Hints and Guesses

• Morning pages—check
• Hour-long walk—check
• Shower—check
• Had an interview at a staffing agency today.
• Blogging—check
• Eating well—did pretty well, except for some rather excellent carrot cake (yes, I had another piece. Thank goodness it’s all gone now.).
• Limited email and feed reading—check

• Morning pages—check
• Hour-long walk—check
• Shower—check
• The #1 job I wanted to apply for is no longer available. Good thing I’ve started on plan B. Have an interview at another staffing agency tomorrow.
• Blogging—check
• Eating well—did pretty well, except for some rather excellent carrot cake
• Limited email and feed reading—check

Being the only otherwise-unoccupied competent family person, today I was designated to be the companion for the eight-year-old younger brother of my two stepsons (and no matter how awkwardly constructed this sentence is, I have no intention of rewriting it). He’s a great kid, or it would have been a bother.

He watched television while I worked around the house all morning. Then we went to the lake, where I thought I might write the morning pages, but this eight-year-old has more confidence in his swimming skills than I do, so we swam together. He got tired of swimming, so we went to the playground. He finally got tired of the playground and wanted to walk to the end of the pier, so we did. We sat for a while at the end of the pier where he pretended to fish with some fishing line he found.

We wrapped up the day at Kilwin’s (because it was his last day of freedom before school begins tomorrow, and if you’re going to eat ice cream it might as well be the good stuff).

“Is there anything else you’d like to do today before you go back to school tomorrow?” I asked.

“Finish this ice cream,” he said.

And so we did.

• I wrote morning pages.
• I walked for an hour.
• I took a shower.
• I applied for one job and worked on the cover letter for another.
• Here I am, blogging about it. You should be grateful that I don’t have cats.
• I ate pretty well. Could probably have eaten less.
• I kept to my limited email and feed reader schedule.
• I beat my sister at Scrabble a couple of times. The last one was a come-from-behind nail biter.

Being jobless isn’t half bad, except for the no-money-coming-in part. Tomorrow will be three weeks since the first time I ever got fired, and I still don’t have a job.

There’s no doubt that any one of you looking at all I’ve accomplished over the last three weeks wouldn’t wait to roll your eyes before kicking me in the butt. I’d kick my butt too, if I were you. Since I am not, I have decided to create some ambition for myself this week, and I’m going to tell you all about it so that you can ask me about it later.

Here goes:

• Write morning pages. Every morning. First thing in the morning.
• Walk. One hour. Every morning after morning pages.
• Take a shower. Pretend I’m going to work.
• Look for that one job. The timing for the one I’d like isn’t working out, but I’ve made contact. Apply for those other jobs that aren’t exactly the one I’d like but will do for now.
• Blog about what I’ve done. Here. Every day.
• Eat well. Some. Not a lot. My body tells me it would like to keep all incoming calories. It can have them, but it will be getting fewer of them.
• Stay on my current limited email and feed reader schedule. Once every four hours. Five minutes with new feeds.

That’s all the ambition I can manufacture at the moment. I could add to the list, but then it would all seem impossibly hard.

Last week our family took our annual vacation in Tennessee. In my opinion (and that of several others), it was the best one we’ve ever had.

On Monday, I got fired.

Depending on how you look at it, I’ve either sunk into melancholy or am taking a long, deep breath before jumping back into the work force. Since Tuesday, that is.

On Monday, I went straight from my former place of employment to the staffing agency through which I got that job several years ago. Then I went home and told the family. After that, I made several face-to-face networking visits. Later, I applied for a job online, and then I applied for unemployment. Oh, and I went and applied for a replacement Social Security card since mine never turned up after the last move.

That was Monday. Tonight, I took my first shower since Monday morning.

That is all for now. I thought there would be more.

Bold the ones you have seen.
Put an asterisk after the movie title* if you really liked it.
Cross it out if you saw a film and really disliked it.
Underline the ones you own.

