Pocket full of pebbles

I’m not sure what it is about me, but I often feel that I am some sort of confessional magnet. Maybe it’s my perceived zen-esque attitude, or how I talk about my family, or… who knows what, but people tend to tell me things like I’m an Internet bartender.

Deep things, ‘this shit is getting real’ things, things where I want to put my fingers in my ears and sing “lalalalalalala lalala lalala,” until they stop talking, but I can’t seem to do that.

I can’t just say, “sorry, can’t help you,” even if I should, even if I know I’m getting sucked into a wormhole of crazy.

And let me tell ya, I know crazy – from everyday crazy, to highly medicated crazy, to “she should be wrapped in a net and put in a padded room” crazy. It could be that because I am intimately familiar with many levels of dysfunction, that I can listen to these confessions and honestly say “I’m not judging.”

Unless I have first-hand knowledge of continuing abuse – physical, sexual, emotional, psychological – I also know there are always two sides to every story, and I may only hear one side. I may be told a crock of shit, I don’t know, so I can’t, won’t judge anyone coming to me for help.

Take a situation like Rihanna and Chris Brown. The majority of what is known about their relationship has played out through the media. It’s pretty much a given that Brown did beat her, and now four years later, they appear to be together again. What we can’t know is what was said and done between them in private. We don’t know and most likely never will.

I know a woman who reconciled with a man who abused her as a child. If you were looking at this relationship from the outside and knew their history, how would you judge it? What we can’t know are the conversations they had that lead to their reunion.

After one rather onerous confession, I consulted my son. You may think that odd, but the confession involved someone who was having an extramarital affair, and who was also coping with a serious mental illness. While he doesn’t have the same illness, my son deals with his own thought disorders. I thought he could offer some valuable insight.

The person having the affair blamed his illness for his carnal straying. I asked The Boy his opinion… without giving him all the sordid details.

His answer was perfect – “Having (a thought disorder) doesn’t give you a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, you still know what you’re doing.”

In essence, you can’t blame your crazy for doing stupid things, especially if you have your sort of crazy in check.

Numerous other friends have confessed affairs to me. I don’t know if they sought my blessing to cheat on their spouses, if they wanted me to absolve them of their sin, or if they merely felt a need to unburden themselves, but I’m left with this secret that I don’t know what to do with.

I won’t stop being friends with a person just because of an affair, but I try very hard to not get involved. I’ve gotten invested in that sort of drama before and it came back to bite me on the ass. I’m done with that. I won’t take sides, I won’t be a go-between, and I don’t feel it’s my place to tell the other spouse about the affair.

Okay, I may judge you for being a douche(tte) if you try denying culpability in an affair. I will taunt you for your sophistry, just ‘man-up’ and accept your full share of the blame.

It comes down to this… none of us are perfect. We all make mistakes and hope for redemption, but we need to own those mistakes. I won’t judge you for being human, I have far too much garbage in my life to criticize someone else. I simply don’t have a stone small enough to throw at anyone.

Bequest

The room was designed to intimidate. The oversized partners desk and chair made any visitor feel Lilliputian. I sank into the antique, leather wingback opposite the solicitor who ruled the domain, my toes barely brushing the floor.

The Wallis family retainer for generations, this would be the final last will and testament Raymond Blackburn, Esq., administered as executor. Effie’s heirs had challenged my inheritance, and attempted to invalidate her bequest to me, a mere domestic.

They refused to acknowledge that, as her caregiver for the past 10 years, I had been her constant companion and confidant, whereas they were only visitors on gift-giving holidays. Their main concern was that she had left my gift open-ended. I was given first-refusal over all her material assets.

That was why Blackburn summoned me into his realm of old money and greed. It was time for me to choose.

From a large, black attaché, he removed a piece of crisp, white parchment, and slid it across the desk toward me.

Struggling to lift myself from the confines of the chair, I managed to grab the table’s edge and drew the paper closer. The spreadsheet listing all of Effie’s valuables filled one column – antiques, fine china and silver sets, jewelry and original artwork by the masters. In the column to the right, each item’s appraised value was noted.

Amassed by her late husband, Effie was unconcerned with material wealth. If she had her way, it would all be sold at auction and the proceeds given to charity. The conditions of her will were determined by her husband at the end of his life, she was only able to add a codicil to include me in her coterie of beneficiaries.

Running a finger down the list of chattel, I didn’t find what I was looking for, and pushed the sheet away.

“It’s not there,” I told him, standing with as much grace as I could.

A frown creased his already deeply wrinkled face, as he tucked the paper back into his briefcase.

“What are you wanting to find?” He leaned back against his chair, steepling his fingers. He was still able to look down at me from his lofty position.

I described the item, saying it was the only thing I wanted that belonged to Effie.

He continued to frown, but I saw from his subtle reaction, he knew what I was asking.

“It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

“It holds great sentimental value for me.” I stood firm, refusing to let him dissuade me.

“I’ll see what I can do to locate it,” his tone dismissive. “My secretary will contact you.”

