The Christmas Mouse

        Finally, I understand the profound and intense underlying themes of  the children's book "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie,"  a simple saga written by Laura Numeroff which describes what happens when one little mouse takes control of an otherwise normal houseshold.  In the book, a complicated chain of events is set into motion when a little boy gives a mouse a cookie, which leads to his wanting a glass of milk, which leads to an on-going series of never-ending projects, which builds and builds until finally, the exhausted boy falls asleep while the mouse gets another cookie.
     But first, let me explain how I came to this complete comprehension of a deceptively simple children's tale, a complicated lesson learned not from my last five semesters of college experience, but rather, from an innocuous little Christmas mouse.
      Upon arriving back in Richmond for the holidays, one of my first undertakings was to dive into the marathon schedule of Christmas cooking, a massive on-going project that involved the production of fruit cakes, date balls, cheese straws, cookies, and of course, sausage balls.  Pounds of sausage balls. Mountains of sausage balls. In fact, I pitied the poor pigs who had to lay down their porky lives just so our family could consume obscene quantities of sausage balls, but the sacrifice had been made and it was our duty to make sure their ground up hindquarters and rumps and roasts were lovingly used during this holy season. So on this first morning home, I was on a mission to make sausage balls, that seasonal morsel, the harbinger of Christmas, the family favorite.
     I assembled the Bisquick, the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and the spicy hot sausage in a row on the countertop, then proceeded to shred, chop, and measure.  First, I mixed the cheese and sausage into an even blend of soft pink and gold, then added four cups of Bisquick, squished and squashed the powder evenly into the meat and cheese, and finally began the tedious process of rolling out trays and trays of  marble-sized balls.  As I rolled the first batch of mixture in my hands, I noticed an unusual spice appearing in the blend, a small, black pellet, approximately the size of a grain of rice,  a spice that was not familiar in my repetoire of Jimmy Dean or Bisquick ingredients.  I plucked several grains from the bowl and examined them closely, rolling them on my fingertips as I tried to identify their origins.            
     "Anise? " I wondered. "Too squishy," I decided. 
     "Too soft for peppercorns or celery seed,"  I muttered to myself as I continued to examine the pellets, wondering what this curious seasoning could be.
      I rummaged for the sausage wrapper in the trash and read the list of spices on the back, searching for a clue to the identity of this new seasoning. Not seeing anything unusual on that label, I grabbed the box of Bisquick, read the list  of ingredients on the side,  then lifted the clear cellophane wrapper from the box and peered at the contents. Scattered throughout the powdery white mix of flour and baking powder were the identical rice-sized grains of the mysterious spice.  As realization started to spread through my brain, I ran to the pantry, shifted cans and boxes, and to my horror, discovered the same pellets sprinkled all throughout the shelves, across the tops of cans, behind the canisters and the jars of jelly, under the boxes of cereal and the bags of pasta.  I had seen these pellets before. I knew these pellets. I understood these pellets. MOUSE!
       I glared at the three dogs sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tails happily thumping on the floor as they eyed the tray of sausage balls.
      "Some help you are," I grumbled. "I'm trading you all in for a decent cat."
      I immediately tossed the entire batch of sausage balls into the trash and scrubbed my hands until they were fiery red. I donned latex gloves and furiously fumigated the pots and pans, then began the process of removing every single item from the pantry. I dispatched Chris to the hardware store for traps and poisons and anything else that could conquer a mouse invasion. I sent him to the grocery for fresh boxes of Bisquick, sausage and cheese.  I scrubbed shelves and floor and walls with disinfectant. I washed and cleaned until every trace of mouse had been removed and the pantry smelled like the interior of an operating room, pungent with antibacterial and bleach. 
     Perusing the piles of cans and bags, I tossed anything that appeared to have been nibbled on or tasted or touched by a rodent. I washed the top of every single can and checked every box and bag. I decided that while I was cleaning, it was also a good time to check the expiration labels on all the items, so I did that and made a trash pile of expired goods.
    In the meantime, Chris returned from the store, laden with bags of rodent revenge and groceries, looked at the mess I had made, and commented that it would be a good idea to make a bag for the food pantry while we were at it. So, I added another pile of washed and unexpired staples to drop off for the homeless, then unloaded the bags from the store.
      As I stood there eyeing the piles of cans, I  decided that instead of returning everything to the freshly washed shelves, it would be a good time to use up a lot of the food by making a pot of soup. So, I  picked out cans of corn and tomatoes and beans and hauled them to the counter by the stove.
     "Chris, can you get me a package of ground beef from the freezer? I'm going to make soup with some of these canned vegetables."
      He opened the door to the freezer, handed me the meat, looked at the crowded shelves, and said,
       "I'm going to clean out the freezer."
       "Add this to the soup, and this, and this," he commented as he tossed out frozen goods and removed shelves.
       Well, you can't have soup without cornbread, so I grabbed a canister of cornmeal and whipped up a batch to serve with the simmering soup.  And if you have soup, you have to have fresh oranges with it, so I opened the fridge and cut up some navels.
     About this time, Bro walked into the kitchen and asked,
" Hey, what happened to the sausage balls?"
     So, while the soup simmered and the bread baked, I began the process of making a fresh batch of sausage balls.
        The simple decision to start my holiday cooking had been manipulated by a mere mouse into a marathon event of cleaning out the pantry, which lead to a trip to the hardware store, which lead to a trip to the grocery store, which lead to the reshelving of canned goods and food items, which lead to the making of soup, which lead to the cleaning out of the freezer, which lead to cooking cornbread and cutting oranges, and which finally resulted in the first batch of sausage balls coming out of the oven at seven o'clock that night.
      And that was when I finally understood the concept of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie." It must be a mouse thing, that ability to set off a chain reaction that grows and grows and grows, an almost unstoppable train ride of events that gains momentum with each twist and turn and leaves you exhausted and wondering, "What happened to the day?" when all you had planned to do was make a batch of sausage balls.  All that, simply because of a mouse.
      The traps have remained empty, but thankfully, no trace of the mouse has returned to my pantry and no mysterious spice has appeared in my baking. My kitchen is sparkling clean, the food pantry has received a generous donation, and my family is growing fat on sausage balls.

      I never saw that mouse, but sometimes, I think I  hear him laughing at me through the walls as he dances among the rafters of my house.