1. Pulp Fiction (1994)
2. The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001-03)*
3. Titanic (1997)*
4. Blue Velvet (1986)
5. Toy Story (1995)
6. Saving Private Ryan (1998)
7. Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)
8. The Silence of the Lambs (1991)*
9. Die Hard (1988)
10. Moulin Rouge (2001)*
11. This Is Spinal Tap (1984)
12. The Matrix (1999)
13. GoodFellas (1990)
14. Crumb (1995)
15. Edward Scissorhands (1990)*
16. Boogie Nights (1997)
17. Jerry Maguire (1996)*
18. Do the Right Thing (1989)
19. Casino Royale (2006)
20. The Lion King (1994)
21. Schindler’s List (1993)
22. Rushmore (1998)*
23. Memento (2001)
24. A Room With a View (1986)*
25. Shrek (2001)
26. Hoop Dreams (1994)
27. Aliens (1986)
28. Wings of Desire (1988)
29. The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
30. When Harry Met Sally (1989)*
31. Brokeback Mountain (2005)*
32. Fight Club (1999)
33. The Breakfast Club (1985)
34. Fargo (1996)
35. The Incredibles (2004)
36. Spider-Man 2 (2004)
37. Pretty Woman (1990)
38. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)
39. The Sixth Sense (1999)
40. Speed (1994)
41. Dazed and Confused (1993)
42. Clueless (1995)
43. Gladiator (2000)
44. The Player (1992)
45. Rain Man (1988)
46. Children of Men (2006)
47. Men in Black (1997)
48. Scarface (1983)
49. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)
50. The Piano (1993)
51. There Will Be Blood (2007)
52. The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad (1988)
53. The Truman Show (1998)*
54. Fatal Attraction (1987)
55. Risky Business (1983)
56. The Lives of Others (2006)
57. There’s Something About Mary (1998)*
58. Ghostbusters (1984)
59. L.A. Confidential (1997)*
60. Scream (1996)
61. Beverly Hills Cop (1984)
62. sex, lies and videotape (1989)
63. Big (1988)*
64. No Country For Old Men (2007)
65. Dirty Dancing (1987)
66. Natural Born Killers (1994)
67. Donnie Brasco (1997)
68. Witness (1985)
69. All About My Mother (1999)
70. Broadcast News (1987)
71. Unforgiven (1992)
72. Thelma & Louise (1991)
73. Office Space (1999)
74. Drugstore Cowboy (1989)
75. Out of Africa (1985)
76. The Departed (2006)
77. Sid and Nancy (1986)
78. Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)
79. Waiting for Guffman (1996)
80. Michael Clayton (2007)
81. Moonstruck (1987)
82. Lost in Translation (2003)
83. Evil Dead 2: Dead by Dawn (1987)
84. Sideways (2004)
85. The 40 Year-Old Virgin (2005)
86. Y Tu Mamá También (2002)
87. Swingers (1996)
88. Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)
89. Breaking the Waves (1996)
90. Napoleon Dynamite (2004)
91. Back to the Future (1985)*
92. Menace II Society (1993)
93. Ed Wood (1994)
94. Full Metal Jacket (1987)
95. In the Mood for Love (2001)
96. Far From Heaven (2002)
97. Glory (1989)
98. The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999)*
99. The Blair Witch Project (1999)
100. South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut (1999)*

Should I be watching television?

It was a family saying: “Huh?”

Or at least Sue thought so.

She, an amateur woodcarver, carved a plaque even, a plaque that simply said, “Huh?”

Huh.

Evening always makes me think of summers during my childhood in southwestern Missouri.

Being a child, the extreme humidity there was not as noticeable to me as it is now.  I really remember no discomfort about evenings at all, though I know there had to always be mosquitoes.

I loved to sit on the porch (front or back) and just look.  Look at the trees moving softly in the gentle breeze.  Look at the flowers as their colors faded with the light.  Look at the cats and dogs playing (not necessarily with one another).  Look at the sky as it changed from hot, hazy white to pinks and oranges to deep, star-dotted blues.

Like most children, I could not sit still forever, so I would get up and chase a rabbit, coax the cat to come to me or practice cartwheels.  I don’t remember when I first started doing cartwheels, but someone instilled in me at a very young age that they must be straight-legged cartwheels.  I don’t know if my legs were really straight, but I practiced all the time.  They felt like they were straight.  I remember loving how the cool grass felt on my hands as I did cartwheel after cartwheel.

