My best Christmas

My favorite Christmas wasn’t the one when I got the Tiny Tears or the Chatty Cathy, or even the Barbie Dream Kitchen.  It wasn’t the time we visited cousins in Iowa and I saw snow for the first time.  It was my father’s last Christmas.

We didn’t know at the time, or at least would not admit to ourselves, that it was his last, even though he had been noticeably fading.  We intended to celebrate a White Christmas in Illinois with our nuclear family.  Dad’s philosophy was “The successful family is a self-destructive unit,” and he would not hear of us spending Christmas in Texas, or flying him up to Springfield.  Three of our four children were coming home for the holidays. We were all going to sing with our church choir at the midnight Christmas Eve service.   I ordered a huge prime rib roast through the internet and we were looking forward to quite a feast on Christmas Day.  My husband and would visit my father in January, on Martin Luther King weekend.  But when Dad was hospitalized, our plans suddenly changed. 

Sarah and Greg arrived, and the last “chick” to be gathered was, Nick, who flew into Bloomington from Atlanta late on December 23, in a snow storm.  We set out for Texas the next morning and drove straight through, in a two-car caravan, frozen roast, dogs and all, stopping only for gasoline and the awful road trip food that one finds at truck stops.  We arrived in Wharton and midnight on Christmas Eve and drove straight to the hospital.  I knew his room number, so I ran inside to check on him while the others waited in the car.

He was not in the room.  There was no sign of him.  The bed was neatly made and the room recently cleaned with a fresh set of amenities on the bedside table.  We were too late.  I was desolate.  I sat on the chair in the room and sobbed.  Until a nurse came into the room and told me that he had been transferred back to Hearthstone, his assisted living facility.  It was a reprieve.

Dad (Papa, Grandpa, Dr. Woodson, or Woody to anyone else who loved him) had been a GP in Wharton, Texas for his whole career, and after retirement wrote a "Health Tips" column for the local paper.  His columns also told tales of caring for patients in a rural practice and recollections of his childhood in East Texas.  The columns were ultimately published as a book to benefit local charity.

On that Christmas Day, my brother and sister and I and our families and friends gathered at the homestead.  Dad was not well, but on the mend, up to staggered visits from all his children and grandchildren throughout Christmas Day.  We put two of those new-fangled digital picture frames by his bedside and loaded them up with favorite family photos.  He stayed at Hearthstone on Christmas Night, while we, his family and friends, had a wondrous feast in his honor—the prime rib we had brought with us, a luscious beef tenderloin prepared by my brother, and multiple side dishes and desserts.  When we were all stuffed with food, my wonderful friend, Janet, had a great idea.  Janet (who would show up on the doorstep a month later, bearing a bag of kolaches and a jug of orange juice, the morning after Dad passed away) said, “We should all go and visit Woody.”

We invaded the assisted living facility, occupying the lobby because there were too many of us to fit into his room.  He held court, beaming, while we all sang Christmas Carols.  There was no other scheduled event at Hearthstone that evening and many other residents came out to join us. We have a custom, almost a ritual, of “hat” pictures at the Woodson home: everyone at the party selects a hat from an eclectic collection of toppers and we all pose for a group picture.  The hats were transported to Hearthstone that night, and the tradition was honored. 

It was one of those magical evenings when we all felt connected to something wonderful and eternal. 

Dad has compared the end of life to the bonfires of his childhood that would flicker and flare up and intermittently before fading away.  That Christmas night, we were treated to a major sparkle of his soul before he sailed away from us.  He wouldn't say Goodbye.  He just said, "See ya.'

Rejuvenation, African Style

REJUVENATION, AFRICAN STYLE

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”  I grew up with this aphorism, and it makes a lot of sense.  The African version of this philosophy is a bit more extreme.  I will articulate it as, “If you can tape it, don’t toss it.”  If the Formica is chipped or warped, it can still serve as a writing surface.  If the chipped and cracked teacup does not leak (or only just a little) it is still useful.  And so on.  You get the picture.

Thus, I was surprised when Mohammed insisted that we get the car painted.  But, on further thought, he was absolutely right.  If repainted, the 16 year-old RAV 4 would last another 10 years or so.  If left to its own devices, the roof would most assuredly rust through before too long.  It was solid thinking, just a little more visionary than one generally encounters in Tanzania.

The paint shop—actually, much more than a paint shop, it is a vehicle restoration establishment—came with sterling credentials.  They paint police cars.  I wondered if perhaps they could make our vehicle look official, so that we would not be waved over so often by the ice cream suit cops.  This was, of course, an idle fantasy.

We were instructed to head toward the sugar plantation and look for the first green gate after the railroad tracks, the railroad tracks being the most solid reference point.  We had never been to the sugar plantation, and we had to head down three different streets off the roundabout before finding a street that actually crossed the tracks. One could also argue whether or not the gate is actually green.  I would label it as chartreuse, bordering on yellow.