    

   

The Pooman Problem

The great and mighty Gus

     Gus was not simply a dog, a standard poodle, he was one of those rare breeds of half-poodle, half-human, a “pooman”, a creature that could read your thoughts, intuit your emotions, sense your moods, predict your habits, and make an imprint on your heart that was eternal. With a fierce loyalty that belied his gentle nature, he would guard the house and protect the children, standing resolute and firm between us and the world, never letting a stranger come between him and his beloved family.  He was a steady presence by my side, a loyal friend, a wise old soul, a quiet warrior. Gus was my companion when I walked, the confident I would talk to when worries troubled my soul, my travelling buddy in the car, the one who was always thrilled to see me when I walked in the door. I would have mortgaged our house to save Gus when he was dying; in fact, I practically did, trying any measure to gain the four extra years we expected of our eleven year old canine child. In the end, despite the numerous medical procedures, the multiple days in the hospital, the hours of feeding him droplets of water by mouth, the forcing of teaspoons of baby food into the withering body, the cradling and the crying and the praying, it was all futile. Gus slipped away from us on a brilliant fall morning, bounding into the eternal, leaving a wound in our hearts that has yet to heal.  The good dog, the noble boy, the best friend- gone. He has since been the measure of all creatures on earth, the standard which no other living animal has yet to attain, the ultimate companion, the unsurpassed. 

    Sugar Pie, on the other hand, our scrawny female counterpoint to the mighty Gus, was 100% poodle. Not one speck of human blood coursed beneath her curly coat. We always laughed at her and said, “Well, we didn’t get out money’s worth out of that one.”  She weighed slightly less than 35 pounds, half the weight of our proud, prancing big white boy. “She’s real pretty,” we would explain, “but not the brightest bulb in the lamp.”  Whereas Gus would practically carry on a conversation with us, Sug was mute, a little aloof, standoffish.  The male dogs all loved her, sniffing and chasing and pawing after her, to which she just curled up into a bored ball, ignoring them until they gave up and went away.  Her favorite pastime was to lie in the spray of sunlight that streamed through the French doors in the dining room, a post from which she could survey all the comings and goings of River Road: the mail man, the UPS delivery truck, the bicyclists pumping down the corridor, the meter reader, the deer that ambled across the lawn each evening, the scurrying squirrels searching for nuts, the  robins pecking for worms and grubs. She would sit, and watch, occasionally sending up an agitated alarm, a soprano howl that let us know something unusual was in the yard.

     On an early November morning, the week before Thanksgiving, while Sissey and I were in the final, harried throes of a busy semester, my husband called in a panic and said,  “Something’s wrong with Sug.  She’s foaming at the mouth, her abdomen is rock hard, and she can barely walk. I’m taking her in to see Jimmy.” He rushed her to our vet and soon called back with the grim diagnosis-- a twisted stomach, an emergency situation.  A decision had to be made, quickly, every second critical to the outcome.  There were only two options: surgery, to try to repair the tangled and dying stomach, or euthanization.  I rapidly reviewed the situation, considered the twelve year age of Sug, the cost of the surgery, the upcoming financial demands of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

     “I don’t know, give me a minute to think,” I told him as he pressed me for an answer. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”



Alf-our big red alien life form!



Our sweet Auggie



    And I was thinking. Thinking about what we had gone through in a failed attempt to save our Gus. Thinking about how we had just paid a tremendous vet bill in March in a vain effort to save Auggie, our sweet, tennis ball loving, car-chasing curly coated boy, who ultimately died from a complicated autoimmune disease. Thinking about how I had impulsively purchased a big, rare, red male poodle for my husband’s fiftieth birthday in May. Thinking about the expensive laser treatment my husband had opted for when having him neutered, even though I was all for taking him to the free spay neuter clinic at the animal shelter. Thinking about the new computer Sissey wanted for Christmas and the long list of presents I needed to buy. Thinking about how I loved Sug, but she just wasn’t Gus, and bless her heart, I believed it was time to let our pretty little gal bound on to her eternal spot in the sun.

      “I can’t make this decision alone,” he replied. “Tell me what we should do. We have to decide now, Jimmy said every second is critical.”

     “I think the best thing is to put her down, “I finally said, after several moments of running through all the possible scenarios, the post-surgery complications, the pressure on Chris to manage it all by himself while we were still in South Carolina.

     “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk, to put her through surgery, at her age. She’s twelve, Chris, that’s old age for a dog, practically 84 in human years. I don’t think we should put either one of you through such an ordeal. Besides, you still have to deal with Alf’s surgery. Can you really handle two post-surgical dogs?”

        He sadly agreed with my decision and hung up to tell Jimmy the verdict.

        Several minutes passed until my cell phone started ringing. Knowing who it was, I quickly answered.



Sug recuperating



       “I told him to do it, “ Chris began.

      “Well, I know that was hard, but I think it’s for the best.” I said.



       “No, I mean, I told him to do it, to do the surgery,” he said. “I just couldn’t say it. When I talked to Jimmy, I couldn’t tell him to put her down. I just couldn’t say the words. ”





Mr. Big is ready for Christmas



      I should have known it. A natural softy by heart, I wasn’t surprised that he had not been able to say goodbye to Sug without trying to save her first. This was the man who couldn’t hurt a fly. The man who stood outside at two o’clock in the morning with the car running, trying to euthanize a dying gerbil by gently holding the rodent under the exhaust, trying to quietly put her to sleep to end her suffering; the man who buried our dead parakeet in the yard on a cold December midnight, placing her tenderly in a shoebox in a shallow grave in the garden. The man who allowed me to spend thousands of dollars when our five pound teacup poodle broke his neck, who wordlessly paid the bill so a surgeon could implant a steel rod, plates and screws into bones the size of matchsticks.  

  I should have instinctively known that he would not have been able to make the call to put Sug down.

     Sug survived the procedure, her tummy was untangled, tacked to her abdomen, and she suffered loss of only a portion of her stomach. So now,  she lies on one sofa, Alf on the other, both licking their wounds,  recovering, while Mr. Big, happy to be home for the holidays, spends his mornings running back and forth between the two, antagonizing Alf, pampering Sug.  We are back to normal, this peculiar household of rehabilitating canines and bankrupt humans, a family who has a problem separating poodles from people.  Christmas is coming, and the bills are getting fat, so please put a penny in this dog lover’s hat.