As it got darker, I would love to return to the porch to sit and watch the sky as it turned dark blue higher in the sky, and yet remained a paler color, even yellow, near the horizon.  The color surrounded me, and I became a part of it. 

And there were the sounds.  The brushing sound of the trees in the breeze.  Crickets and locusts and tree frogs.  It was loud, but to me it was just ordinary. I took it all for granted.  Now I miss it.  There was always sound in the country in southwestern Missouri.  Bugs and frogs at night.  Birds in the day.  I remember the first time I heard songbirds where I live now; it almost shocked me.

As I watched the sky get darker and darker, a new light would appear.  Fireflies--something else I took for granted.  As they filled the evening darkness with their own light, I would jump up from my spot and run to catch them.  There were always old pickle jars with holes in the lids by the doors in which to collect them.  My brother and I would fill those jars and stare and stare at them, waiting for them to all flash at one time.  It never happened, but we for some reason thought it would be so unbelievably cool if they did.  So we kept hoping.  And watching.

The breeze of evening always felt sublime.  The days were hot, and the evenings were reprieve.  The light wind was rarely cold in the summer, only soothing.  The feeling of the soft air wafting against my skin while watching the sky change from dusk to night might be my favorite memory of summer evenings.

Sometimes I would turn on a porch light and pretend I was singing on a stage.  I would grab my jump rope and use the handle like a microphone.  It warms my heart to see my daughters doing similar things on the landing of our stairs now.  The singing would have to come to an end quickly, however, for the moths would be thick, flocking to the light and getting stuck in my hair.

Maybe I would walk around our large yard and watch how things changed in the waning light.  We had lots of trees and flowers.  I always loved things that grow, and I loved to see and touch them as the day made its way to a close.  Somehow they felt smoother and softer in the cool of the evening, as if the darkness had transformed them into something magical.

Then my bare feet might feel something cold.  And slimy.  My shriek would pierce the peaceful evening.  It was time to go inside, with toes stuck together by slug slime.  Time to forget the fading light and the mesmerizing sounds and the gentle breezes caressing my skin.  It was time to go inside, grab the salt and return (with shoes) for the more barbaric activities of the evening.

Lillian had seen those hands before. They were her mother’s. That’s where she knew them. It is not like reading a palm, Lillian thought. There’s no future in it. The back of a hand is all past.

I stood alone. My father sat to my left in the black lounge chair. My stepmother sat to the right in the brown recliner. My mother sat somewhere in Kansas.

“Your mother sent a birthday card,” she said. My tenth birthday—or it had been, four days past. “What kind of mother sends a card like this?” She’d signed the card “Happy birthday, Mother.” There was no gift, just the card. And it was four days late.

“She doesn’t love you,” she said. “If she did, the card would have been sent on time, and she would have written something meaningful. And she would have sent a gift.”

My small, skinny, 10-year-old self began to cry, and for the first time, my father spoke.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

Why was I crying indeed? Perhaps because the mother I got, the one I lived with every day, was not so much mother as caretaker. She fed us three times a day. We wore clean clothes. We went to school. She made birthday cakes and held small family parties. These are not small things, and acknowledging them is to recognize part of the truth.

She served as religious educator. We studied our Sabbath School lesson and read assigned religious books every day—an hour on weekends, half an hour on weekdays was the setup, but in reality we started when she told us to start, and we stopped when she told us to stop. She often told me I was a bad, unrepentant child who was on the certain road to committing the unpardonable sin (whatever that was), so to save my soul she repeatedly assigned Steps to Christ. I can spot a quote from that book at fifty paces.

She hit us. Sometimes with a wooden paddle. Sometimes with the leather belt that hung behind our bedroom door. Sometimes with the plastic ruler in the pencil cup on the table next to her brown recliner, or the one she kept in her car visor. Occasionally she hit us with her bare hand. She hit us often, and almost always she hit us in places no one else would ever see.

Fours years and a handful of visits with one mother. Five years of living every day with this other one, plus a father who was often gone. In the face of overwhelming emotion, my ten-year-old self was powerless to do the math, but the result was still the same.

“I’m all mixed up,” I said.

He took me in his arms, and I cried some more.

Read the companion piece to this post at Thursday Drive.

