So Long, September Summer

On the far, far horizon here in South Mississippi is a day in which my sweat glands will rest and cooler temperatures will trigger my desire to work outside. An inviting autumn breeze will draw me from indoor seclusion to savor the seasonal shift. Dogs will romp, cats will give chase to swirling leaves and I will feel human again.

But not today.

Today is a miserable, skanky hot bitch who hails from the tropics.

I’m lighting candles in honor of air conditioner inventor, Saint Willis Carrier—or perhaps—in defiance of the devil who surely enjoys overtime in this sticky, steamy summer. I’m drinking iced tea and threatening to push buttons on the thermostat until body parts ice and teeth chatter.

I’ve lived my entire 55 years in South Mississippi. I hate hot weather. I also despise the whine of transplants from places that stock snow shovels next to the bourbon and antifreeze who admonish me with “You don’t know what cold is!”

I beg to differ. I’ve walked several city blocks in Minneapolis in December. I have visited snow-capped peaks in Estes Park. I married a man from Nebraska! I have waited for hours in meat locker hospitals and clinics where workers wear fleece jackets year round. In my most sincere Forrest Gump voice, I declare “I may not be smart, but I know what cold is, Jen-Nay!”

Look, I share a DNA profile with people from Sweden, Norway, Wales and Ireland. If my fair skin and freckles could talk, they’d squeal “Holy hell, why is it so HOT up in here?!” I am clearly out of my natural habitat. It’s coded in my very person that I should wear mukluks and trader caps, thrive on hearty stews and actually USE a fireplace instead of filling it with fake logs.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my Gulf Coast home—the people, the culture, the food. It’s one of the most beautiful places in America, and from November until March, you will see me happy, relatively dry and far less obsessive of the thermostat. But even my birthday is a hot mess of a joke. August 19th? I’d have been dead decades ago if it hadn’t been for artificially cooled air.

While writing this, I watched the sky turn from a glowing gold to a soft winter’s gray. The wind blew hard and oak leaves stirred. Magnolia limbs reached out to me, tendering promises of lighter, airier fare out there. Squirrels dug for winter stores and cardinals pecked at empty feeders. It looked suspiciously and suddenly COOL.

One day soon, scarlet spider lilies will appear, the sentinels of fall and the biggest liars of all. This gal didn’t fall off the pumpkin truck just yesterday. I know it’s still hot as a crotch outside, and it will be until November.

Now it’s raining while the sun is shining. As the old saying goes, the devil must be beating his wife. The raindrops are her tears. Maybe, like me, she’s weary of summertime. Or maybe she’s sweating? Either way, I’m staying inside. This Swiss sister has a hankering for hot chocolate and the early demise of September summer.

The Katrina Photo That Says It All

On a momentous August morning after Hurricane Katrina made landfall, my husband Steve made his way to the intersection of Highway 90 and Highway 49 in Gulfport, MS with a bunch of other stunned Mississippi Department of Transportation folks to survey damage caused by Hurricane Katrina. He called me on his cell phone and described what sounded like the aftermath of a nuclear bomb—total decimation.

He began with simple words, his civil engineer brain struggling to grapple with the task at hand, the unbelievable calamity that overwhelmed with its expanse and depth and mass. But then came the pause, the hard constriction of vocal cords and gritting teeth and a sob of incredulity. In the 26 years we have been married, I can count on one hand, maybe two, the times I have heard my husband cry. That day, his tears flowed, and I will never forget the utter disbelief and sorrow in his voice.

Pictures and video of that storm's aftermath do not do justice to the devastation. You have to see what our beautiful Mississippi Gulf Coast looked like before that bitch of a storm hit. Footage and photographs of miles and miles of debris and wind torn trees and masses of rubble offer only a glimpse of what Katrina took in her wake.

Tonight I looked through some of the digital photos Steven took along Highway 90 that day because my son, Sam, asked if I had any photos of Long Beach. All the photos are labeled “Highway 90 West.” The sad part is, the destruction was so complete, it took a lot of looking to figure out which shots were those of my childhood home, a place I knew like my own heart. Pretty much any photograph could be any spot along the 26 mile stretch bordering the Gulf of Mexico. Landmarks had disappeared.

After looking at scores of images and pinpointing a few for Sam, one photo stood out from the others. In the midst of that horrific mess leaned a tattered sign against a pile of debris along what I believe is 2^nd Avenue in Pass Christian. Those big white words on a green board exemplify the spirit of this Mississippi Gulf Coast. It is the image I choose to remember on this 10^th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina’s landfall.

Thank you, Sam, for asking about the Katrina photos. It is important to remember the lives lost, the selfless efforts given and the recovery that continues. God is good, all the time. It’s Mother Nature who can be a real bad ass.

Riding Shotgun with Dad

My dad in his garden in front of The Back Forty.

Grinding gears and dodging the ditch that cut a hundred feet or so into our deep backyard, I learned to drive a 1960’s Volkswagen Beetle that had one wheel in the grave. Our family of five lived on almost two acres that featured a rear section of wetlands. We called it the Back Forty.

Dad transfigured the soggy bottom with his tiller into an extended garden spot, only to see the valleys between his neatly formed rows repeatedly fill with the next downpour on our South Mississippi home. He joked about growing rice, but he found some success cultivating Silver Queen corn and okra. The land rising to our house featured better drainage where he focused his gardening efforts, so periodically the Back Forty would return to its natural state when Dad stopped tilling and mowing it. Crawdads loved it. Pitcher plants, too.

It was here I learned to finesse the withered clutch and brake system of a very tired and cranky old Bug.

Beneath my feet, the floorboard featured a gaping hole that only Fred Flintstone could appreciate. Driving through puddles meant your feet got soaked. The stick for the windshield wiper had long ago broken off. Somebody figured out a small flat head screwdriver substituted nicely. The hand-cranked windows functioned well enough, thankfully, as the air conditioning was non-existent. By the time you got the thing properly ventilated, your feet appropriately positioned and the windshield free of debris, driving proved to be a comparatively simple endeavor.

