be my longest, bravest and "most "naked" post. I am asking you to be just as brave (and heavens to Betsy, not naked) by reading my rough, rough draft of a story that has lived in my head and traveled down to the keys on my lap top. Please send me your thoughts, edits, suggestions, critiques and the hard truth of yes, I would continue to read this book or um, seriously, I would put in my Yard Sale pile. If for whatever reason I end up in the "yes" category and you know of an editor that would be interested in helping me, I would be grateful. At some point in all of our lives, someone was gracious enough to pass our name along. Sometimes that road became a dead end, but sometimes, just sometimes, that road lead to an amazing journey. Thank you for your time. Cheers!

 

Her face was contorted, sweaty and red. Tear trails marked the passage of a tantrum that had lasted longer than the peppermint quickly dissolving in my mouth. I blew air upward and felt my damp hair struggle to remove itself from the edges of my face. I bent down and placed my hands on Grace’s heaving shoulders. “Shhhhh,” I whispered as I tried to bring calmness to us both. The trip had been long, hot and exhausting. I could not fault her for losing her composure, but I sure wish I had the key that could get us off the porch and away from the prying eyes of neighbors we had yet to meet. I doubted anyone would be bringing us fresh baked banana bread in the morning.

I kept one hand on Grace as the other hand dug deep into my purse, searching for the flimsy tag and string that held the key that would open the door to our new life. I pulled out gas and fast food receipts and hastily scripted lists and tossed them on the wooden planks of thedust covered porch. A gust of wind whistled through sweeping up the receipts and my last bit of patience into the neglected yard. Grace sneezed, wiped the nose goo across her cheeks and took her wail to the likes of Janis Joplin. I felt the coldness of the molded metal against my sweating fingers. I yanked the key out quickly, spilling lip gloss, tissues and half sucked peppermints onto the porch. A peppermint stuck to Grace’s toe and the wailing reached unspeakable volumes. Shakily, I stuck the key into the lock and slammed the door open, leaving a mark on the wall as a reminder of our arrival to 203 Mimosa Lane.

“NO! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” shrieked the defiant voice, followed by quick, successive breaths. “I want,” four quick inhales, “to go”, another four quick inhales, “hooooooooome!”. The foot stomp punctuated the last request. “Grace,” I soothed, “we are home. Let’s go inside and see your new room.”.

“This is NOT my home. Not going inside.” The breathing was returning to normal. The free flow of tears was drying up and the arms were folded tight, like a military bed. I leaned against the door frame, head tilted to one side and shoulders slumped in defeat. “Ok, Grace, ok. You can sleep out here on the porch tonight. But Mommy? She is sleeping inside – I remember things that slithered and popped in the night when I slept here as a child. But I know you are brave, my Gracie girl.” I sighed, looked into her bloodshot blue eyes and realized I would never win an argument against this stubborn, headstrong child who had the face of a father she had never met. I cursed silently and headed inside.

“Do I at least get a sleeping bag?” Grace asked as she smushed her face against the screen door. “I should at least get a sleeping bag.”

I kept walking looking for a made bed and praying for a stocked refrigerator. I heard the squeak and slam, followed by unsure footsteps. “Oh this place STINKS! You should have brought Bessie.” The footsteps quickened and soon I heard them over my head. “My room has a window seat and I can see the water. Mom. Mom. MOM! Come here.” Followed by a bloodcurdling scream. I smiled. She found Buster, I thought. Well, maybe not Buster, but one of her great, great, great grandchildren with eight long legs and a fuzzy round body. The footsteps slammed downward and again, I heard the squeak, slam of a departure. “MOOOOOOOMMMMMM! Sadie is gone!” followed by another Janis Joplin epic wail.

“No. No. No. NO!” I screamed in my head. Sadie, our new furever pup, was almost one-year-old, completely untrained, speedier than the Looney Tune’s road runner and Grace had thrown Sadie’s name tag out the window in Tennessee because I would not let her have another Coke. I slammed open the door and scanned the street for my daughter and my dog, neither of whom would listen to any of my commands.