It's the memory that matters

     It's not the meal, it's the memory that matters, the family moments that you remember and that make holidays like Thanksgiving so special. I could have slapped a platter of turkey sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a pile of limp pickles on the table and it would still have been memorable, a celebration, a feast, a glorious repast, simply because family and friends had gathered round and the air was festive. It was the occasion of working together for a common cause, of last-minute frantic phone calls begging "Can you pick up some more eggs and butter at the store?", of lists of a thousand chores and things that must be done, of rushing and running and planning and preparing,  of cooking and chopping and stirring and baking, of holding hands and bowing our heads in prayer, of sitting together at the table with no cell phones chirping, no television blaring,  and finally, partaking of a meal  rich with conversation and laughter and family and friends.
      Of course, I cooked like a maniac for two whole days, working myself into a frenzy brining a twenty-four pound turkey, mashing mounds of  potatoes, peeling piles of apples, stirring gravy until it was golden brown and smooth as molasses, popping pumpkin and pecan and coconut pies into the oven one after the other, whipping up cheese sauces and cream sauces and casseroles, preparing a crown roast, a cake, a pan of biscuits. On top of that, silver had to be polished, crystal and china washed to a sparkle, the table set, the linens pressed, the flowers arranged, and the house fluffed and brushed and squeezed into order; but it was the atmosphere of the day, the anticipation, the waiting for the grand finale, everyone gathering together for a splendid repast, that permeated the air and lifted our spirits. We were ready, and waiting, and eager for Thursday to dawn, our day of feasting and giving thanks.
    On Wednesday,  I stayed awake until 2 a.m., thanking God above for the Gone With The Wind marathon that kept me awake, albeit sobbing, as I sat up in bed in the dark, angry with Scarlett, angry with Rhett, still hoping they could work things out,  appeasing my frustration  with them by waiting for the designated hour when the ceremonial bird could be lifted into the pre-heating fire.  As I crept in the dark down the hall and silently lifted the massive turkey into the oven, the rest of the household slept, a peaceful sleep of children home from college, dogs once again claiming familial beds that had previously been empty, a feeling of wholeness and completeness settling over the house.  I shut the door of the oven and climbed back into bed, exhausted, knowing that in a few short hours the mad rush would begin, but  feeling peaceful and joyful in anticipation of the day.

      Thanksgiving Day dawned brilliant and blue and clear and glorious.  Family and friends arrived in a steady stream. Jim brought his usual gourmand fare, in years past it had been oysters Rockefeller and barbecued shrimp and quail ravioli,  this year a smoked rock fish nestled beneath a creamy sauce of lemon and dill.  The golden bird sat perched on a platter, waiting in all its glory to be carved into moist slices of creamy, succulent meat, while the rich, brown roast rested nearby, ready also for the blade. We carried plates and bowls of asparagus, beans, roasted potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing,  rice, gravy, cranberries, and apples to the waiting table, keenly aware that our over-abundant meal was in stark contrast to the original repast of the near-starving Pilgrims. We gathered in a circle round the groaning table, held hands, bowed our heads, and thanked a gracious God for His goodness, His abundant love, His generosity towards a belligerent nation.

    And then, we ate. And ate, and ate, and ate.   Ate until our bellies ached and our eyes grew heavy with sleep, ate  until even the hot, steaming cups of coffee we consumed with our pie could not keep us from begging for a nap and a break from the gluttonous grazing at the indulgent table.

     But even in the midst of all the gluttony, the over-indulgence, the abundance of food, it was not the meal that mattered. It was the gathering of family, of friends, of loved ones. That was the memory that will last, and long after we're gone and only the young ones remain, they will hold near to their hearts the remembrance of the day when we gathered together and laughed and talked and loved at a common table. They may not remember the mashed potatoes or the pumpkin pie, the turkey that I woke in the dark of night to cook,  the smoked rock fish, the polished silver, or the sparkling crystal, but they will remember the day when we came together with family and friends to laugh and love and commune as one.   

      And that is what makes a holiday special. It's the memory that matters, the traditions and the gatherings, the family and friends. It's why we exhaust ourselves in preparation, why we spend days and hours planning and preparing for a meal that we could just as easily have ordered from the local deli. It's teaching my son how to brine and carve a turkey, teaching my daughter how to make a cream sauce and a pie, teaching them how to set a table and then carry a conversation around that same setting, teaching them how to serve others and still be thankful, teaching them that family matters, friends are important, and traditions are what bind us.  That is what matters, that is why we work so hard for these holiday moments.

      I have much to be thankful for. It is not the best of times, it is not the safest of worlds, it is not the easiest of generations in which we live. Yet there is still much to rejoice over, to be thankful for, to praise God for, and I am thankful.

Thanksgiving Turkeys and Christmas Parades

     It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the day when our nation pauses to give thanks to a God we’re not allowed to mention in schools or any government institution, but a God we still trust to watch over our money and to whom we swear to “tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God” in our public courts. We were headed to a Christmas Parade, yes, a Christmas parade, a town sponsored fa-la-la-la-la hoopla that would kick off the Christmas season, that time of the year when we celebrate the birth of the Savior we are not allowed to pray to in public but in whose honor the shopping malls and retailers beg us to spend outrageous amounts of cash.  

     We stood in a park beneath trees still shedding their fall foliage, a full week before we stuffed the bird or cooked the pumpkin pie or went over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house. November had not yet turned into December, but who cared if we were rushing the season, everybody loves a parade! The sparkling floats, the marching bands, the Shriners in their tiny cars, the prancing horses clicking down the tarmac, the beauty queens perfecting their royal waves, and always, always,  there at the end, riding high on a sleigh perched precariously on a float,  the breathless arrival of Santa!

     Sissey, ever the purist, was lamenting the fact that poor Tom Turkey was getting a bum deal, that he was getting skipped over, ignored, and that we needed to celebrate Thanksgiving before we barrelled into Christmas.

     “This should be a Thanksgiving parade,” she said. “It’s November, for heaven’s sake. It’s not fair to the bird to just jump straight into Christmas before we’ve even celebrated Thanksgiving. I’m standing up for the turkey! No Christmas carols, no decorations, no celebrating Christmas until December! I’m calling this a Thanksgiving parade.”

    “Believe me, Sissey, the bird doesn’t mind. In fact, I’m quite sure all the turkeys of the world would be perfectly happy if we missed Thanksgiving altogether and just carved the Christmas roast instead.”

     “I guess I didn’t think about it from their point of view,” she conceded, as she agreed to join  the gathering crowd of holiday revelers.

       So we lined up beside the road, a misty drizzle frosting our heads, and prepared to celebrate the birth of a Son that we’re told is not sovreign in this nation.  I wondered how all the elected county officials,  the government representatives, the politicians and public servants  could be allowed to ride in shiny cars, grinning and waving, in a parade that celebrated the birth of a Savior?  Let them try to post the Ten Commandments in a government building or say a prayer in Jesus’ name and see what wrath and litigation they ignite. Yet the little town of Great Falls, all prettied up for the holidays, lights stringing the streets, wreaths on the windows of shops, trees sparkling and twinkling with tinsel and light, was ready to roll out the regalia of a full blown, band marching, candy throwing parade to celebrate the occassion of the birth of our Lord.

   “Look, Washington,” I wanted to yell, “You think you’ve removed God from this nation? You think you’ve wiped God out of public view?  Come on down south to a small town parade. We’ve still got Him down here, and we’re not only celebrating, we’re throwing Him a big ole parade!”

      The high school band (the very public high school band!) was  marching and blasting out Christmas carols on piccolos and flutes and clarinets,  drums booming and trombones blaring,  as they high-stepped down the street.  The flashing lights of the county fire truck and the blaring sirens of the city police cruisers hailed the beginning of the Christmas processional as floats filled with merry children and beaming dignitaries began creeping down the winding street.