His brief phone call to the estate’s appraiser, revealed that the small, porcelain vase had no, real monetary value and could be packaged, and delivered to me within a few days.

Unwrapping Effie’s treasure, I placed it on top of my bureau. A simple little trinket, but I knew she had cherished it above all else.

“Oh, Carl, it’s beautiful. I love it.”

“It’s just a little thing, Effie, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“I could never forget you Carl Bowman, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do, Effie. You can never tell anyone where you got this, it would be bad for both of us.”

“I know, and I wish it were different.”

“A black man in the south can’t be giving a white woman gifts, it’s too dangerous.”

“That’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it?”

“I can’t stay here, Effie. It’s too hard to see you and not be with you. I can’t put you in that position. It’s best this way.”

“But, Carl… there’s a war on, you could be killed.”

“Just promise you’ll never forget me, promise me that.”

“Carl I will always love you, that’s a solemn promise.”

“I love you too Effie Johnson, more than I can ever say.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Melissa gave me this prompt: “It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

I gave Dara this prompt: It’s nothing a second cup of coffee won’t cure.

My familiar

I knew one day we’d be together again. Something as intangible as dying couldn’t keep us apart.

Remember all those nights we’d stay up late watching old movies? You’d lay your head on my chest, and I would stroke your face, and run my fingers through your jet hair. We wouldn’t have to say a word, merely be content, head to heart.

I didn’t recognize you at first. You were just a muddy, throw-away we found abandoned in the woods – so small, so helpless.

I would wrap you up in towels, and let you sleep on my chest to keep you safe and warm. When you’d nestle under my chin, it felt familiar… but not. Do you know what I mean?

When you were older, you’d never sit with me when anyone else was around. Only brushing against me in passing, making it look like an accident. It was like before, when we couldn’t let our families know about us. But, at night when the house was quiet, you’d come lie with me, curling around my neck, purring loudly in my ear.

Still, it wasn’t until I looked into your eyes, sitting face to face, that I finally knew. You had come back to me.

No car crash, no brain injury, not even death could separate us.

It took a very long time for you to return, but you’re here now.

The wonder of it is that you were incarnated in the guise of a sensuous black cat. It’s so very fitting. You always were a little dangerous, and a little magical.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Wonder [noun \ˈwən-dər\] 3a: rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience

‘Til death do us part

His voice was in her head as she gathered his things. When she was pregnant with their first, he teased her about “nesting,” laying everything perfectly for their baby.

What would he call this, “distancing?”

Picking up his can of shaving gel, she held it to her face, breathing in his scent. She put it aside, thinking she’d keep it to use herself, making that memory last just a little longer.

In the end she added the can to the bin, knowing she couldn’t use it without crying. Can’t be crying with a razor in her hand, anything could happen.

The 100 Word Challenge, a writing prompt created by Velvet Verbosity, takes a single theme to tell a story in only 100 words ~ no more, no less. This week’s theme is ‘Distancing.’

Outside looking in

Every two weeks I have my nails did. For an hour someone pampers me, buffing my nails and painting them so they are all shiny, then gives me the nicest hand massage. It’s something little I do for myself, it’s an hour to just relax.

This morning was my day at the salon. When I parked in front of the building, I saw another woman pacing on the sidewalk, talking on the phone. Whoever it was she was speaking to, she was none to happy about what was being said.

By the time I reached the door, she had hung up and we both entered the building together. Sitting across from each other in the waiting area, after exchanging “good mornings,” she opened a conversation with, “are you married?”

I didn’t think she was trying to hit on me, so I answered that I was. She then asked, “do you fight with your husband,”

After snorting (nose-check for debris), I told her that we really didn’t, that we were more the passive aggressive type.

For the next ten minutes, as we waited to be called to our respective technicians table, she told me all about her husband and how they fought about everything. This was her second marriage, his first. She had three children – 9, 12 and 15 – with her first husband, and she and number two had a new-born – his first child.

Hearing her side of it, he sounded like a man used to doing everything his own way, of having subordinates cater to his every demand, and not having his actions challenged.

I don’t know his side. She could be a shrew, but she seemed like a nice person, but someone more used to a partnership and compromise.

When I told her The Mister and I have been married more than 26 years, she sighed, adding she couldn’t imagine being married to anyone that long.

I told her it didn’t seem that long, and that we really didn’t argue that much, and that over the years we learned to pick our battles.

Behind the scenes, I admit I make some seriously hideous faces when talking to The Mister on the phone when he’s being obstinate. I’ve been known to be uber defensive about stupid things, and have one-word answers down to an art. But, I still pick my battles.

I have this ‘thing’ I do when I’m really angry at The Mister. I argue with him, but I take both sides.

I have this mental back and forth, playing Devil’s Advocate to Antagonist. By doing this, many times I can see where I was being unreasonable, where I’ve been defensive over something that was innocent, where I’m doing the very thing I accuse him of doing. And, I can see where I was wrong, or at least over-reacting. Then, I can apologize, and many times explaining why I reacted how I did, The Mister understands me better and will say he’s sorry too.