“Saaaaaaa-dieeeeeeee! Graaaaaaaaaace!” I yelled. I listened to the silence and tried to figure out where a dog and child would run. Toward the water. I made a beeline down the street to the nearest beach path. The sand spurs stuck to my ankle socks and dug their points into my skin as I occasionally jumped up trying to see over the sea grass. Finally, I hit the wooden walkway only to catch my pants on an exposed nail. Bam. I lie sprawled out on the aged planks, splinters inviting themselves into skin on my palms and finger pads. I unhooked my pants from the nail, quickly surveyed for people doubled over in laughter, clapped my hands together and continued forward. My hands and my head began to pound in sync with my heartbeat. I hustled down the five steps to the soft, cold sand, kicked off my shoes and ran toward the crashing waves. I squinted and held my throbbing hand over my eyes as I desperately searched for Sadie and Grace. For a moment I thought I caught glimpse of them, but then my heart sank as I noticed an older lady attached to the end of the leash, laughing and splashing as the Atlantic Ocean gurgled over her feet. Grace would never talk to a stranger and there is no way a human being could catch Sadie. Unless, the human had a treat.

I started to walk in their direction. As my eyes caught Grace’s, she bee lined towards me, hands clasped tightly together forming a small circle. “Mom!” she squealed, “I caught a sand crab. I’ve named her Sandy. Can I keep her? Please, Mom.”.  I stopped and folded my arms in front of me. Just as I was about to unload a litany of the rules broken within the last five minutes, the lady with wavy salt and pepper hair, dressed in a faded salmon colored tshirt and tattered cargo pants stretched out her hand toward me. “I am guessing these two belong to you?” she asked. She spoke in the soft southern lilt that gave away her age and the fact that she most likely was a local. I nodded. “Might I apologize and thank you at the same time?” I reached out to take Sadie’s leash. Sadie boldly jumped up, sand stuck to her nose, her paws and her belly as a long, pink tongue lagged out the side of her mouth. Not a scent of remorse but a whole handful of happy.

“Aw, no trouble. Just out for afternoon stroll before I begin the evening shift at the café. These two won’t tell you, but they were scared. Never seen two creatures shaking like Autumn leaves in a tree on a windy day.” She chuckled, contagious and content. “Well, I have to be going. My name is Lucy. I hope to meet you all again, under different circumstances. You should come down for breakfast – we have the best food on the beach.” As she passed me, I quickly asked, “Excuse me, but how did you catch Sadie?”

Lucy winked and said, “I keep treats in my trousers.” She held up her hand in a wave and strolled on past. Lucy, I decided, was someone I was going to need to know on the island.

“So, Mom, can I keep Sandy? Huh, can I?” Grace was jumping excitedly up and down beside me. My anger dissolved, I tugged on Sadie’s leash to remind her who was in control and asked Grace if it was fair to keep a sand crab in a fake beach when there was a perfectly good beach for this captured crustacean to live. “Of course it is. A sandpiper can’t get Sandy if she is in our house.” I acquiesced and said we would have to keep her in the sink for tonight but first thing tomorrow we would build a little terrarium for our new found pet. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best!”. Yup, for the next five minutes anyway. And I said a silent prayer that Sadie would not eat Sandy during the next twelve hours.

After a dinner of stale Doritos and putrid tasting tap water, I tucked Grace into her freshly made bed with promises that Buster would not come down and sit beside her tonight. Spiders were extremely afraid of dogs. As always, Grace’s prayers reminded me that her childhood is not ideal but she is here with me and “we love chother”. I kissed her forehead, patted Sadie’s head, turned on the fan and tiredly headed downstairs.

I poured a large glass of wine and headed out to the back porch. The frogs were chirping and burping. The lullaby of waves could be heard in the distance and the salty breeze tinkled the wind chimes that hung lopsided from a rusted plant hanger. I looked up toward the multitude of stars wondering if an answer was written in the night sky. “Lord,” I murmured. “I have leaned on you hard these last six years and you have always held me up. I hope your arms aren’t getting tired. And Lord I know I am supposed to rejoice, but I will just be thankful that Sadie and Grace are safe upstairs. I hope I listened to your voice and not mine when I came back to Aunt Lydia’s.” I eased back into the Adirondack chair that used to hold my mother and me in the summer evenings. Back when life was simple. When the hardest decision I had to make was whether to have a popsicle or a creamsicle. I took a long sip of the Pinot Grigio, closed my eyes and felt the day slip away.

Aunt Lydia, I thought to myself, never in a million years will I understand why you left The Dreamscape to me. I am deep in the bowels of the longest living nightmare and the last thing I need is to refurbish a house that holds so many stories I am not ready to recall. You made a mistake, Aunt Lydia. Tomorrow morning, I call the lawyer. Tomorrow afternoon, I begin searching for a realtor.  