     We waved to the school board chair, the public representative of the place where the mere mention of God would bring lawsuits and the full fury of the ACLU, yet there she rode in all her glory, Sunday hat perched haughtily on her head, smiling, waving to the crowd.  Next came the county coroner, and we all waved and yelled out “ Hey Terry!” to the man who will one day officially pronounce us dead, a laughing greeting now, while still alive, to the man who would eventually sign our death certificates. We yelled for the floating queens to toss us some stale Halloween candy which we scrambled for like rats in the gutter, snatching pieces of rain-drenched sweets we had no intention of consuming, the mere thrill of the find driving us to dive for the candy, darting in between the floats and cars to scoop up a tootsie roll or a peppermint or a piece of bubble gum before they were smashed by a tire. The local beauties smiled sweetly from their perches on the backs of convertibles, tiaras twinkling in their hair as they shyly waved and tossed candy to the crowd. The pharmacy, the bank, the local businesses, the phone company, the insurance companies and hardware stores and animal pound all processed by on homemade floats and decorated trailers. The local biker group noisily rolled by, revving up the throttles as they made lazy circles in the road, not to be outdone by the roar of the Shriners on their souped-up gokarts and miniature cars. And finally, in all his secular glory, red velvet suit glistening in the misty rain, Santa arrived on his truck-pulled sleigh, ho-ho-hoing and waving to the wide-eyed, excited children as they clapped their hands and cried out, "Santa, Santa, Santa!"

     It was a fine parade, and although there were no giant balloons or televised broadcasts, no big-name entertainers or celebrity marshalls,  the excitement and festivity the community produced had turned this little small town parade into an affair not to be outdone by Macy's on Turkey Day. All this, all this in preparation for a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ. And they say we don't have religion in America? I say, bah, humbug to that and Merry Christmas y'all!

    

Pink Rainbows and Red Taillights

     Last night, I dreamt I was dying. It was one of those rapidly intense hallucinations where you rush through an entire lifespan in about three minutes and wake up gasping with your heart pounding in your chest. In my dream, an ugly and progressive disease ravaged my body in a matter of moments, leaving me paralyzed and dying. The experience was so powerful that it shook me awake, and when I placed my palm against my pulsating breast, I could feel the palpitations of my racing heart as if I held it in my hand.

    It was not that I feared dying, for I do not, but the dream disturbed me with the intensity, the pace, the helplessness of my death. I awoke in the dark of the night, and as I lay in bed contemplating the experience of dying, my mind sorted through confusing and morbid thoughts. It was easy to understand why I had dreamed the dream, as we had driven back to Richmond to attend the funeral of a dear friend, one who had lost a six month battle with Lou Gehrig’s disease. His experience with an unseen foe was heavy on my mind, and my sleeping brain was processing his struggle against an enemy that had captured his body and rapidly torn it apart.

      The mind is funny in the dark of the night, the places it wanders, the thoughts it holds. Something about the dark, the absence of light, leaves one confused and fearful, and as I lay there, counting the vibrations of my pounding heart, the dark recesses of my brain rumbled and churned. So I did what I do when I wake in the night.  I began to pray, and as I prayed, the calm that surpasses all other things washed over my thoughts and comforted my unsettled soul. It was as if the very hand of God had touched my pounding chest, settled my heart, and lifted the film of fear that had enveloped my mind.

      Afterward, as I lay in the dark, I pondered two moments from the trip home. The six hour drive to Richmond had begun after a long day of classes, and it had been a tiring and trying drive in the rain and the dark. We were both eager to get home and get off the road, and as we drove, we chatted about the schedule for the weekend, the visitation,  the funeral, what time to leave for the church. Neither of us were expecting or anticipating our own near-death experience, an incident that happened in the blink of an eye, a sudden disruption in the otherwise  uneventful trip. It was a moment that could have been life-altering, a moment that ended almost as quickly as it had begun, a brief second that left us unchanged yet changed.

       In order to let oncoming traffic merge onto the road, the car in front of us came to a sudden and abrupt stop. Rather than merely slowing down as expected, the red taillights of a braking car flashed before me, and I screamed as I realized the car had completely stopped.  I quickly slammed on breaks, going from 70 to 30 in about 2 seconds, swerved into the adjacent lane, and fishtailed across the interstate as Sissey’s head and shoulder banged into the side of the door.  When I had regained control of the car, my breath, and my senses, I checked on both dog and daughter and realized we had not, in fact, passed from this life to the next. I cautiously began to proceed back down the rain-slickened interstate, trembling hands guiding a steering wheel I had almost torn from the column moments earlier.  Sissey rubbed her aching neck and with a nervous laugh said, “Mom, guess it wasn’t our time to go!”

     The second moment that I pondered was one which occurred shortly following our near-death experience.   After regaining control of the car, as the night progressed and the rain drizzled on, I nervously and cautiously inched down the road. Eager to get to Richmond and the safety of home, I was silently thanking God for preserving our lives but simultaneously contemplating the frailty of that same life. We were headed home for a funeral, one that easily could have been our own, and the propensity of things beyond our control, the unexpected and the unanticipated events that occur without forethought or warning, these aspects of life seemed to scream out to me. The night was darkening as I drove, and I peered tentatively up at the dusky sky, searching for a break in the steady drizzle that had trailed us from South Carolina, through North Carolina, and into Virginia. There, in the evening sky, hovering in the firmaments was a vision such as I had never seen. Stretching from one side of Interstate 85 to the other, against a backdrop of dark storm clouds and glaring halogen headlights, a solid pink rainbow glistened in the air.  A neon pink arc, an intense sweep of color painted in a bold stroke against a setting of storm. It seemed appropriate at that moment to remember a promise made by a loving God, a Father who will be with us through calm and storm, through life and death. So without forethought or fear, even after my close brush with death moments earlier, I drove down Interstate 85, in the dark, in the rain, snapping picture after picture with my camera propped on the steering wheel of my car.  It was a risk worth taking, to capture that sight in that sky on that night, and  I smiled as I calmly drove on home.

      I do not know what those of no faith do when facing conflicts of life and death. I do not know what hope they cling to, or what calms their storms, or what eases their fears in the dark of the night. The sustaining power of a compassionate God, the promise of an eternal life, the gifts of grace and salvation and forgiveness and love—these are the very foundations that uphold me as I weather the inevitable tempests of life, this is the hope I cling to in the storm.  

     That evening, as I lay in my bed after frightful dreams and wandering thoughts,  I remembered that bow,  and I slept.