Early in my tutelage, my dad would fold his six-foot-two-inch frame into the shotgun seat, his right arm braced in the passenger window and his left hand poking around for a toothpick or shoving his silver hair from his sweaty brow. He smelled of wintergreen Skoal and Old Spice and dispensed short, obvious commands, like “Ok, back it up, “or “Don’t hit the Pontiac.”

My dad taught biological sciences for a living at a community college. Teaching was as second-nature to him as whining was to us kids. He exuded the kind of calm most folks appreciate when their nerves are raw and learning a new skill, whether that was mastering the release of clutch and application of gas in a rustic car or skinning cats for dissection. His was the kind of patience I wish we could mass produce as a cure-all for anger and apathy and distribute as needed, an elixir of Quincy Long.

Driving lessons with Dad left me laughing hysterically. He feigned cardiac arrest, white-knuckled panic and bladder emergencies. Or maybe that was for real? Either way, over what seemed like days to me or probably a good hairy year to him, I learned to drive. I looped through evenly spaced azaleas, turned on a dime past the burn pile, skirted the perimeter without damaging the fence (much) and found liberty behind the wheel when we wildly ventured out on open road.

More years have passed than I care to count since those days lurching past the pampas grass with my Dad in stitches as we careened just shy of the wisteria and too close to the Longleaf pines. He let me have the wheel before either of us thought we were ready. I remember the closeness I shared with a father who never let me know just how awful I was doing, an essential condition when learning to drive, whether you’re behind the wheel of a broken old VW or piloting life itself.

I remember riding shotgun with Dad. Even if I had hit something, he would have still taken that seat beside me. What he taught me were not driving skills but riding out life skills—with patience, tolerance, laughter and love.

Piano Man and Unicorns

Piano Man and Unicorns

A former newspaper columnist, I host this much neglected blog. But in light of depressing news (Syria) and my own bad health (falling apart at the seams), I indulged in a little word gathering in an attempt to feel good about SOMETHING. 

To all my artist friends out there, you are a gift to me. I count you among my greatest, most treasured blessings. Keep painting, drawing, writing, singing, playing...you are divine.

Saturday I woke up early. This is no small feat for a night owl of my caliber. Never do I rise before my husband who keeps an internal alarm set somewhere around dawn-thirty. My eyes opened and my brain, unusually functional for a pre-coffee state, immediately noted that we needed milk.

I dressed, hopped in the car and headed to the store. The sun peered from billowing cloud sculpture, the trees swayed in breeze uncharacteristic for August in South Mississippi. Dare I say it felt like fall?

We seldom speak openly of autumn here for fear of frightening it away or offending the sun gods. But the cool air and the morning sun lifted my spirits. I turned the radio up a little louder than usual.

An unexpected joy settled in, a smile that turned the corners of a surly scowl. There was that accepting look at myself in the rearview mirror that has nothing to do with the unkempt bed head or the impression of bed sheets on puffy cheeks. It’s an awakening, of sorts, that we get sometimes, that there remains much to be happy about in spite of the rotten old world.

I felt magic in the air and fully expected a unicorn to cross my path. Just a whisper of autumn is all it takes for this gal. To see the thermometer register anything lower than 74 has me dreaming of hot toddies on the back deck, wrapping up in blankets and walking outside without breaking a sweat. It is definitely magic.

The music on the radio, a song by Pink, challenged “you gotta get up and try.” Considering my previous week of struggling with a complete lack of energy and enthusiasm, the message struck a chord. And then for no reason at all, I thought of the song “Piano Man.”

I love the lyrics about a vocalist in a bar at a piano singing the stories of his hard luck audience, from a man “making love to his tonic and gin” to pounding carnival chords from the keyboard. I picture a young Billy Joel writing that song and I wonder just what inspired him to tell that story? At what moment did he recognize the significance of composing his song?

Now, I share this story for only one reason. I am clearly crazy, which I think you have to be—at least a little— to do things like write stories and share them for anyone’s eyes but your own. But what happened next made me understand on some intrinsically cellular level that God or Billy Joel or maybe the unicorns at large needed me to hear something.

Do you know those moments, when you feel so connected to something or someone beyond yourself that you cast a suspicious glance over your shoulder? Am I on Candid Camera? Is there a secret webcam in here? Am I dreaming?

That very instant, “Piano Man” sailed from the speakers on my car stereo. I mean, as soon as Pink finished her call to perseverance, Billy Joel serenaded me all the way to Dollar General. I’m not sure exactly why, but I cried. I felt instantaneously connected with something so good, like suddenly reuniting with the very best friend I ever, ever had. But why?

Because timing is everything, people. 

Some would say it's Jesus, some would say Buddha’s calling, some would say a screw is loose and it’s all just a stupid coincidence.  But I allowed myself to have that moment of clarity. I considered that song played for a reason, when it could have so easily been one of countless others. It wasn’t just any song. It was the one that led me back to writing something good for my soul. It made me revisit my own purpose in writing and how I love to spend time with words. 

The Piano Man sang me a memory, and after a long absence from writing,  I hope that you’re feeling all right.

Our Spotted Hound Says Goodbye

They don’t write obituaries for dogs. At least, they don’t run them in newspapers.  But like so many families with pets, ours feels compelled to honor the memory of our lost canines and cats with something more than a swift and painful goodbye at the veterinarian’s office, which is what happened yesterday with our dear old boy, Spottie.

Spottie found us 15 years ago. He showed up out of nowhere in our front yard and cast a spell over our then seven-year-old son, Sam. The boy presented his newfound friend to me, the mother of all soft hearts, and announced that he was keeping him. There was no collar or identification of his owners. It wouldn’t have mattered. I’ve seen a lot of bonding periods between dogs and kids. Never has there been one that melded any faster. You would have come closer to separating oxygen from the air with a garden rake. 

Of course, the instant a new dog appeared on the premises, our daughter Katie wasted no time in loving him. There was something about that tailless white dog with black spots and pointy ears that proved dogs have souls. Spottie arrived full grown, probably a year old, but he acted like a very old friend, someone who already knew your heart and where to find the bacon.

Fortunately for us, no one came to claim him. My husband Steve made a meager attempt to establish Spottie as an outside dog. That lasted about two hours, just long enough to endear himself to his new daddy and to our beloved Winnie dog who was dying of cancer. She accepted him without question, and Spottie found himself inside, belly up on the carpet, further upping the ante on just how completely irresistible this angel dog could be.