# 

I could feel her eyes upon me, still caked with the remnants of sleep, but intently searching my face for any signs of an awake human. I was the great pretender and lulled myself back to  sleep, hoping I would soon hear retreating footsteps. Instead I heard a fast scratching noise followed by an indescribable tickle across my face. My eyes jerked open to see a sand crab skittering down my chest and into the crevices of my nightshirt. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” erupted from my mouth as Sandy was flung from my body and my bed. I watched in horror as our newly acquired sand crab landed swiftly in Sadie’s open mouth, followed by a sickening crunching sound. Within seconds the sand crab, unrecognizable and pummeled by dog teeth, was spit upon my bedroom floor in a slobbery mess. I tried not to retch and I tried to avoid Grace’s unforgivable gaze, knowing that as a Mother, I had just committed the most heinous of crimes. “So, Gracie girl,” I slowly stated as I stretched last night’s aches out of my body, “want to give Lucy’s café a try? She said they have the best breakfast which must mean yummylicious pancakes!”. I glanced at my five-and-a-half-year-old daughter out of the corner of my eye, hair mussed, pajamas wrinkled and eyes brimming. “I bet they have homemade whipped cream. And sprinkles.” I quickly added. The tears retreated. “Ok” Grace sighed. “But afterwards, we build our testy-arium and THEN go get another Sandy.” She quickly turned to Sadie with a pointed finger and said, “No more sand crabs for you, Sadie. You are a bad, bad girl.” She turned to walk away and then spun around and hugged Sadie’s neck. “I forgive you, Silly Sadie. I’m giving you grace.”. Grace turned towards me and giggled, “I’m giving her me, Mommy!” and she skipped out of the room with the forgiven mutt trailing behind, tail wagging.

I pulled a wrinkled polo dress out of my suitcase and headed toward the laundry room. If I remembered correctly, there was an old iron and ironing board built into the left wall. I opened the door and smiled. At least I had one thing right this morning. I noticed the sink to the right and decided to wet a washcloth and throw it into the dryer with my dress. Lazy ladies iron – a trick I had learned in college. Twenty minutes later, dressed in a reasonably unwrinkled dress and leather flip flops, I held Grace’s hand as we skipped toward Lucy’s.

“What the heck are rutabaga pancakes with a lemon glaze?” demanded Grace. I forgot my little girl could read. Written in yellow chalk, this morning's specials included the pancakes, shrimp and grits with a pork sausage gravy and a spinach-tomato frittata with star fruit. “Fri-tater? What is that? Like a Frito?” Grace asked. I walked over to the cauldron of hot coffee and poured myself a styrofoam cup full. I added a splash of cream and quick shot of sugar and prayed for a Kid’s Menu. Otherwise, Lucy and I were about to have words. I had already murdered a sand crab this morning. I could not commit another crime against my daughter without being sent to the parenthood slammer.

“Let’s take a look at the menu, honey, and then we will figure out the rest.”. Grace skeptically looked at me but to my relief, kept my stride as I headed to the hostess and the pile of newly printed menus. "Oh great,” I thought to myself, “not only does the menu not cater to kids, I probably cannot afford this breakfast.” I kept walking forward, checked my hastily pinned bun and smiled at the sun kissed teen who did not have a name tag. “Hi!” I squeaked. “Might I see a menu?”.

“Ab-so-toot-leeeee!” she sang as I cringed. “And for the little princess,” she continued, “we have this adoooooooorable Le Petit menu.” Seriously? Did she just wink at me as she handed me a triangle rainbow crayon and a tiny piece of paper rolled up and tied with a delicate ribbon? Oh good grief. I slurped my coffee, raised the cup and sputtered a quiet thank you. I. Am. Doomed.

Grace scampered in front of me finding a sea shell backed metal chair and quickly hopped up and unrolled her menu. “Mommeeeeeeeee! Chocolate chip pancakes with homemade whipped cream and a Berry special fruit cup! I am so IN!”. She flung the menu at me and headed toward to the outdoor game station I had earlier ignored. “Call me” she yelled with the thumb and pinky hand signal held up to her smiling, twinkling face. I took another swig of coffee and noticed there were no prices on the Le Petit menu. Great. Boutique Dining.

I glanced at the regular menu and noticed they offered a shrimp, pepper and homemade salsa omelette with fruit and biscuits and homemade jam. I am so IN! I returned to the hostess, added our name to the list, returned to metal chair and prayed they had Bloody Mary’s to give me the courage to order when our name was called.

As Grace gobbled up her pancakes with wild abandon and I savored the best omelette I had ever tasted, a familiar voice asked if I needed more coffee. I looked up and met Lucy’s warm brown eyes that signaled she was happy we had made the trek to the best breakfast on the beach.