The Horrors of Halloween

     Today is Halloween, the day each year that my daughter reminds me once again of how I ruined her childhood. I was not a perfect mother, I admit, and looking back, I must confess that some of my choices were rather dismal and damaging. On this particular today, we spend much time discussing the reasons I would not indulge my children in store-bought Halloween costumes, insisting instead on using my creative talents to whip up disguises of princesses or zombies, depending on gender preference.  I couldn't help myself, sometimes; my deep-core, fundamentally rooted frugalness refused to give in to my daughter's pleas and tears for a store-bought costume, and I was hell-bent and determined to get through their childhood without dropping a dime on a store-bought, flimsy, mass-reproduced, made-in-China costume.
      We had plenty of materials on hand to create every imaginable princess, fairy, or bride get-up that a young girl could possibly want. I was in the possession of a thoroughly reliable sewing machine, a cabinet full of make-up, and enough glitter and glue to create just about any illusion required to transform a young girl into a magical creature. My son was perfectly happy with fake blood and ghoulish gashes across his face. All he wanted was a pillowcase large enough to hold his candy, and he was good to go. My daughter, in training for a future as a fashion conscious shop-aholic, spent her years pining for a store-bought costume. Not just any costume, mind you. She wanted to be a blue M&M, perhaps in a subconscious nod to her love of chocolate.  I tried to convince her that I could whip up an M&M costume in any color her heart desired, in about three minutes time at that, and for about $1; plus, I argued,  it's so much more FUN to make a costume!! But somehow,  my home-made concept of a blue M&M just didn't compare to the store-bought version. There weren't enough tantrums, tears, or tirades, however,  that would make me cross the line of my philosophical commitment to refuse to buy-in to the childhood belief that commercial costumes are better than homemade ones, and she never, ever, ever got to buy that blue M&M.  
   It is one of the reasons my children will be left penniless upon my death, having spent all the family funds on therapy trying to correct my past wrongs.  Actually, there are three things I did in their childhood for which they will never forgive me, and for which they will spend the rest of their lives in therapy trying to figure out.
        1. I refused to buy them store-bought Halloween costumes.
        2. I refused to buy them store-bought birthday cakes, insisting instead on my own, thoughtfully inspired confections, whipped up by the loving hands of their very own mother.
        And finally, the Grandaddy of all bad decisions:
        3. I would not let them buy a bear from Build-A-Bear.
       Oh, don't get me wrong, I took them to Build-A-Bear all the time. We would watch the other children pay an outrageous amount of money to stuff a placid acrylic form with polyeurathane foam, then insert a tiny plastic heart that would magically give birth to their newly created, but still lifeless, pets.  They would watch those lucky children select tiny outfits that came with designer price-tags, watch them dress their over-priced bears as cheerleaders or doctors or such, and watch them march happily out of the store with a bear-in-a-box that cost their over-indulgent parents close to $100.  Nope, not for me. I let my children watch those other privileged children create and purchase their overpriced bears; in fact, we stopped at Build-A-Bear quite frequently.  But not once did I ever actually let them go through the process of creating, dressing, and buying their own bear. It just seemed like such a waste to pay $100 for a $3 bear.
      After years and years and years of hearing how damaged this left them, I finally offered on their 21st birthday to take them to Build-A-Bear and actually LET THEM MAKE and PURCHASE THEIR VERY OWN BEAR! They both politely refused, opting for therapy instead.
     So now, once again, as Halloween arrives, I must spend the day hearing how I have ruined the life of my daughter because I refused to buy her a blue M&M costume when she was five years old.  I think she has reconciled with the birthday cake thing, but we spend some considerable time rehashing the Build-A-Bear Fiasco.
     Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, parents just can't win. My decisions as a young parent were all done with the good intentions of instilling in my children a sense of frugality, self-restraint, independence and principles. I didn't realize at the time how much damage I was unconsciously inflicting on the psyche of my daughter.  And so, each year, as this day approaches,  and as the stores and magazines and commercials are flooded with the sirene call to purchase a costume, I am reminded of the  horrors I inflicted on her childhood Halloweens, of how my children had  to march through the high-brow neighborhoods of the toney West End in their cheesey, homemade costumes, and how it ruined her life.

    But at least now, in all my aged-wisdom, I'm willing to spend a buck on some real good therapy-- just not on a store-bought costume.
    

Ode to October

Ode to October

Summer has withered and leaves turn to flame,

the air takes a bite from your lungs with each breath.

The sky hovers azure, the sun starts to wane,

as each day gently shortens in breadth.

The crunch of each step as you walk through the woods

leaves a pattern of footprints in acorns and oak

Painted umber and ochre and chocolate and gold-

nature dons such a colorful cloak!

 What artist could fathom such richness of hue?

What designer could sew such a dress?

What creation of man could earn the review

as the splendors of autumn possess?

Oh! give me a day in the fall in the woods

You can have all your treasures and fame-

I wouldn't trade money or riches or goods

for a walk when the leaves are in flame.

Does this Butt make me look fat?