Life loves to show us that timing is everything. I don’t believe for a second that Spottie materialized out of nowhere by accident. He slipped seamlessly into our lives and eased our grief when we took Winnie on that last car ride to the vet. Spottie more than filled the space. He was obedient, yet playful; loyal yet friendly; fearless, yet gentle. The dog was our super hero, a calming constant throughout the years who won favor with everyone, even our sore-tailed cat, Matilda. It is astounding to consider our children were in second grade and kindergarten when he graced us with his presence. They are now in college.

When you are a dog lover and you live long enough, you will no doubt feel the loss of a beloved friend. Words never do much to shore us up during this kind of loss, but memories have a way of soothing the raw edges, especially when those memories evoke the undeniable solace of  unconditional love.

Age and arthritis took their toll on Spottie. He was blind. And deaf. And diabetic. His hindquarters hadn’t worked well in years. Stairs proved to be his most formidable foe. He never stopped, though. He showed us how to go with the flow and recognize the simple rewards of ordinary days, where a tummy rub and a piece of cheese can be pretty darned awesome.

Spottie taught us well. He lived an exemplary life of love, trust, tolerance and forgiveness (even for Matilda). He would remind us, even today—especially today—that life is a gift of opportunity to simply be the good and constant friend in the lives of others. And then there’s spaghetti. There’s always glorious spaghetti.

Godspeed, Spotter Dawgie. We love you!

Birds, Biloxi and Being Home

Birds, Biloxi and Being Home

We moved into a rental house on Big Lake in Biloxi from our house in Oak Grove. From these rear windows lies a panorama of waterways, marsh and endless sky that instantly reaffirm my need to live in the Coastal south. Although we lived in a lovely wooded place, I have felt landlocked for the last 14 years. It’s amazing what a great view can do.

Moving back where the salt air and the rise and fall of tides govern a deep sense of well-being reminds me that there remains no substitute for living within minutes of the beach or riverbanks, that the seamless horizon between gulf and sky serves as a homing mechanism for me, one embedded when I moved here as a toddler. Birds flock here in droves, close to the rivers and bayous, and my own need to nest here is being richly served by the fact that my family loves it here, too.

As soon as we could break away from unpacking, my husband and I rode out in an old bass boat given to us by our dear family friend, Miss Tommie. She will celebrate 90 years in September. She and that boat spent more than 40 of those years together, anchoring off favorite fishing holes in these same waters and landing countless fish both solo and in the company of my Aunt Ora, as well as with other family and friends. Her fishing and filleting skills are legendary.

On our afternoon jaunt, the boat glided knowingly past bulkheads and cattails, through the brackish water among other vessels of all shapes and sizes. We sailed under Popps Ferry Bridge and zipped past the massive homes of Biloxi Back Bay. And though there linger sparse remnants of Katrina’s onslaught, the overall view is one of thriving water dwellers and rejuvenated communities. The healing has been monumental. The recovery, nothing short of miraculous.

We saw egrets and herons, gulls and purple martins. This place teems with wildlife. The flora and fauna of the Mississippi Gulf Coast never fail to astound me with its diversity and resilience. The brown pelicans and least terns can tell the best stories of our role as their stewards. Brought back from near eradication due to pesticides, they boast a triumphant and prolific return.

I know that there are plenty of places on this planet that would make a great place to live. For me, the requirements are few, but essential, to my ability to feel at home. There must be water, salt and fresh, ample trees both deciduous and evergreen, and people who appreciate the value of these things and each other. Sunsets viewed without obstruction, full and magnificent from our most southern shore treat us to a daily reminder of our unique and invaluable heritage here on the Gulf of Mexico.

 

Perhaps that is why that of all the places I have visited, my South coast home pleases me to no end. Here, my most basic needs are met simply by stepping outside. Like the birds who navigate these spectacular waterways, I am drawn here because it is where I belong. Wherever you are, I hope you find that same satisfaction, the wonderful gratification of being home.

Katie Mo

Katie Mo

When I was kid, I didn’t give much thought to the fact that I didn’t have a sister. I had twin brothers, six years my junior. I didn’t have time for sisters.

Plus, I heard the horror stories of sisters swiping each other’s stuff, of sibling sabotage so sinister, only a sister with sisters could understand. I guess, at times, I was actually glad not to have a sister.

Then one day, I became a mom for the second time, to a daughter. Suddenly, there was a new and spectacular female voice within the family. I know a lot of mothers claim strong bonds with their baby girls at birth. But there truly was something extraordinary about ours. She completed me.

Mary Katherine slept all night her first night at home. She rarely complained, cooed this incredibly adorable sound that proved impossible to resist, and exuded contentment. She begged attention, not because she demanded it, but because she was so completely lovable, endearing and funny.

She always slept with her arms thrust directly above her head. When we’d pick her up from her nap, she looked like a miniature Sumo wrestler, hence her nickname, “Katie Mo.” She watched every move her brother made. Her greatest frustration as a baby was the fact that she could not walk and talk like him. Her greatest satisfaction was to hold his attention for even a few uninterrupted seconds.

Whether he realized it at the time or not, Sam had the ultimate sister. She idolized him.

Katie turned 16 on March 21, 2010. She’s come a long way from that nearly bald bundle of drooling, giggling glee. I have marveled at how intelligent and capable she is, wondered over how it is that Steven and l landed such a truly remarkable daughter. She is beautiful inside and out, and I treasure our time together. My dad said it best. She is one of a kind.

And though for some inexplicable reason she has been saddled with a medical disorder that defies definition, she remains that completely lovable, endearing and funny gal who won our hearts 16 years ago. At times, her pain and physical challenges have been more than any kid should have to endure.

She has weathered ridicule, misunderstanding and alienation from people who should have known better. She harbors no anger, no grudge, in spite of having every right to do so. She has shown strength of character and powerful will in the face of daunting discomfort and exhaustion. Her faith is unwavering, her spirit undaunted.