“Please, top me off,” I said.

“How is everything? Good, I hope.”

“Did you make these pancakes ‘specially for me, Miss Lucy?” asked Grace with a mouthful of breakfast. “These are soooooooooooo good!”. She shoveled in another forkful.

“Well, the recipe comes from my family, but Lionel does all of the cooking. He adds a special ingredient to each order that makes it special just for that person.” Lucy glanced at me and then back at Grace. “I’m glad you like it.” She topped off my coffee and headed to the next table. As Grace and I soaked up the last delicious bites of our breakfast, I started looking around for our waitress to signal for the check and noticed other diners heading toward the front where indiscriminately a cashier checked people out of the restaurant. Grace and I headed to the restroom to wash off the remnants of her best breakfast ever and then glided toward to the front of the restaurant. I sheepishly looked at the cashier and muttered, “First Timers”. She laughed and replied, “Special first timers enjoy their first breakfast on us. Have a nice day.” And she reached her hand past me to the next person in line. I quickly scanned the room before I was rudely reminded by the next person they were not special and I needed to move Grace and myself toward the exit sign. I ushered us out with an extremely nervous stomach and prayed we did not hear sirens as we took the boardwalk down to the beach to hunt for Sandy II. “Aunt Lydia,” I whispered, “I am still calling the lawyer and the realtor.”

# 

“I think Sandy II loves her testy-arium, Mom!” Grace declared as she excitedly clapped her hands while jumping up and down. She quickly gave Sadie a stern warning, “No eating Sandy II, Sadie. I can’t forgive you twice.” I smiled and agreed that our sand crab appeared content. And I said a silent prayer that Sandy II lasted longer than the original.

I looked down at my lengthening to do list and sighed. “Well, Grace, what shall we do first. Attack the refrigerator or the pantry?” Just as she was about to answer, my phone quacked. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Howard, this is Fred Roberts, your Aunt’s lawyer returning your call. How may I help you?”

“Oh, thank you so much for calling me back. I have a few questions regarding her will and I am hoping you can provide me with some much needed and hopefully easy answers.”

“Ok, shoot!” Mr. Roberts responded. I immediately liked his laid back style.

“Well, I was wondering if I was allowed to put Aunt Lydia’s house on the market and who would be the best realtor in this area to handle the sale?” I looked down at Grace’s pouting face. She hugged the terrarium to her chest and stomped out of the room. I blew my bangs off my forehead and rolled my eyes upward.

“Well, Mrs. Howard,” he replied.

“Please, call me Hannah” I interrupted.

“Ok, Hannah, well, um, your Aunt had specific guidelines written into her will about the house and you and,” I heard a deep breath within the pause and all the sudden I was changing my likable impression of Mr. Roberts. “Lydia has stated you must reside in the house one full year before you can make any decisions regarding renting or selling. Now, you are certainly welcome to..”

“WHAT?!?” I screamed into the phone. “What? Wait. What? No, no, no, that cannot be correct OR legal. I made plans to only stay here for the summer. I can’t, we can’t, oh, no, no, no, - she can’t do this.” Sadie whimpered out of the room. I began frantically pacing. I heard the shuffling of papers over the phone.

“I’m sorry, Hannah. She can and she did. In fact, I really need you to come down to my office sometime this week so I can review all the stipulations with you. Lydia worked on this for many months – she has a definite plan for you.” I heard a soft laugh in his voice.

“I am sorry, Mr. Roberts. I do not find any of this amusing. And I can’t meet with you this week. I don’t know if I can meet with you at all!” I hung up and threw the phone into the sofa. “Aunt Lydia, you were a thorn in life and you are a thorn in death.” I sighed as I crumpled to the floor knowing eventually I would be sitting across from Mr. Roberts, listening to another one of my Aunt’s notorious but well-crafted plans.

Sadie sauntered back in wagging her tail and carrying a stuffed duck in her mouth, the head barely hanging on and placed it in my lap. She slumped next to me and let out a long, lonely sigh. “Get used to this place, Sadie. We might be here a while.” I stroked her head and hoped the duck was not a sign of things to come.

#

“I don’t understand why I have to go Camp Carousel. That just sounds stupid. And for preschoolers!!!” Grace whined as I tried to braid her unkept, slept on hair.

“Grace Anne Ashenfelter Howard. Stop pulling away from me – it’s only going to hurt more. And stupid is a lazy word. We don’t use the word stupid in any form. You are a much more imaginative and smart girl.” Ha! Battle won, I thought to myself.