We really don’t argue that much, there’s not much we disagree over. If we do disagree, someone usually gives in because it’s usually not worth the energy it takes to fight about it.

Hope for the next generation

Home for a short visit, my College Kid and I were discussing the recent North Carolina primary, and Amendment One that defines marriage “solely as a union between a man and a woman.”

We are both in favor of same-sex marriages. When she turned 18, and was still living at home, her first ballot as a legal adult, was to vote against a similar amendment in Florida. Unfortunately, both states passed their bans.

Despite the disappointing outcome of both the Florida and North Carolina votes, I’m encouraged that young adults of her generation are much more open to gay marriage than my generation.

She sent me this graphic. It depicts the county-by-county vote on the marriage ban. The green counties voted for the ban, the red ones against it. The red counties are also where the major colleges in the state are located. This gives me hope for her generation. That when she is my age, with children of her own, she can tell them that once upon a time, people were actually told who they could love, and who they could marry… isn’t that dumb.

Tea and cookies

Snickerdoodles

I watched her as I made my way down the hallway. I was familiar with her, even knew her name, something that I couldn’t say about most of my other neighbors.

Mrs. Clancy, the apartment complex’s ubiquitous octogenarian, was struggling with her foldable shopping cart. She was stuck in her doorway and the harder she tried to exit her small one-bedroom with a view, the more entangled she became in her bulky coat and oversized patent leather handbag.

A quick extrication, and she was free to make her weekly trek to our nearby market. I carried the cart down the elevator, helping her unfold it once on the street level. With a hug and the promise of a plate of fresh baked cookies, Mrs. C was on her way.

As she slowly walked the half block to the store, I waited to make sure she arrived safely. Turning the opposite direction I headed to my office.

The thought of home-baked Snickerdoodles kept me distracted the whole day. I had lived in the city for only a few months, and aside from my co-workers, was having a difficult time meeting new people.

As the elevator opened on my floor, I immediately smelled the welcome aroma of warm cinnamon and sugar. Walking by Mrs. C’s door, the aroma was it’s strongest, making my mouth water.

Seconds after dropping my bags on a chair in the foyer, my doorbell rang. Mrs. C’s, still in a flour dusted apron, was standing in the hall holding a plate overflowing with still warm cookies.

Inviting her in, I made us both a nice cup of vanilla rooibos, an excellent compliment to her tangy cinnamon treats. Over our cups and dessert plates, Mrs. C and I became fast friends. She asked about my job and I learned she was a teacher at P.S. 204 for 30 years. She never learned how to drive, and I missed racing around the winding roads of my hometown.

We spoke of our families – her children lived in other states, called often but rarely visited; mine – physically and emotionally distant.

A mutual love of books and music only acted to further bond us. That and our mutual sense of loneliness.

The company where I worked was a growing startup. Most of the staff was recruited from out-of-state, each of us struggling with homesickness and a lack of local friends. Mrs. C told me about her friends, the men and women who frequented the senior center close by, who also faced that same sense of loneliness, outliving family and friends.

Begging off a second cup of tea, I walked Mrs. C back to her apartment. Thanking her for the cookies and company, I invited her to dinner the next evening. Later, sitting alone in my apartment, an idea began to germinate.

At work the next day, I spoke with a few of my co-workers about my idea, each one excited to be a part of it. I couldn’t wait to bring it up with Mrs. C.

Over parmesan chicken and bruschetta, I laid out my proposal to my newly adopted grandmother. My friends and I were missing family, her friends were too. We should bring them all together in the same way we had.

A small idea grew into a big one. My friends hosted an informal pot-luck for Mrs. C’s friends at the senior center, a meet-and-greet that helped everyone learn about shared interests. The dinners became a monthly gathering, with the surrogate families soon enjoying trips to art galleries, the theater, sporting events, and concerts.

Holidays and birthdays, once solitary and forgotten days became anticipated celebrations. A new generation benefited from the knowledge of their elders, and the older generation benefitted from what the juniors could teach them. Histories were passed on, and new technologies were introduced. Lives were enriched, young and old.

I thought of how all these people were changed while I sat in the sanctuary waiting to give Mrs. C’s eulogy. The pews filled with two divergent generations, but one huge extended family.

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “‘There’s a phrase in Judaism, ‘tikkun olam’, which means ‘repairing the world.’ The concept is that people shouldn’t do something simply because the religion requires it but rather because it makes things- something, anything- a little bit better.’ -Mike Mayo” and I challenged Leo with “‘Many a man’s nose was broken by his mouth.’ – Irish proverb”

DISCLAIMER:

This challenge was difficult for me because the theme was a concept of Judaism. Not being Jewish, I had a hard time clearly understanding the subtleties of ‘tikku olam.’ I worried that if I misconstrued ‘tikkun olam’, I might inadvertently offend my Jewish friends. In an effort to make sure I didn’t completely mess this up, I consulted a friend, @melisalw, using her as a sounding board. This piece was my second attempt and it received a thumbs up. (You are the best Melisa!). Any interpretation mistakes are mine alone.