She doesn’t have a sense of smell, something we didn’t determine until she was nearly 13 years old. Why did it take so long? She’s resourceful. We just didn’t see the deficit because she never realized she had one. I still laugh when I think about taking her to Bath and Body Works and asking her to sniff a dozen fragrances or more. She thought I was crazy. And I thought she was odd to say they all “smell good…I guess?”

I have laughed harder and longer and more gratefully with her because anyone who can find the funny among countless needles and pills and procedures bordering on torture inevitably can make even the most stolid Ice Queen crack a smile. She takes one day at a time and makes each one richer for the rest of us.

So I never had a sister. It’s OK with me, because I have a daughter who is second to none.

Who Would Make Your Top 10?

Who Would Make Your Top 10?

A friend sent me one of those inspirational power point slideshows attached to an email titled “Voyage.” It featured a lot of pretty pictures of flowers and some clever thoughts on what’s important in life.

It had the desired effect, I suppose, in that it got me thinking about those things that make me glad to be here, that life is a journey, not a destination, and it's a good idea to take stock of those things that truly matter along the way.

Things like...

Have you ever come to know someone who is truly humble and selfless? They are rare beings. But my Grandma Long was that way. If she had one stick of gum, one leftover biscuit, one bit of energy left to spare, she’d give it willingly to just about anyone. She was a giver, never a taker.

With her, you always felt worthwhile and cherished. And that’s important.

Did you ever love a dog who could make you laugh and cry within the same breath? Dogs are incredibly gifted that way. Our Winnie chewed new shoes, ripped the insulation from beneath our rental house and rolled in putrid carcasses at every opportunity, but she had a way with our children that made me know they would never lack for a champion protector or devoted friend.

That crazy yellow hound always made us feel comforted. And that’s important.

Will you remember countless hours spent in the business of raising children? Kids are enormous investments of time. They come into this world by our invitation, completely dependent on our ability to provide.

There is this blur of birthday parties, tooth fairy visits and award ceremonies that I find difficult to recall. But I once stood beneath the boughs of newly leafed pecan trees in our back yard, watching my small son and daughter sleep in a stroller while the warmth of spring and the promise of the future rushed me with unforgettable gratitude. I can still remember every subtle nuance of that ordinary day.

Moments like that make a parent feel utterly complete. And that’s important.

Can you sing something for every season, read stories that inspire you, dance for the purpose of just pure indulgence and love unconditionally?

Have you forgiven the unforgiveable and received the same?

Do you laugh often and loudly, especially at yourself?

When you find solace and reassurance, is it based in an innate and unfailing faith that is as much a part of you as your DNA?

Do you do nice things for others because you want to, not because someone is looking?

Somewhere in your history have you ever taken the time to write a letter to someone for the sole purpose of reminding them that they are loved, they are special and they matter?

Because these are the things that make our lives as humans worthwhile and enjoyable. And that’s important.

In the slideshow I watched, the author reminds us that while most of us can’t name various “top tens” among celebrities or athletes or historical figures, we will remember the names of people who made a difference in our lives─ the teachers, the friends, the mentors. Some people, like whoever created that slideshow, take the time to remind the rest of us that kindness, compassion and a good sense of humor make all of our lives richer and far more memorable.

And that really is important.

Doing Business at your Friedly Kangaroo

"'Doing Business at Your Friendly Kangaroo"

My daughter has chronic health issues that have led our family on some pretty interesting trips to medical destinations near and far. While we continue the pursuit of a unifying diagnosis, she has adopted an approach of “laughter is the best medicine” and tries to take one day at a time.

Sometimes, those days find us on the road and out of our minds.

Our family of four set out for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN one late October afternoon. We stopped for dinner, drove a bit, then nature called and we pulled into the next quick stop. Katie headed directly to the ladies’ room while her brother, dad and I browsed the aisles.

We immersed ourselves in shopping, beginning with a rack of tee shirts emblazoned with biker motifs and state logos. We moved onto the candy section, followed by the chips and crackers. We checked out the hot bar, the coffee station, the ice cream freezer, and the automotive supplies.

After 20 minutes or so had passed and we were reduced to second-guessing our snacking selections, I surmised things might not be going so well in the bathroom. Just then, my cell phone vibrated in my purse. As I made my way to the bathroom, I extracted my phone and noted the incoming caller.

It was Katie.

“Why is she calling from the bathroom?” I asked myself. “This can’t be good.”
I pictured the possible scenarios in my head: out of toilet paper, massive regurgitation, explosive diarrhea or a treacherous combination of all three. Who knew what lay on the other side of that restroom door? I answered the phone.

“Hey, girl, what’s going on in there?”

“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM! FINALLY! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ANSWER THEIR STUPID PHONE? GEEZE, I THOUGHT Y’ALL HAD LEFT ME!”

Somehow, this high-decibel screech comforted me. She was breathing. She was conscious. And she was some kind of mad. Bravely, I motioned to the others that I was going in.

“Whoa. Calm down. I’m on my way in there. Are you OK?”

“Just get in here! Hurry up!” And with that, the phone went dead.

I was just past the oatmeal cakes and Ho Ho’s, almost to the nuts and pork rinds, when an unsuspecting woman cut in front of me and headed toward the sign marked “WOMEN.”

My mind raced as I considered the very real possibility that this gal might soon be rendered completely senseless by noxious fumes or worse, but I was helpless to stop her. She heaved the door inward, and what appeared to be a vacuous hole of pitch black darkness suddenly erupted into a glowing cubicle of searing white light.

In that split second, the ears of every creature within a ten-mile radius would splinter with the guttural boom that echoed from the confines of a single bathroom stall in a Kangaroo quick stop near Memphis, TN.

“THANK YOU!!!”

I would have loved to see the expression on that woman’s face upon her triumphal entry, but she ducked for cover in the stall next to Katie’s before I could gauge her reaction. What I did see was a completely benign bathroom environment, remarkably clean, actually. Thankfully, it smelled harmlessly like lemon cleaner. What I heard was far more sinister.

My daughter doesn’t cuss, but the blend of growls and pitches behind that metal door sounded much like the kind of muffled swearing grown-ups use in the presence of children and clergy, indecipherable but clearly not born of happy thoughts and well wishes.

“Katie, are you OK?”