There was only a narrow “bridge” over the deep stonelined drainage sluice.  Inside the gate was a scene that could have been the set for Mad Max.  I state this with no authority, since I have only ever seen the previews.  There were trucks and large I-don’t-know-what vehicles that had all seen much better days, but were still functional.  We were regarded with some consternation when we first entered.  Workers seemed to wonder why we were there.  The chips and dents on the sides and bumpers hardly warranted their attention.  But when we pointed out the sad state of the sun-burned roof, there were earnest nods of comprehension.

One of the men pulled out chairs for us to wait in while an estimate was prepared.  The chairs had nearly matching deficits in the wooden backs.  The pseudo leather covering each seat had an identical large side to side split that revealed an equivalent deep chasm in the underlying foam.  They were comfortable. 

Newman, in a shirt that formerly belonged to a MacDonald’s worker, opened up the hood and looked at the engine.  I’m not sure why.  Then he strolled around the car, and retreated to some office.

A large squarish rusted machine had some fearsome projections and foot pedals that looked like they came from a piano.  My husband told me that it was a machine that takes tires off of wheels, and this one looked like it could have removed a million in its time.  I told him that the tire guys at the Orix station never resort to such technology.  They do everything by hand.  I have great admiration for the Orix guys.  They keep me entertained whenever we stop to refuel our RAV 4.

Numerous old spare parts of questionable utility were interspersed around the workspace.  I hesitate to use the term, “scattered” since they could well have been placed strategically.  I used such a system on my desk, back when I had an office.  It looked jumbled, but I knew where everything was, just in case I might need it.  The thickness of the red dust layer was highly variable, but it covered everything except our chairs.

I marveled at the idea that a place so apparently cluttered and dusty could produce such pristine painting results.

After half an hour, no estimate was forthcoming.  We were told we should go on, as someone would contact us.  That has not happened yet, and no one answers the phone when we call.

Mohammed says we should give them a couple of days.  I can certainly do that. And even if we never succeed in getting our car repainted, even if the roof ultimately rusts through, I will always treasure my afternoon in the garden of ancient automotive artifacts.

Nuclear Phobia

I heard the news On September 9, 2016, just before six in the morning.   I was parking my car in the basement of the hospital.  North Korea had successfully tested a powerful bomb that could fit on a missile and the missile could be deployed on a submarine from anywhere in the world.

Anywhere.

I had a sudden flashback to my childhood recollections of the Cuban missile crisis.  My parents were out of town when that happened and  I was convinced I would never see them again.  There were grainy black and white images on TV of the deadly weapons crossing the ocean in ships, school assemblies about what to do in case of attack, 4-H meetings that taught us about bomb shelters… 4-H club was the worst because we were told that one essential item in any bomb shelter was a gun so that you could kill anyone who tried to come in and share your food, your water, your filtered air…

Anyone.

I had terrible nightmares during those times, one dream so vivid that I still recall it in great detail.  We were standing in front of our home, my mother, my sister, and I.  We had just returned from a shopping trip in Houston, and my mother was talking to a friend who had stopped her car at the end of our driveway.  My sister and I waited, staring at the moonless midnight blue velvet sky studded with stars.  In the south, I saw what looked like an exceptionally bright falling star, to the left of Orion.  It poofed into a little flash before hitting the horizon.  Then there was a blinding light everywhere and a huge mushroom cloud rose where the star had fallen.  We rushed to get into the house.  “Why?” I thought.  ‘”It won’t be any safer in there.”  My sister stumbled, and I saw her face melting.  I was overcome with despair.  We were all going to die.  I looked at my mother, whose face was still intact.  She smiled.  That’s when it hit me.  At least, we were all going together.

When I awoke, my bed was still shaking.  The sun streamed in through the white wooden shutters onto the pale yellow walls.  I could hear my mother across the hall, talking on the telephone, placing an order for a delivery from our local grocer.  Life was still good.

The threat of nuclear holocaust was an overriding and terrifying theme in the world during my childhood and adolescence—not always verbalized, but always present.  In my first year of college, I was petrified by a chilling movie on the topic that was screened at a campus film fest.  My then boyfriend consoled me with his rational explanation of nuclear deterrence.  Since he was a PoliSci major I trusted his assessment.

I don’t know when the fear finally abated.  I think it was gradual, drowned out by fury over the injustice of the Viet Nam War and the cruel bombing of Cambodia.  And later deterrence was replaced by detente.

The primal gut wrenching feeling is still way inside there.  It never went away, I just gradually encased it in a sturdy capsule, much as an oyster forms a pearl around a grain of sand.  This morning’s news bored a hole in that defense system and the fear is leaking out again.  My perspective is different now.  I no longer have my whole life in front of me.  I’m actually nearing the end.  So it is my children and grandchildren for whom I ache.  It’s a different kind of fear now.  And far more deeply chilling.

I am aware of the irony in this piece.  I sit secure in my comfortable dwelling while elsewhere in the world, people face the threat of suicide bombers when they go shopping or even drone strikes in their homes.  And in parts of our own country a child can be shot dead while playing in her own front yard.  We don’t choose when and where we are born and we don’t choose what we fear.