        When you walk into a restaurant and the waiters are wearing T-shirts that read " Fat People Are Hard To Kidnap," it might be a clue that this is not going to be in your best interest, health-wise.  You might even think that you're going to be in for some gastrointestinal, cardiac, and vascular trouble.   Normal people would. Healthy people would . Most members of the 21st century, endorphin-pumping, power-walking, vega-vita-juice culture to which we belong would.  I, however, clapped my hands excitedly together and thought, "Come to Mama! I'm home at last!"  as I headed straight to the bulging buffet of The Smokehouse Restaurant in Elgin, SC. 
      Sissey and I had spent a long but successful day shopping in Columbia  with our friend, Annette. Nothing works up an appetite quite like a day of  walking mile after mile through store after store, and by six o'clock, we were sorely in need of some sustenance.  Annette's brother, his wife, and their mother had suggested we meet them at a local roadhouse where we could experience some real gustatory delights.  In particular, they wanted us to ingest the regional version of Elgin pig, namely because all southerners boast that they have "the best barbecue anywhere on earth, " and we figured this claim was one worth checking out.
     When we pulled into the parking lot of The Smokehouse, the tantalizing smells of smoking pork and frying chicken were so strong they fairly pulled me through the doors. I marched straight past the stuffed bear (not sure why there was a bear, perhaps bear had recently been on the menu?) and right up to the food line. At this point, I was too far in to turn back, so I decided to push the health-conscious chip on my shoulder deep into my sub-conscious memory and commit whole-heartedly-- at least while I still had a viable heart--to dinner at The Smokehouse. I was going to sample my way through as many items as possible on the "all-you-can-eat-take-a-new-plate-each-visit" trip through the cardiac arrest line.
          It seemed to be a fairly good sign that the buffet began with a rather healthy salad bar.
         "OK, " I reasoned, " lots of raw fiber, roughage.  This is good, this is good. Healthy so far."
          I piled my bowl high and  made a mental note of the sign that read, "Take all you want, but be sure to eat it."  Not a problem here, I murmured, as I reached for black olives, pickles, and croutons. For my first health-conscious bonus point of the evening, I skipped the catfish chowder, then jumped smack-dab into the middle of the mashed potato- macaroni and cheese- rice and hash station. Just a little sample here, not going overboard with the carbohydrates;  I put an ever-so-teensy dollop of creamy spuds on my plate and  gave myself another bonus point for going lightly on the carbs.  That would be my second and last healthy decision of the evening, for it was all gastro-gourmet-gluttony from that point on as I headed for the hot lights that hovered over  fried chicken and BBQ.
       Piles of crispy,golden-brown, fried chicken perfection perched beside platters of  BBQ chicken and BBQ wings. Of course, you can't have fried chicken without fried okra, corn on the cob, fried potato wedges,  green beans and collard greens, so those delectables naturally accompanied the chicken.  For some reason, huge pans of banana pudding and Oreo-cookie-pudding-delight were stashed right between the chicken and the pork, perhaps as a subtle reminder to leave room for dessert. I, however, being of such noble self-restraint,  was not tempted at all, having already decided to come back later for the sweets.
      It was pig I had come for, and by golly, I was going to have some pig.  The BBQ was available as chopped pork, pulled pork, sliced pork, roasted pork, and of course, greasy, saucy, hot-off-the-grill, finger-licking, bone-sucking, lip-smacking ribs.  A massive Boston Butt rested on a carve-it-yourself board, just waiting for someone to slice off a chunk of meat in an instant liposuction procedure that would reduce it's heft by a pound or two.  After sneaking a quick taste while still in line, I immediately understood why the other side of those foreboding T-shirts had boasted  that "We have juicy breasts, meaty ribs, and the best butts in town."  They might have them at The Smokehouse, but judging by the size of my plate, those same attributes would not be going home with me tonight. I was quite sure that perfectly roasted Boston Butt would,  indeed, make me look fat, but I whacked off a slice anyway and added it to my plate.
     With a groaning tray loaded with enough calories to sustain a starving nation, I headed back and joined the others.  I plopped my pile heavily onto the oil-cloth table, said a prayer of thanks, added a silent plea for health and digestion, picked up my fork, and  plunged  in.
      After the first few bites, I thought,  "Yes! This is surely worth dying for!"
      If I had stopped here, perhaps I would have had some small chance of redeeming myself with the Weight Watchers of the world, but unfortunately, my slide into gustational sin was not yet finished.  There was one final stop, and it was hovering just inside my left peripheral field of vision. It was the dessert table. Now mind you, I am not one who is prone to gorge on sweets, quite unlike some unnamed people who just happened to be dining with me this night. These unnamed entities each had an incorrigible sweet tooth, and it was truly for their sake alone that I even ventured near the trays of sugar-laden temptations. Being the ever-so-helpful person that I naturally am, I, of course, volunteered to survey the sweets and fetch a few tidbits. I felt obligated to serve up some banana pudding, because it was a house favorite.  I didn't want the Oreo cookie pudding to feel cheated, so I plopped a few spoonfuls of that in a bowl as well.  The peach cobbler had to be healthy, it was a fruit after all, so in it went right beside the German chocolate cake. There, I was done, and had skipped the cookies and vanilla cake to boot!
       And then, as we sat moaning and groaning over our engorged bellies, here comes the devil in an apron with a tray of  fresh, hot, homemade donuts. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to go away? Turn my nose up at such an offering of southern hospitality covered in sugar? Hurt her feelings after she had labored so hard over a hot oven just to feed us????  Of course not! I was raised better than that, and besides,  she practically waved them right under my nose. I was powerless to resist, so I took two.
     You may as well have hooked up an IV to my arm and infused a stick of butter straight into my veins after what I had just endured, but I was happy, because I knew for sure that nobody was ever going to be able to kidnap me. I thought as extra insurance,  I might pick up a couple of those t-shirts on the way out, just as a warning to all those would-be kidnappers hovering in the bushes waiting to snatch an obese, fifty year old  cardiac risk inflated with BBQ and hyped up on sugar.
        As I drove back  home down the dark, isolated  road to Chester, I argued with my engorged, pig- sated, digesting self and tried to assuage my guilty conscious by saying this was a one-time deal.
      "Anyway, who cares what all those reports say about monounsaturated versus polyunsaturated fats?" I muttered. "I am sick to death of hearing about trans fats, and Omega fats, and fat this and fat that.  What do all those doctors know? Just call me fat and be done with it, but I sure am glad we stopped at The Smokehouse! "
       I was willing to bet  that not a single one of those doctors had ever chomped down on some real southern BBQ. If they had, they'd tell everyone to forget everything they read, go get some good BBQ, and die happy.

Circling The Globe

     September began, as all Septembers do, with it's frenetic influx of activity. The beginning of a new school term ushered in new schedules, new books, new assignments, and  new activities. After just a few weeks of all this newness, we needed something old, so Mom, Sissey and I headed to the ancient hills of the Appalachian mountains. It was to be a quiet weekend of lazy, coffee mornings and meandering, afternoon drives.
     Our only mission was to find the whereabouts of a backwoods cult that lived deeply embedded in the smokey blue forests-- a group we had studied in one of Sissey's classes and that had piqued our interest. We knew the general direction of this hillbilly clan and were hoping to find the locale of their intensely private, close-knit, and incestuous compound for no other reason than we wanted to satisfy our curiosity by seeing where they lived. So on Saturday, we headed for the forest, driving cautiously around twists and turns, taking only one wrong road before finally finding the landmark Sissey's professor had given us: several rickety trailers meshed together, with a toilet perched on top  as a smokestack. This curious sight marked the beginning boundaries of the compound. We had found the clan.
      A man-made mountain of decaying cars, rusting bikes,  and a dilapidated school bus formed a formidable fence around the entrance to the community. A few pick-up trucks blocked the dirt drive, where several barefoot children were passing a puppy back and forth as they ran through the dust. The paved road ended here, and our only option was to turn around in the drive-- which was occupied by unfriendly and glaring characters who neither returned our hesitant waves nor our nervous smiles-- or to keep on driving down the dirt road that headed into the hills.  I wasn't about to ask this crew to move over so we could  make a three-point turn, didn't want them to think we had come just to stare, so with a timid wave, we headed on down the dirt road as if that had been our original destination all along.  Having no idea where we were going, I just prayed that a trunk load of buckshot would not be  our only communication as we cautiously crept past the clan. 
      The road was now rutted, unpaved, and desolate, but  power lines  ran along it's edges, and we figured it would eventually lead us to some civilized place. After about an hour of driving deeper and deeper into the woods, I admit I became a little nervous about our ultimate destination.  I had been secretly praying that we weren't headed into a hillbilly trap, a hidden gorge where curious gawkers vanished, never to be seen again, and kept reassuring Sissey that , yes, I did know where we were , and yes, this was a real road.  We kept following those power lines, my only plan being to keep moving forward  until we came out somewhere, which in the philosophy of mountain driving usually works. Eventually, my theory tested true, and the dirt road became gravel, which turned into a rough macadam, and finally, a certified, Department of Transportation "Stop" sign loomed at the crossroads ahead.   I put on my blinkers and turned right toward paved roads, yellow lines, and houses. We actually passed a car at this point, and I muttered a quiet "Hallelujah" as I knew we were back on the road to civilization.
      Once an adventure is safely endured, it gets into your system and you want to repeat it, so the next morning, hankering for another bumpy drive, we decided to take a detour on the drive home and wander through an area known as "The Globe." For those uninitiated in backwoods touring, there are many mountain communities quietly tucked into the nooks and  crannies of lumbering hills, reachable only by rough trails of dirt and gravel.  These drives through canopies of elms and oaks, among groves of rhododendrons and mountain laurel, past trickling streams and secret waterfalls, around hairpin turns that leave your stomach on the curve ahead--these are the drives you want to experience in the mountains, these are the drives we would seek out on our weekend get-aways, these are the drives that beckoned to our city-souls. So with pimento cheese sandwiches packed on ice and our suitcases loaded into the car, we decided to take the road less travelled on our journey home from the hills. That Sunday morning, we had set our sights on circling "The Globe."
     When we left  home on Friday, we had packed lightly for our quick weekend trip, grabbing just the essentials needed for two days travel. Some things had been forgotten, but we ran to the Walmart in Boone and picked up the essential undergarments, the only trouble being the pack of underwear I grabbed included not just the appropriate and proper shade of white but also one pair of hot pink cotton panties. Scandalous, I agree, but sometimes you just have to live on the edge.  That morning, as we had packed to head home, Mom was horrified to realize she had to wear those "horrid pink panties," and as she dressed, said, "I certainly do hope nothing happens to me while I'm wearing these!" I laughed at her as I loaded the bags into the car, eager to get on the road and start our last adventure of the weekend, not really concerned that my mother was dressed in the pantaloons of a tart. I just wanted to get started on our trip to "The Globe," and I certainly didn't expect anything to happen.