Jennifer at Thursday Drive, as some of you may know, is my sister. She has recently begun to tell stories of our family. Her stories make me think of other stories, the ones that I write in my head, and of a particular problem, being what to call our stepmother. In real life, we call her by our name. Here, I may follow Jennifer’s example and call her Sue, a deceptively plain name.

While unwieldy (it works better as a book title than a nickname), I have stumbled upon a name that describes her well: Hitler with a Heart of Gold. HWAHOG. HOG for short.

Here are the stories by which she gained this name.

In late September, I ran into my aunt and uncle at a church function. Neither my church nor theirs, we were surprised to see one another.

“We’ve just come back from moving Grandma into a nursing home,” Ann said.

I’d missed making my monthly telephone call to Grandma that month, so it was really no one’s fault but my own that I didn’t know about the move. Still, I did little to quell the small explosion of anger in my chest. Couldn’t Ann have called me before the trip? Was she ever planning to call me? But the anger was useless. Grandma had broken her hip in the spring; Ann hadn’t called then, either.

Since then, Grandma had been in the hospital, and then rehab, and she’d never made the move back into her tiny senior apartment.

Grandma, it should be explained, is the mother of three daughters: Marie, Ann (who stood before me), and Sue, the stepmother. For better or worse, this was the family I’d grown up in, and like it or not, they’d always be part of me.

“She just wasn’t able to live on her own anymore,” said Ann. “We asked her to move up here with us, but she didn’t want to move away from her church and her friends.”

“What about Sue?” I asked, knowing full well Grandma would never have moved in with Sue. Still, Sue lived near Grandma, and I thought she might have tried to make a go of it.

“Sue?” Ann snorted. “She’s like Hitler, or a general.” She caught the look on my face and hastily added, “She’s better now, you know.”

Ann was right. Sue is better now. As far as I know, she no longer beats children. She no longer tells children that if they can’t sleep, they must be feeling guilty about something. She no longer makes children eat whole raw onions for telling lies.

As far as I know.

She does, however, still have a tenuous hold on the truth, and she still uses her influence to stir up family dynamics. Ann has her own reasons for keeping her relationship with Sue, and it helps that she doesn’t want to know about how Sue raised us.

“No. You said Hitler,” I replied. I’d never contradicted Ann before, and my heart pounded. She dropped her eyes, and we moved on to something else.

It was enough to say that, to bear witness to what she really said, and to know what she really meant.

Grandma didn’t last long in the nursing home. She died shortly before Thanksgiving, and I went home for the funeral. Before I left, on the road, at home—every moment I expected a telephone call telling me not to bother, as I wasn’t wanted at the funeral.

In the event, it was my father who got the telephone call—years had passed since he’d formally been her son-in-law, but they’d kept in touch, and he wanted to pay his respects.

My uncle, Ann’s husband, did the dirty deed. Sad, really—the only trouble he would have caused was entirely in their—Ann’s and Sue’s— heads.

The funeral ceremony itself was nearly anticlimactic, although I spent some time trying to figure out if certain family members (besides Jennifer and I) had been left out of the eulogy. Ann’s husband rose at the end to make a few comments and give the benediction.

“These two women [Ann and Sue] have hearts of gold,” he said, referring to their work in the previous week. My eyes and my mind boggled. Hearts of gold? The same hearts that asked my father not to attend the funeral? The same hearts that gave funeral scheduling preference to a grandson-in-law over a grandson? The same hearts that left another son-in-law out of the obituary? As for Sue, the same heart that beat children and inspired guilt where none existed?

Hitler with a Heart of Gold indeed.

Why I voted for Mitt Romney

Sure hope it doesn’t backfire.

Surprise, surprise. Surprises can be fun, but I’d rather be the surpriser than the surprisee. A childhood in which most of the good and most of the bad (in other words, nearly everything) was a surprise heightened my appreciation of the value of anticipation.

One memory of a surprise floats to the surface. Most of the setup details are lost to my memory, but when I returned from Korea in 1989 at the beginning of my fourth year in college, I didn’t tell my sister exactly when I would be returning. I told some friends, however, and we concocted a plan wherein a group of them would be at the airport to greet me. She’d go there too, on her own, having been told by her boss to pick someone up.

She was surprised, all right. We both cried, and our friends laughed at their success.

Weekly Anamnesis