“YES, NOW THAT I CAN SEE WHAT I AM DOING, YES. I AM JUST FINE.”

This was followed by several spins of the toilet paper dispenser, more grumbling and the type of telltale noises that make a mom know her services are no longer needed. I waited outside.

A few minutes later, the girl child emerged. Anyone with female adolescent offspring can testify to the fact that when they are ticked off, you best give them plenty of time and space to decompress. The problem in this particular scenario is that we were all about to crawl into a minivan together and finish what was left of a 20 hour drive to the northern limits of these expansive United States.

“Geeze, Katie, what took so long?” her brother asked.

To which she replied, “Grrrrrrrrr.”

But, to her credit, the outrageous circumstances evoked appropriate hilarity on her part, and within minutes, we were all laughing like a bunch of baboons on a big banana high.

Apparently, this particular bathroom came equipped with an energy-saving sensor that turned out the lights when no movement is detected after a certain period of time. Maybe five minutes or so into her bathroom retreat, it all went to black.

“You try doing what you need to do on the toilet when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face!” she spat.

She had called us, and we didn’t answer because two phones were in the van and one was on “vibrate” in my purse. So her only safe option was to wait in the dark on the pot wondering why her family had abandoned her.

All’s well that ends well, but I have to wonder what that woman thought when she was welcomed with such vigorous and appreciative cheers as she entered the bathroom. Perhaps she chalked it up to superior customer service--a big “thank you” for “doing business” at your friendly Kangaroo.

Sammy, Sammy Are You Ready?

Sammy, Sammy, Are You Ready?

As I was looking through family photos to submit to my son’s yearbook staff, I determined I was having one of those “moments.” I have a lot of them lately with the rapid advance of the firstborn’s senior year. They are near-breathless moments that rattle my heartstrings with the insulting yet triumphant fact that he is nearly grown and I am getting old.

The photos, a mixed bag of babyhood and grade school shots, provided a bit of time travel:

a newborn wrapped tight in a hospital blanket

our big yellow hound perched in ridiculous profile atop a teetering birdbath, boy at her feet

a grade school Easter egg hunter

a teenager poised for who-knows-what leaning into his silver sedan at dusk

Moments like these validate what I knew instinctively all along. Glimpses of our history together─ the laughter on the road, the tears over lost loved ones, the anger beneath the surface, the fear inside unspoken words, the love within every single embrace and whispered prayer─confirm that being a parent makes me deeply grateful for this life as well as a little shocked that children seemingly become adults overnight.

Years of transitioning from one stage to the next blend and soften the stark reality that photographs showcase with such bold and undeniable detail. Sam is now taller than his dad. He does actually hug his sister, willingly. I am grayer than his dad, proving his father has weathered the years far better than I. This may have something to do with the fact that sentimental activities like looking at old pictures only make him grin, while they thrust me into an exhausting search for lost time.

Although I want to cheer and celebrate the victory of delivering such a grand guy to the world, the overriding desire is to chain the kid to his bedroom and deny him free reign of his destiny.When did this boy who used to spend hours devouring the pages of Calvin and Hobbes turn into a man who talks politics, religion and the complex language of the NFL? When did he learn the ways of the sneaky old world?

These yearbook photos will go on a page that honors his accomplishments and congratulates him on his high school graduation. It’s become a popular tradition for parents to purchase a page and provide photos and a note as a testament to the fact that their kid is, well, theirs.

There is so much I would have liked to say on that page, yet I kept our parental musings short. But given more space, I might have reminded my male child of just how splendid life is with him as our son.

I would remind him:

Even when you launch yourself from this nest we made eighteen years ago, we will still be in the picture. We are that part of you that makes you know you are loved unconditionally, trusted to the depths of your soul and understood at the chromosomal level.

You have never walked alone and never will. We take immense comfort in the knowledge that your faith is secure and your purpose is centered on good works and gratitude.

Whether there is a photo of it or not, we can be seen in the way you choose a good book or take comfort in a good friend’s smile or dance like a fool simply because it makes no sense to do otherwise. Nothing is as liberating as being able to laugh at yourself. (I think I taught that one best.)

We will always show up when you think about doing something you know you should not. It’s called a guilty conscience.

We are there, reminding you that everything happens in God’s time, not ours.

When you see that stray dog, and wonder if you should pick it up, we are the ones who already have you on the side of the road, in the rain, Samaritan heart full-throttle. Mom and Dad, invisible, are in every moment that leaves you marveling over the wildly intoxicating beauty of life. Your smile in that photo is our smile, one way or another.

I have these crazy moments, yes. But they are opportunities for me to reflect on my handiwork as a parent, to cherish this gift of an adult child and look forward to what is yet to come. I need these moments to remind me that this is a good thing, growing up. I just wish I was as good at it as this boy of mine seems to be.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”─ 1Corinthians 13:13

Of Grown-ups, Goons and Getting Together

Of grown-ups, goons and getting together

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten. Hopefully everyone has friends like these, the kind you may not see for years at a time but can pick up right where you left off, talking about everything from college escapades to the unsavory business of gray hair and spare tires.

It’s difficult to describe, but old friends just make time together especially rewarding.

The fact that this particular group claims a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for off-color jokes definitely keeps things more than interesting. They are kind and mindful of everyone’s personal trials and tribulations without being a wet blanket. Each one of us claims a close personal tie to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a deep-seated love of seafood, saltwater and days and nights spent in the company of both.

But of all the satisfying reasons we have to gather, I think it is our common history of doing just what we did last weekend that gives us great incentive to remain good friends. Hanging out, retelling the same crazy, hilarious stories, adding some new ones for extra measure, we all simply enjoy time together.

When my parents passed away a couple of years ago, one of the comforts that helped us manage that tremendous loss was the fact that our family shared countless good times over the years. There were no regrets as far as “I wish we had seen each other more.” We cooked and savored wonderful meals, visited through long afternoons on the front porch, celebrated holidays and birthdays featuring a million or more hugs.

The memories we made together are what get us through our being apart.

Last weekend, ten of us long-time friends and one brave new one descended on Destin, FL with twelve kids. Eyes popped and mouths fell open as the younger set witnessed their parents let loose with endless ribbing and fully animated stories.