     We drove slowly down the parkway until reaching the turn that would take us into the thickly wooded area, bumped off the asphalt onto the washboard road, and started the trek down into the Wilson Creek Gorge.  It was a beautiful, crisp morning and as the sunlight filtered through the thick growth of trees, it left a dappled pattern of yellow light against dark green leaves. We "oohed" and "ahhed" as we drove, pointing out waterfalls, patches of iron weed and Joe-Pye, an occasional burst of early fall foliage. We passed not a single car, not a solitary soul, not one hint of the outside world.  It was a perfect drive on a perfect Sunday morning.
      About halfway down into "The Globe," Moma suddenly gasped and said she had a terrible pain in her hip, the same hip she had broken in May.  She rubbed the affected area and I slowed down a bit to ease the bumpiness of the drive.  Several seconds later, she again gasped and said the pain was terrible and she needed to get out and stretch her leg.  I found a spot on the road where I could ease the car over without tumbling down into the ravine, and we got out. She walked towards the back of the car, gazed over the edge of the mountain as she stretched, commented on some trash someone had tossed down the hill, then suddenly,  gasped again and grabbed onto the back of the car.
      "I don't feel well," she groaned as I rushed to her side.
       "Moma, what's the matter, what's wrong?" I asked.
      She moaned again, " I don't feel well at all," and she slumped further forward. 
      I grabbed her under the arms and tried to pull her towards the front seat of the car.
      "Moma, come on, let's get you seated in the car, " I cried, frantic as I tried to move her forward. She was dead weight, not budging an inch, and slumping further and further onto my shoulder.  I tried to hold her upright, but suddenly, her head flopped rearward, her eyes rolled back, and she crashed to her knees.
     "Sissey, call 911!" I screamed, my hands shaking so hard the skin almost fell off.
      "I'm trying!" she cried, "But we don't have a signal.'
      "Keep trying, keep trying!" I hollered, as I held onto Moma and tried to feel for vital signs.
      "Oh Sissey, she's not breathing! I think she's gone. Moma's dead!" I yelled, panic-stricken and frightened as I tried to hold her up.
      We were alone in the woods and I was holding what I thought was my dead mother in my arms.  I just wanted to curl up and die with her, not knowing what to do. I couldn't move her, couldn't lift her into the car by myself, couldn't let go for fear she would tumble down the side of the mountain, couldn't get a signal to call 911, couldn't get to Sissey's walker to get her out of the car, couldn't even think as to what to do next.  It was at that exact moment we saw the first sign of human life since we had turned onto the godforsaken road that led into "The Globe." A mountain man in a pickup truck appeared out of nowhere, an angel in a Ford with a white mustache.
      "Help! I need help!" I screamed as I flagged him down with one hand.
        He stopped in the middle of the road, rolled down the window, and slowly said, "Can I hep ya?"
       "Yes, yes, help me, help me! I don't know what's wrong with my mother."
       He strolled over to the car, took a look at my still unconscious mother, and drawled out in a slow mountain voice, "Do ya think it mite be sumpin' she et?"
      I couldn't help but stare at him, slack-jawed and stunned.
       "Hell no it ain't sumpin she et," I wanted to scream at him,  but afraid to anger the only hope for help we had, I frantically answered instead, "No sir, I don't think it's something she ate. I'm afraid she might have had a stroke or a heart attack. Please, help me get her up."
        He calmly lifted her into the car, then told me, "You'd better turn on 'round and head back up the road, cuz thare ain't nuttin down thatta way."
       Like a bolt of lightening, we tore out of the holler in Mom's little Buick, still trying to get a cell signal, searching for the paved road, crying and yelling and full of panic. By the time we got to the top of the mountain, Mom had opened her eyes and started talking. By the time we reached the road to Blowing Rock, she was back to her old self.
        "I am not going to the hospital," she protested when I told her where I was headed.  "I just want a cold co-cola and to get back home."
       "You're going to the hospital, Moma. You're going."
        "Well, I'm not going to one up here. You'll have to take me to Charlotte."
        I didn't care which hospital we went to, as long as she remained conscious until we got there.  I barrelled down  Highway 321 with shaking hands and a heavy foot, not caring if the police pulled me, actually sort of hoping they would, just wanting to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I had one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on my cell phone making frantic calls, one eye on Moma and the other on Sissey in the back seat.  There had to be angels in that car as we made that mad dash down the hill, but I was focused on one thing and one thing only: get Moma to the hospital, and get her there fast.
        About halfway there, perhaps thirty minutes outside of Charlotte, Moma calmly turned to me and said, " I knew something would happen to me in these panties. Beth, you're going to have to pull over on the side of the road.  I am not going there in this pink underwear.  Stop a minute so I can change."
      I looked at her and yelled, "Oh No! You've had a stroke!"
      That was the only explanation  I could think of. She had to be incoherent, delusional to think I was going to stop for a wardrobe change.  I was driving at the speed of light to get her to the hospital as quickly as possibly, hopefully before she lost consciousness again, and she wanted me to pull over so she could change her underwear?
       We made it to the hospital in a little under an hour, with no stops for the pink panties. I  grabbed a wheelchair and rushed Mom into the emergency room, where my sister and Dad were already waiting. The nurse whisked her off to begin assessing her situation, check her vitals, and place her in an examining room. It wasn't long before the doctor entered our crowded little cubicle.   The very first thing Mom said when he began to examine her was, " I am just so embarrassed over this pink underwear," as if he really cared what his previously comatose patient was wearing beneath her hospital-issue cotton gown.  I sweetly looked over at her and said, "Moma, I've got your black thong in the bag. Would you like that?"
     And that was the last we heard of the pink underwear.
     After two days of testing, the only thing the doctors could determine was that Mom had experienced some kind of vaso-vagal syncope. In other words, she fainted-- out colder than a dead possum on a country road-- possibly a result of bumping down old mountain roads on her recently replaced hip, possibly caused by pressure on a nerve and a drop in blood pressure. Whatever it was, she had swooned like a professional and had definitely fainted.
     But one thing was for sure. It def-nit-ly warn't sumpin she et.
    