“Fine.” Grace said. “It’s utterly ridiculous with a capital R!”.

Sigh. Time to wave the white flag. “Grace, I have a lot of adult things to do this week that would bore you out of your guord. This way, you get to explore the island, make new friends and learn how to catch a crab or oysters or…”

“Admit it - you just need a break from me, Mom. Just say it.” Grace interrupted. For the millionth time since we had uprooted our semi-stable lives, my heart shattered into pieces that would never fit correctly again.

“Do you just want to wear a ponytail?” I asked quietly.

“Sure,” replied Grace, her eyes brimming. I turned her around, gently wiped the tears with my thumbs and kissed her forehead. “You are my Sunshine Girl and I love you very much. Without you I would always be in the dark and I will miss you while you gone during the day. But I can’t wait to hear about your adventures over dinner.” Sadie barked in agreement and that brought a small smile from Grace. Another emotional weather pattern averted but I knew it was only a matter of time before Grace’s hurricane hit land. And I had no emergency kit prepared to handle the aftermath. I quietly prayed for guidance…again.

As we headed out the door, Grace gently reminded Sadie not to eat Sandy II. Sadie whimpered and headed to her kennel as I watched Grace hop down the steps, ponytail bouncing and shimmering in the morning sun. “Lord, we both need you. Please stay with us today, hold our hands and show us the way. Amen.” I locked our door and followed Grace to our car wishing once again for an easy answer to the mess at 203 Mimosa Lane.

After I dropped Grace off without incident at her day camp, I entered the sparsely decorated offices of Mr. Roberts that smelled of burnt coffee and Febreeze. As I shut the door, I heard a voice yell from the back office, “Be right with ya!”. I tried to make myself comfortable which was the second biggest feat of the day. “You must be Mrs. Ashenfelter,” said Mr. Roberts as he brushed away the morning’s breakfast from his mouth. He brushed his hands together and reached one towards me. “Please, let’s talk in my office. My secretary quit this morning. Well, I guess really at 2am. Seems she took to a fella at Ophelia’s Oyster Bar last night and up and got married.” Mr. Roberts started laughing. “I guess my office is not honeymoon material nor am I someone to whom you give notice. Need a job?” He winked as he led me to a chair seated at the edge of an insanely disorganized desk.

“Would you like some coffee? I promise it tastes better than it smells.”

“Uh, no thank you and please, call me Hannah,” I replied. “I really just want to get on with the matter at hand.”

“Ok, well, like I said over the phone,” Mr. Roberts began as he deftly pulled a file from under the paper rubble, “your Aunt has some very specific instructions for Dreamscape. And a hefty allowance to help you with repairs, plus a list of people who she thinks would do a bang up dandified job. Her words, not mine, mind you. Now, I know you have a lot of questions and probably more than we can discuss at this meeting, but….”

“Mr. Roberts, yoooooooo hoooooooooo, Mr. Roberts, Mrs. Stagnally here. I just have to talk to you about suing Mr. Stinkpants immediately. He just refuses to….oh my, please excuse my rudeness. I did not know you had company!” Mrs. Stagnally stopped just inside the doorway and gave Hannah a full up and down. “Well, you are new, aren’t you darlin’? Oh and pretty. Isn’t she pretty Mr. Roberts?” She turned to Hannah again and said, “Mr. Roberts here is the most eligible man on the island. Oh, if only I was even five years younger I would give you a run for your money. He is just the hottest tomato we have here and just waiting to be plucked from the vine. Um. Um. Um.” She turned on her expensive heel and flung her wrist in a finger wave. “Toodle loo, young lovers. I will leave you to, uh, your business for now. William, I expect to see you at Lucy’s for our Hump Day Cocktail. Bernie has a new recipe for us and we can discuss the disastrous manner in which my neighbor has taken to treating me. Cioa!” The door slammed but the heavy scent of Chanel No. 5 hung in the air like a cartoon cloud telling me I had just encountered someone who had given Aunt Lydia a run for her money. “Who was that?” I asked Mr. Roberts.

“That,” he said quietly and without making eye contact, “was one of your relatives.” He let out a deep sigh and pushed his wavy blonde hair to the left with his fingers.

“Oh you must be mistaken – I don’t have any other Aunts. It was just my Mom and Lydia.”

“Mrs. Ashenfelter, um, excuse me, Hannah, I believe you and I should have that coffee now. With a splash of Bourbon.” And with that, Mr. Roberts exited the room, following the scent that lingered a little too long for my liking.

#