Beating the Heat

I was born in the year 8 BAC:  8 years before we had a window unit air conditioner in our home—a window unit in my parents’ bedroom.  We lived in Southeast Texas, near the Gulf of Mexico where hot and humid summers lingered into early October.  So how did we manage before the advent of cool air?

One of my earliest memories is a summer day in our kitchen, with a light breeze wafting in through the screen door.  I watched Mary do the ironing while I made little animals from scraps of pie crust dough.  We listened to her “story” on the radio as she sprinkled the laundry with a Coke bottle fitted with a cork stopper with a perforated metal top, then rolled everything up to chill in the refrigerator before pressing.  Mary kept water in a Mason jar in the small freezer compartment.  Periodically she would take the jar out, punch a hole in the thin layer of ice, and sip the cool water.

Summer mornings, for us children, involved many hours in the swimming pool at the country club.  Our mothers in their shirtwaist dresses would smoke cigarettes and watch us from Adirondack chairs in the shade of the pecan trees.  My sister and I played at being mermaids, and using the steps leading into the shallow end as our castle.  Mid-day hours were mostly spent inside at home to avoid the scorching sun.  Even my father, who left home shortly after dawn each morning to make house calls, would return home for a lunch and a post-prandial nap. My brother and I ventured out one day to see if we could really fry an egg on the side walk.  Not only did succeed at this, we were also able to cook a slice of bacon on the ashphalt road.  There is a good reason for siestas in warmer climes.

Nights could be very oppressive.  Even though the temperature would drop 10 degrees or so, when we lay in bed, waiting to go to sleep, there was not much to distract attention from the heat and humidity.  We had a huge fan that sucked air into the attic through a large grate in the ceiling of the hall, pulling air into the house through the windows.  And there was an oscillating fan in the bedroom I shared with my sister, rotating to blow alternately on me and then her, cooling us by evaporating the sweat that collected in the thin bedsheets.  So relief from came in waves, until we drifted into the oblivion of sleep. 

The best way to beat the heat was to go to the movies, the only air conditioned space in town.  A large Penguin decal on the glass entry door proclaimed “It’s Kool Inside,” Kool being a brand of mentholated cigarettes.  The theater had originally been a vaudeville venue.  There was a stage in front of the screen and thick velvet curtains that would open at the beginning of the show.  The walls were elaborately decorated with something that I imagined to be seaweed, pretending that we were all under the ocean.  There was a glassed in, sound proofed “cry room,” in the back of the theater, where mothers could sit with their babies.  And there was this mysterious balcony.

I wanted to sit in the balcony, and searched for stairs that would take me there.  Eventually my mother told me we weren’t allowed, because that was the colored section.  I asked, “What color is it?”  She told me that it was the place where colored people sat.  Colored people were the ones that looked like Mary.  She showed me the door outside, just to the right of the ticket booth, that was labeled “Colored Entrance.”  I felt indignant that those people had the privilege of sitting in the mysterious balcony, while we were restricted to the boring main floor.  The extent of that ignorance and naiveté still shames me today.

We often met my Dad for dinner at the Country Club, hamburgers or steaks on the terrace.  Eventually I realized that the only colored people I saw at the country club were the ones that cooked, cleaned, and waited on us.  My favorite was Maddie, the cook and bartender who made chocolate pie with the most incredibly thick meringue.  She had a secret pact with my mother.  Maddie would monitor the slot machine and let my mother know when it was about to pay off.  I believe they split the winnings pretty evenly.  The country club was definitely the place to be in summer.  Except for the polio year.  But that is another story.

A Rose

Circa 1960, my sister and I buried a time capsule in our backyard.  I can’t remember what we put in it, or exactly where we buried it.  But it doesn’t matter since we dug it up again a couple of months later—I can’t remember whether it was on purpose or whether it was accidentally unearthed when we buried Lizzy the Lizard.  I do recall that we enjoyed picking out things to go into the shoebox and felt a little bit like NASA sending a capsule out to communicate to possible life forms across the galaxy.

A little bit like writing a blog. 

Descartes said “Cogito ergo sum"--  in English “I think therefore I am.”

Well, Scripsi ergo erat  (I wrote therefore I was.)  I made this up, I think.  At least I never heard of anyone else who said this.  One could posit that this is a variant of “Kilgore was here.”  In any case, I cannot be accused of plagiarism since it is only three Latin words.

Which brings me, circuitously, to the topic of this post: Plagiarism, a cardinal literary sin.  When you write, you can fantasize, lie, blaspheme, opine, insult, etc., as long as you don’t copy someone. 

Melania Trump’s speech at the RNC contained passages that qualify as plagiarism.  Not that many identical words, but enough to fulfill the quota, and when you put the video of her speech next to one of Michelle Obama, the resemblance is unmistakable. 

Whether Mrs. Trump knew the source or not, whether she was cognizant of plagiarism rules or not, she recognized the truth and beauty of the words.  And when she spoke them, it resonated with the crowd.  Ironically, it would not have been plagiarism if she had just added a few more words, citing the source.  But imagine how different the audience reaction would have been if she had attributed anything positive to the wife of President Obama.

I find this to be very sad.  A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  (I’m not plagiarizing, William.  Only 10 words.)