I suppose it’s a bit scary to see old Mom and Dad laugh like goons and head to the beach in the wee hours like a band of gypsies. Who knows if they will choose to maintain the same kind of friendships we have? But for those three days, they witnessed their parents adding yet another memorable chapter to the book of our lives and underscoring the vast rewards of lasting friendships.

Making friends reminds me of planting new trees. You can always search out a new one. The more, the better. But it’s the ones with deep roots beside your own that will always cast a wide and comforting canopy, buffering us from the storms of life and reminding us of the beauty. Much like the irresistible shade of a Coastal live oak, the laughter shared with these old friends is uncommonly good, a pleasure I hope we all cherish for many years to come.

Newspapers Need Great Stories Told Well

Newspapers Need Great Stories Told Well

Much of what’s to be read online in the news revolves around loss of jobs and our ailing economy. I work as a freelance writer, which is a succinct way of saying my income depends on someone willing to pay me to write.

Cut to the cascade of failing newspapers and out-of-work reporters and editors, and I’m sorely aware that something has gone terribly wrong with the business of journalism. What happened to our newspapers?

I’m not what you’d call a real reporter. My experience as a journalist arose from an intense desire to work from home while I tended my children and an average ability to construct newsworthy features. My college degree is in biology, but my passion lies in telling stories.

When you work as a freelance writer, the opportunities to meet interesting people are endless, as are the opportunities to meet people who think they are interesting. Sometimes, you discover you are conversing with someone whose experiences would read like an Oscar-winning screenplay. I love those times. That’s when the writing is less for the buck and more for the sheer pleasure of catching a glimpse of a lovely life.

I came to know of such a life when a man named Norm wrote to me about one of my newspaper columns.

Norm loved puns. He told very silly jokes. I never met him in person, but coming to know him through his emails and posts to a humor writers’ group led me to believe that this man laughed long and loudly much of the time.

Several months into our correspondence, Norm shared that he had had a stroke years before that left him fairly limited in his ability to move. He adapted by using a motorized chair. He participated in university research in Florida that developed devices for survivors of stroke and other impairments. He was a fighter and a lover of life.

Norm’s emails were usually brief, devoid of capital letters, and always, always funny. But, one day I opened an email that was fairly lengthy. I imagine it took him hours to type it. It was a love story. I remember reading that email over and over, stunned by two things: there was not one stupid joke in it, and it was a hell of a story. A true story. The kind of story that, had he shared it with a real reporter, he might have seen it win a Pulitzer prize before he passed away.

When he fell gravely ill as a result of a second stroke, his daughter sent an email to those of us who had shared emails and online friendships with her dad. She warned us that it was unlikely Norm would recover. He died a few days later. The family established a memorial in his honor online where we could post our condolences and share our love of Norm. It was the first time I ever saw a photo of him. He was handsome, smiling like he’d won the lottery in every last frame.

I never wrote about Norm because I felt that his family might want to tell his story in their own way. His daughter is a writer, an obviously talented one from what I read in her correspondence with me. It’s not my story to tell, but it is my inspiration for believing that there are truly remarkable people with incredible stories that do make a powerful difference in the way the rest of us live our lives.

So, I wonder, how much of this mess that is the floundering newspaper industry can be tied to the fact that we have devalued the talent of intelligent, creative writing? Has our need for instantaneous news and bawdy tales of the sensational overtaken the potential for finely crafted stories to remind us that we humans actually have a lot to live for, regardless of the stock market and the current status of Britney Spears?

When I was a kid, I read the newspaper. I worked as much of the crossword as my limited skills allowed. I learned about government and how to cook, about local veterans and faraway places and that a columnist from Dayton, Ohio could make my South Mississippi mother laugh out loud on a weekly basis, in spite of us clinging kids and only three channels of network TV.

I'm not saying there are no talented reporters with bylines in newspapers. I'm saying that somewhere along the line, those who manage newspapers let go of the fundamental purpose of newspapers, that the bottom line shouldn't be about keeping advertisers happy. The bottom line should be about serving your readership, and that means hiring and supporting a staff of competent, hopefully imaginative writers who cover the news, sports and stories of human interest with perhaps a little fire in the belly.

Whatever the future holds for newspapers, I hope somebody remembers that whether it’s printed on paper or posted online, the written word remains one of our most treasured and effective tools in documenting the current state of human affairs. It’s a condition that could use some substantial encouragement in the form of great stories told well.

When Toads and Fears Collide

When Toads and Fears Collide    

Honey patrols our back yard for toads as if the creatures harbor some secret sinister agenda. One of four poodles we indulgently adopted, Honey faithfully confronts toads in a comical assault, something we call “Poke-A-Toad.”

When our crew of canines bolts outside to empty bladders and bowels, Honey circumnavigates our fenced lot on self-appointed border patrol. She stops dead in her tracks when she discovers yet another amphibious intruder. Her helicopter tail runs full throttle as she prods the hapless toad with tentative paws.

Thankfully, she never tries to eat them. In fact, she barely touches them. She appears innately afraid of, yet irresistibly drawn to toads. She is wary, yet boldly curious. Often, while she lounges inside, a toad will land on the door sill in full view through the French doors. Honey comes completely undone.

We live down south where a plentiful variety of amphibians enjoy a warm, moist climate much of the year. After Hurricane Katrina, it seemed the selection expanded exponentially. I’ve lived in Mississippi for 44 years. I’ve seen wall crawlers since that storm that never before appeared among the typical salamanders and tree frogs familiar to my outdoor jaunts.

Maybe I just never noticed them. Maybe I was too focused on other things, much like Honey and her toads. She won’t give a gecko the time of day. Every night, when all the other dogs answer the call for bed, Honey insists on making one last circuit. Sometimes I have to physically retrieve her. She watches the windows as I tote her inside.

One morning, the unthinkable happened. A toad made it inside. My son spotted one in the corner of our half-bath, tucked in the shadows. Of course, we immediately summoned Honey.
“Look what’s in the bathroom, Honey!” we chimed. She remained motionless, perched on the sofa back, unaware that her worst fear was about to be realized.
I picked her up and dropped her beneath the pedestal sink in full view of her nemesis. The toad crouched in the corner, and Honey surprised us all.