Jump, Carolina, Jump!

     Sundays in the south can be rather slow, creating a perfect post-church scenario for lazy drives and long naps, so today, being a holiday weekend and all, we did just that. First, we stopped for a fabulous, family dinner at the Front Porch, where I really wanted the crispy, crunchy,golden brown, fried-to-perfection chicken, but feeling guilty, ordered the healthier baked version instead. That, of course, left room for steamed cabbage, broccoli casserole, raisin carrot salad and a hot buttered biscuit, which is what we call the "Weight Watchers" platter down here, because I didn't order the chicken fried.
     Feeling fat and full, we needed to drive around a little to let all that food settle and digest. We had picked up Uncle Henry earlier for church and lunch, so we dropped him back at the assisted living facility, or as he not-so-affectionately calls it, "The Prison."  He currently resides there until he completes physical therapy rehab, at which point Dr. Sam will set him free and let him move back home. He is, of course, counting the days.
     We dutifully signed him back in, wondering as always what they would do to him if we didn't sign him back in. Would they set him out on the porch and make him stay there until we came back or give him some demerits or maybe a spanking? I don't know, it just seems silly to have to sign a grown man in and out, as if he is on probation, but rules are rules, and we complied. The front chairs were packed with lonely souls, the ones who had no place to go, and they were all sitting by the door to see which lucky residents were getting picked up or dropped off for the afternoon.  It was sad and depressing, as always, to leave him there.
   My husband had never visited one of Chester's many claims to fame, our regional airport, so the drive home took a detour for that destination. Our community may be small, but our airport has one of the largest landing strips in the south, with several mile-long runways which were built to accomodate cargo planes during WWII.  As you might expect, there are no commercial flights and very little private air traffic coming in and out of Chester, but two major ventures have resulted from having a regulation length air strip in a rural community: gliding sailplanes and sky-diving. Today was a big day at the hangar, with sky-divers from up and down the east coast gathered for a holiday weekend of jumping out of airplanes with nothing but a nylon windsock between them and death.  As an added bonus,  a team of gold-medal skydivers were there practicing formation jumps and swoop landings. These were the big honchos of the parachuting world, and watching their butter-soft, spot-on landings was an impressive sight.
     We stood by the edge of the airstrip and watched the jumpers suit up, march across the tarmac, and climb into the waiting plane. With the side doors still open and the jumpers waving to the watchers, the plane taxied across the runway, soared into the sky, and began the climb to it's desired destination of 13,500 feet. We watched the plane climb, climb, climb, then begin a long, slow circle, higher and higher, finally leveling off and turning back towards the airport.  Small, black dots began appearing in the sky, the black dots gradually grew into colorful sweeps of para-sails, and before long, we could make out the dangling legs of the jumpers.  They glided gracefully through the sky, with some of the more advanced turning summersaults and twisting in spirals on the way down.  Upon landing, it wasn't hard to distinguish the professionals from the novices, as the former made gentle, smooth descents and the latter crashed hard and clumsily into the dust.
     After we had watched a few jumps, one of the managers, a former Special Operations soldier with several tours of duty in Afghanistan, came by to talk to us.  As a result of a severe war injury, he had spent several months in a coma, then a wheelchair, and  finally a walker. Fully recovered and jumping for sport now, he understood the frustrations of limited mobility. He was excited to see Sissey there and eager for her to experience the thrill of jumping out of an airplane and floating gently back to earth. He said there were still spots available and asked if we were ready to go up. I wasn't quite dressed for sky-diving, still wearing the crisp white skirt with a coordinating  teal and camel jacket in which I had been singing hymns earlier. Plus, in the event of a hard, dirty landing,  I wasn't too eager to ruin the fabulous Rangoni pearlescent Italian flats that I had picked up on my last trip to Charleston.
     "Don't worry," he said, "We have jump suits available for you. You can just suit up here and be good to go."
     My second worry was that there was a weight limit, and having just eaten a full Sunday brunch, I was a little concerned that I might be too heavy for a safe lift-off. He assured me, however, that I was within the safety zone, although he hadn't seen the plate of chicken I had consumed earlier, so I had my doubts about his professional judgement on that one.
     Finally, if we were jumping today, it was going to be a group effort, as I was not willing to meet my maker alone in case of an equipment failure. It was going to be one-for-all and all-for-one or not-at-all; we would take the risk together or it would be a no-go.  I had some major concerns, however, about how Sissey would make the landing. We would be jumping in tandem with a professional, he explained, and when it came time to touch down, we would have to lift our legs up and hold them straight out as the pro made the touch-down. This would keep the level of bodily harm to both ourselves and the tandem pilot to a minimum and ensure the safest possible reentry to land.  At this point, the manager said he needed to clear it with his boss, to make sure that it would be possible for her to make the jump, but he did not think it would be a problem.
     "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back," he told us as he headed into the hangar in search of his boss.  A few minutes later, he returned.
     "Well, I have some good news and some bad news," he began, and I could quickly tell which way this conversation was headed.  Much to his dismay, the boss would not give the clearance for Sissey to make the jump.
      "It's a liability issue," he said, "but more than that, if something did go wrong, it would be devestating for the tandem pilot."
      I agreed with him, but wanted to add it would be pretty devestating for the jumpee and her parents as well if anything went wrong. 
     "The good news," he continued, "Is that there is a facility in Fayetteville that has a free-fall wind tunnel. You can go there and get the experience of free-falling without the risk of a crash landing. It's a pretty impressive place, where they train professionals and amateurs, and it would be a great place to get a chance to jump."
      He was as disappointed as Sissey that today would not be the day she would leap from an airplane and glide back to earth.  I had some mixed emotions, feeling both relief and regret, but with my well-shod feet planted firmly on the ground, I headed back to the safety of the car, ready for a nice long nap in my warm, safe bed.
      And somehow, I knew that we'd be calling Fayetteville tomorrow.