Home Before Dark

Originally uploaded by oneeyeddogblues

It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang. I could hear the concern in my mother’s voice as she talked. Estelle, one of my second grade classmates, was missing. She was seven-years-old, leaner and more petite than I was. She left school that day as usual, but did not arrive home. Estelle’s mother began calling the neighbors as the evening shadows were darkening the city streets. No one had seen her. The police were called.

Much to everyone’s surprise, a confused Estelle returned home a short time later. A man who said he was a friend of her father’s had offered her a ride. When the man headed into unknown territory, Estelle became suspicious. She began a temper tantrum of admirable strength. Screaming, kicking, and biting the man, she ignored all of his protests. At last, the man wanted only to be rid of her. He let her out of his car and drove away. Estelle, then only a few blocks away from home, was totally lost. It took her hours to find her way back.

While her family, neighbors and friends sat awaiting news of her, Estelle was alone and disoriented. When she stepped inside her house at last, her father’s terror turned to rage. First, he spanked her for daring to trust a stranger. Then he took her to the Police Department to file a report. Back home again, she was sent to bed without her supper.

After that, the children of Mrs. Baxter’s second grade class were a little less naive. Our parents lectured about never accepting a ride from anyone: no matter what. We rehearsed marching directly from home to school and school to home. We became afraid of strangers.

Those of us who did not already know, learned that fear could turn to anger, blame and mistrust. We learned that victims could be punished. Life can turn quickly from fun to danger. None of us can prevent missteps. All we can do some times is to scream, kick or claw our way out.

All the News I Need

After two hours in the Hospital's Emergency Room lobby, I was transported into a room on the 4th floor. I clicked through the stations on the television until the monitor displayed the one I wanted. On the screen was the repeated pattern spreading out in shades of green, pink and blue representing the local weather. The commentator chatted about the recent extreme drought. Today, however, the problem would be flood damage. I turned to the window and watched sheets of rain descending from the sky.

The map on the television switched to national weather patterns. A second talking head on the western side of the map explained, “This is just storm number two. The third storm will be here by this weekend.” The U.S. Doppler radar swirled images depicting the intensity of rain and snow. Like the bell-shaped curve on a cardiogram chart, the precipitation moved downward from Northwest to Southeast and then up again to the Northeast. One of the nurses entered the room with a flip chart in hand. I muted the television to answer her questions.

Tornadoes and flood warnings flashed on the television screen. Brilliant dots of yellow and red symbolized dangerous conditions as the nurse entered my medical data into the hospital system. Even in the shelter of the hospital room I could hear thunder booming and see the wind splashing rain and broken leaves onto the window. My mind went back to the cryoprecitate thawing in the Blood Bank.

Most days I consciously avoid weather reports. I find the forecasts less reliable than looking at the sky or sniffing the wind. The I.V. Therapist entered the room. The task now was to find a viable vein on my body, one without too many scars or connecting valves. I turned the drama of the Weather Channel off. It was in my best interest to actively participate. I offered suggestions. “Teamwork,” the nurse commented, “always helps.”

The first stick was successful. In an hour I was free to go home. The second storm was ending and the third… well, I would prefer not to speculate.

To everything there is a season

Originally uploaded by oneeyeddogblues

My father waited impatiently each winter for spring to come. On the day of the Winter Solstice in December, Dad would announce, “The days are getting longer. Spring is on the way!” On that day, he would begin his ritual of helping the snow to melt. On sunny days, he would go out to scoop shovel’s full of snow and ice onto the asphalt driveway. Then contented he would watch as the sun transformed the crystals into liquid.

Like my father I enjoy the green and growing plants sprouting up from the earth when spring arrives. It is like a magic trick. Unobserved tree buds stretch out and spread into delicate leaves. “Nothing up my sleeve,” nature says. Each year I am a bit chagrined by how this season takes me by surprise again and again.

The tender blossoms uncurl, risking damage from frenzied winds, weighty downpours of rain and drastic changes in temperatures. I watch the naïve fledgling birds as they fend for themselves, pecking for juicy larvae. An alert kitten crouches watching these vulnerable chicks. The prey and predators are hard to separate one from the other.

The older ones are at risk during this season too. With each new generation, I know my days are shortened. The dampness from the earth below my feet awakens the pain in my arthritic ankles. I am reminded that I will return to that soil one day myself. I will dissolve as the melting snow.

Election Day

"Swing That Vote"
Originally uploaded by NatalieMaynor

As long as I can remember, my father never missed casting his vote on Election Day. It was Dad’s habit to sit in his armchair reading the daily newspaper after he came home from work. On Election Day, however, my Dad would first walk to the elementary school that was the polling place, before he settled comfortably into his chair.

It was the same elementary school that I attended for six years as a child. For me, the school basement was the place where we went when the air raid siren blasted the warning signal during the Cold War years of the 1950’s. We didn’t have to practice for World War III on Election Day. The basement rooms were filled with voting machines.

My mother couldn’t vote. She wanted to vote, but she was a resident alien, a citizen of Canada. She had married my father just a few years before the United States entered World War II. When Mom applied for citizenship, she was told that she would have to swear allegiance to only the United States of America. She could not bring herself to sign the form. It seemed ridiculous. But, still she could not bring herself to sign the oath that she would take up arms against Canada.

Mom, however, felt as much of a personal obligation to be informed about politics and government as my father. She was a woman with strong opinions. While politics was a subject avoided by other mothers, my Mom would introduce the topic with gusto. Our kitchen table was frequently a place for lively debates. In hindsight, I wonder if she tried to counter her frustration at not being able to cast her own vote by persuading as many people as possible to vote the way that she would if only she could.

Each of my parents taught me about the responsibility that comes with a democracy. Voting was not some thing to be done without being informed and knowledgeable. It is something that requires time and commitment.