She did absolutely nothing. Not a whimper or bark of defiance did she utter. She simply locked eyes with her web-footed demon then quietly walked away.

Perhaps her behavior should be dismissed as just one more puzzling poodle oddity, but I sensed there was some semblance of a metaphor there.

For Honey, the threat of toads proved almost unbearable at times. Yet, once the unknown was finally realized, fear gave way to understanding. Truth reigned supreme, and the only thing left to face was the possibility that she had wasted way too much time worrying over toads.

She still pokes toads, still takes it upon herself to diligently track their scent and alert the entire neighborhood of their tireless invasion. But I detect a calm resolve where previously there was simply raw anxiety. She has seen the cornered toad, and it is—completely boring.

Then and Now

Then and Now

A guy I knew from community college called this week. He had heard that my parents had passed away a year and a half ago and wanted to share his condolences. My dad had taught him when we were both students in the biological sciences.

When I heard Ray's voice on the answering machine, I didn't recognize it. But when we talked, I recalled how he always made my dad laugh out loud. We shared a deep and abiding appreciation for irreverent jokes. They still make me howl--and blush.

It's strange to strike up a conversation with someone who knew you in a "previous" life. A friend of mine refers to that time as "BC," Before Children. When I think about how very naive and green I was at that stage of development, I cringe. To recall being 18 years old is to instantly feel 180. Many miles and memories span those 25 years.

I was a new student and working part-time at Biloxi Animal Hospital. My dad taught biological sciences. I enrolled in his classes as part of my pre-veterinary curriculum. We learned a lot about living organisms in zoology, anatomy and physiology. But that's not all.

We shared a common experience of learning that was as diverse as the creatures we classified. We learned how to love the natural world. Students from all walks of life, all ages and backgrounds filled those classrooms. My dad reveled in that. He loved to open minds and guide his students toward a lifelong love of learning, especially those who had to work extra hard just to be there.

Dad was a tough instructor. His tests were notoriously challenging. Yet, students like Ray took away from his lessons the heart of what he most wanted to share--a thirst for knowledge and satisfaction in learning.

Ray tells me he is working on his doctorate in marine biology. He is 51. I know that my dad would be glad of that. His former student told tales of Dad busting a gut trying not to laugh while conducting labs or lectures. Ray's words brought bittersweet feelings that resonate with what I loved about Dad so very much. He found humor in most everything, even when he was up to his elbows in dissected fetal pigs or explaining for the umpteenth time the Watson and Crick model of DNA.

Perhaps that is why I take such pleasure in the fact that my own children harbor that love of learning. My son takes to the sciences like his Paw Paw, and my daughter never saw a critter she didn't love. And I remain fascinated by the wonders of our natural world, including off-color humor.

Good luck with the marine biology, Ray, and know that somewhere out there Dad is cheering you on.

Kristen

Spider Lilies Herald Welcome Seasonal Shift

Check out my essay in "The Home Forum" of The Christian Science Monitor:
Spider Lilies Herald Welcome Seasonal Shift

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Mrs. Harmon turned to me during the “meet and greet” part of church service a few weeks ago.

“I want you to write about front porches,” she said. “I was sitting on mine the other day and decided to tell you that you should write about front porches.”

As we returned to our seats, I thought about my assignment. Within seconds, I was a kid again, lounging like a lovesick lizard on my Grandma Long’s front porch swing.

Grandma’s house on Mulberry Hill in Ellisville faced a deep pasture of sprawling hills dotted with maples and black walnut trees, oaks and sweet gum. Blackberry bushes clotted the low areas and sometimes a few cows would graze and ruminate in the shade of the trees. It was pretty country, and you could soak it all in from her porch.

The swing, painted white with a slatted back, dangled at one end of the porch from two lengths of chain that creaked musically with the slightest nudge. During the sticky heat of summer with no air conditioning, it was one of the few spots you could sit and hope to feel the air move.

Most always, my cousin Dwelia and I would perch together, our bare toes just touching the smooth, cool concrete, and we’d sing:

“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya’ gonna go-ee-oh. Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-ee-oh?”

Her mama, my Aunt Bobbie, taught us that song, and we belted it out with opera lungs.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mama know? That you’re goin’ down the road, to see a little girlie-o!”

We pushed back and forth in rhythm with our jubilant, if not harmonized, voices.

One time when our cousin Scott was visiting from Ohio, we had a chinquapin war headquartered at the front porch. He plucked dozens of berries from the tree just behind the porch and popped us so hard with those green bullets they left red hot spots on our freckled skin. We did our best to nail him from our fortress, but he was too quick and we were laughing too hard.

Grandpa Long would sit in his aluminum chair right at the edge of the porch near the steps to spit and whittle. A rare August breeze would carry the sweet scent of cedar shavings across the porch and through the screened windows. The aroma always made me think of quilts and winter time. I would rock on that swing, close my eyes and dream of cool autumn air.

When Ms. Harmon asked that I write about front porches, I was ashamed at just how little time I spend on mine. Some of the best therapy in the world can be found atop a rocking chair in full view of the world just outside my door. Sitting outside at dusk, when squirrels scamper in the fading light and birds settle in the branches, I feel comforted. And much like a good hymn sung with sincere and earnest praise, time on a front porch revives your spirit with life’s very best tonic.

Few things are more wasteful than an empty front porch. So in the interest of enjoying a much needed respite, I sat on mine this evening and settled into the calm. I watched moonlit clouds sail slowly above the pines. I could taste that rain was on the way and savored the pleasant quiet as even the bugs seemed to soften their chirping and buzzing.

It was peaceful, beautiful and I wondered why I don’t venture out there more often. I do know that I fully agree with Ms. Harmon. Front porches are certainly worth writing about, and I thank her for the essential reminder.

Have Family, Will Travel

Have Family, Will Travel

We decided we should take a family vacation this summer. This is no small thing. Whenever all four of us travel, that leaves the five dogs, two cats, one guinea pig and a brood of saltwater fish in need of surrogate care. For what it costs us to accommodate the animals, we could stay an extra couple of nights at a five-star hotel. Perhaps anyone stupid enough to have so many pets doesn’t deserve to get away. But we hope to, if we can agree on a destination.

We talked about driving out west to Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park. This would require at least two weeks on the road. The kids predict that enduring that much family togetherness would cause a major rift in our familial bond to rival that of the Grand Canyon. As much as I’d like to see the real thing, I’m not sure it’s worth our children divorcing us.

While my daughter and I could see ourselves taking in the sights of the Big Apple, my son and husband insist that a river, ocean or lake be the primary focus of our adventure. The two of them drove to northern Minnesota last summer and fished from daylight to dark the better part of two weeks. As thrilling as that sounds, somehow I doubt it would work for certain family members who prefer the comfort and convenience of hotel hot tubs and sushi bars.

We’ve done Disney. We’ve camped at nearly every state park in Mississippi. We’ve been to the nation’s capital, stayed in the Rockies twice, done Jellystone Park in the Smokies and hit the beach a time or two. There are millions of places we haven’t been, but narrowing down the choices proves surprisingly difficult. It’s not a lack of places to visit that challenges us . It’s the potential for disaster on the road. That’s why I’m considering a most novel idea. What about a vacation at home?

I can’t help but think about the time our son got food poisoning and yorked his way across Texas. Then there was the seatbelt incident on a lonely stretch of road in Colorado when our then five-year-old daughter nearly strangled herself after attempting somersaults in her seat. Of course, the fastener wouldn’t release. We were seconds from cutting the seatbelt with a pocket knife when she turned upside-down and simply shimmied out.

There was the chewing gum incident where I unceremoniously spat a wad of bubblegum out the van window, only to have it boomerang back and land squarely on my laptop keyboard. While driving at a crawl up a perilous cliff in the Rocky Mountain tundra, my husband experienced full and immediate paralysis when my son suddenly screamed , “WOW! LOOK AT ALL THOSE ELK!” They say family vacations are all about the memories. I will never forget how his face froze in a state of sheer panic and his fingers formed a death grip on the steering wheel. When I consider these incidents, staying at home sounds like more than a good idea. It actually could be a lifesaver.

But then, if we stayed home, we wouldn’t experience the new perspective you get on this beautiful country of ours whenever you see the sun set on an unfamiliar but spectacular horizon. We would miss out on those unforgettable images that evoke some deep and primal longing, from the rush of magnificent views of rolling hills and wide open sky to the panoramic display of land and sea along some emerald stretch of coastal waters.

I’m not sure where we’ll end up this summer. We might not make it far. But what I do know is that every time we hit the road together, we never fail to return with a renewed appreciation for this great land of ours, and an even greater appreciation for that place we call home.

You Can Go Your Own Way

You Can Go Your Own Way

Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”

After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.

On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.

“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.

“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.

“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”

“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “

“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”

Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.

Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.

I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.

I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:

“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”

At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.

“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.

“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”

“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”

Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.

“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”

“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.

She Doesn't Smell Well

She Doesn’t Smell Well

Looking back, I can’t believe we didn’t figure it out sooner. Whether it’s the soft scent of baby powder or the pungent pine of Christmas trees, the smell of popcorn erupting in buttery goodness or chocolate chip cookies emerging from the oven, our daughter has never experienced any of these olfactory sensations. Katie has anosmia. It took us 13 years to notice.

Anosmia simply means the absence of a sense of smell. Doctors at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD tested her olfactory abilities with a scratch and sniff book of familiar scents. She failed it, big time. While some people have nerve damage or injuries that cause them to lose their ability to smell, Katie’s is apparently a congenital problem, present since birth. Yet, her deficit only recently came to light.

I remember going to places like Bath and Body Works when she was much younger. We would spray the little cards to help us select our favorite fragrance. But while I was choosing from the enticing aromas of citrus or peach, Katie could never decide on one she liked. Once, we laughed ourselves silly when we misread the name on a bottle as “Brown Sugar and Pig” instead of “Brown Sugar and Fig.” I had asked her, “Does that smell like a pig to you?” In hindsight, I recognize what was complete indifference as she sniffed the unscented air and shrugged. Now I realize she couldn’t smell a thing.

Katie readily admits that if she had to go missing one of the five senses, she would pick her sense of smell. The others work just fine, thankfully. Where she may lack the ability to enjoy a whiff of hot baked bread or smell the summer rain, she harbors an amazing talent for seeing the positive side of things.

“When we’re in science lab, I just love it when everybody else is gagging over horrendous odors and I’m just fine,” she told me. “I don’t smell farts, or dog mess or anything else that makes people want to hurl.” While this girl of ours could be bemoaning the fact that her sniffer doesn’t work, instead she finds reasons to be glad in it.

They say that when you lack one of the five senses, the others may be enhanced. We’ve decided the child has supersonic hearing. She can hear the flutter of moths’ wings and private conversations from a mile away. Of course, I worry over the fact that she can’t smell something burning or the stench of spoiled food. She uses deodorant profusely and squirts perfume in spite of the fact that she has no idea if it smells good or bad. I never gave my sense of smell much thought until I witnessed her challenges through a parent’s eyes.

The olfactory bulb in the brain is closely tied to the limbic system, which helps us process memories and emotions. As a result, odors and aromas play a large role in triggering recollections of the past. Cinnamon, vanilla, apple pie. Who doesn’t have warm and wonderful memories tied to these? Not once have I heard my daughter say “That smells so good!” when I cook her favorite foods.

While I am amazed we didn’t discover her anosmia sooner, she laughs at the fact that when the rest of us were extolling the exquisite aromas of steaks on the grill or jasmine in bloom, she always pretended to smell them. What she must have experienced sniffing the odorless air had to be something akin to eating food that, no matter what, tasted like rice cakes.

Katie exhibits an intense appreciation for color and design, for music and hugs. She sees life as full of opportunities as well as challenges. She hears the promise of a hopeful future. She tastes the spice of life easily and gratefully. In spite of puzzling health challenges the last couple of years, this girl of ours is feeling the welcome reward of finally being understood.

Sometimes we’ll exclaim, “What’s that smell?” The look she gives us speaks volumes. I tell her that when she marries, I hope it’s to a man who smells well. Or is that good? I suppose it would be great if it’s both.