Pinatas Make the Party
If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.
I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.
"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.
"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"
"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"
But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.
Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.
"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"
But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"
The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.
"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"
They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.
"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"
"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"
Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.
The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.
"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"
Thankfully, we had the piñata.
"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.
"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.
Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.
"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"
It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.
After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.
And strangely enough, he agreed with me.
"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Lessons for My Son
Lessons for My Son
Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.
What, indeed, have I taught him?
My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.
I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.
I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.
I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.
When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.
If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.
What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.
I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.
One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.
Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.
What, indeed, have I taught him?
My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.
I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.
I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.
I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.
When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.
If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.
What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.
I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.
One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South
Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South
My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.
"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"
The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.
"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.
"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"
"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.
"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.
"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.
"Do what?" I asked.
"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"
I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.
"Just call a wrecker," I said.
"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.
I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.
"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."
She hung up, called back.
"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.
"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."
"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."
I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.
"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.
The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.
As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.
My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.
"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"
The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.
"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.
"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"
"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.
"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.
"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.
"Do what?" I asked.
"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"
I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.
"Just call a wrecker," I said.
"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.
I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.
"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."
She hung up, called back.
"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.
"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."
"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."
I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.
"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.
The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.
As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
This Is a Season for Living
This is a season for living
Sometimes life throws us curve balls. My mom landed one a couple of weeks ago. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Our family has rallied around her. We have tried to make sense of what to do. There have been sleepless nights and concern for her comfort, endless prayers on her behalf for God to intervene with some seriously good news.
While her doctors decide the best course of action, we cling to the hope offered by cancer survivors who have graciously extended the kind of encouragement that only a cancer veteran can. We have suddenly become inexplicably tuned into both the fragility of human life and the amazing strength born of adversity. In the wake of her frightening diagnosis, my mother has shown a determination to fight and a will to live that has bolstered the rest of us. And it is this courage that has convinced me that whatever lies ahead, she will face it with a renewed appreciation for the simple joys in life.
It is funny, in a bittersweet way, how times like this make us reconsider the direction of our lives. Isn’t it strange how the seemingly insurmountable frustrations of yesterday pale to insignificance when today emerges as an endangered gift of time? I spend my days and nights thinking differently about those things I yearned as essential to my happiness. How odd it is to look at them in terms of what my mother now faces. They are so completely inconsequential and frivolous, microscopic now on a horizon full of monstrous unknowns.
So, while we all handle unhappy news with our own methods of defense, I want to remind my mom and anyone who will listen that life is not measured in minutes or hours or days or years. Life is measured most accurately in how we use the time.
Since my mom learned she has cancer, I have seen my dad exhibit amazing fortitude and boundless love. The limitations of his Parkinson’s have somehow given way to a freedom of hope and the call to duty. She has noticed, with deepest gratitude. Together, they make a formidable pair, a couple of seasoned adventurers forging ahead on uncharted waters. I am stunned by the grace and commitment of their bond. One morning, as my mom and I headed to the clinic for tests, my dad waved to us from the front porch like a madman. She blew him a kiss. And I discovered a new sense of resolve, forever reminded of how love conquers all.
My parents, who prefer matters of a sensitive nature to remain private, may chafe at this public proclamation of their current struggles. But, it wouldn’t be the first time they wished their daughter would shove a sock in her mouth. It is from them that I learned early and well that the power of prayer and the perseverance of the human spirit can accomplish great and wonderful things. I am asking anyone who reads this and feels the same to add my mom to their list of those in need of God’s healing wisdom.
To those who have suffered the brunt of cancer, I want you to understand how fervently I hope and pray for your peace and recovery and that researchers find the answers they need to unlock this disease’s dark mystery. I will continue to find solace and hope in the hands of physicians who amaze us with their abilities and talents and in the sincerity of kindness and invaluable skills of those who work in medicine. From the mouths of pastors and the deeply spiritual come words that supply their own healing salve.
Meanwhile, I will remind my mom that there is a season for all things, that the verses from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tell us that while there are times we break down, weep and mourn, there also are these: a time to love, a time to laugh, a time to dance and a time to heal. This is a season of difficulty, worry and pain, I know, but it is also a season of living with better days to come.
Sometimes life throws us curve balls. My mom landed one a couple of weeks ago. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Our family has rallied around her. We have tried to make sense of what to do. There have been sleepless nights and concern for her comfort, endless prayers on her behalf for God to intervene with some seriously good news.
While her doctors decide the best course of action, we cling to the hope offered by cancer survivors who have graciously extended the kind of encouragement that only a cancer veteran can. We have suddenly become inexplicably tuned into both the fragility of human life and the amazing strength born of adversity. In the wake of her frightening diagnosis, my mother has shown a determination to fight and a will to live that has bolstered the rest of us. And it is this courage that has convinced me that whatever lies ahead, she will face it with a renewed appreciation for the simple joys in life.
It is funny, in a bittersweet way, how times like this make us reconsider the direction of our lives. Isn’t it strange how the seemingly insurmountable frustrations of yesterday pale to insignificance when today emerges as an endangered gift of time? I spend my days and nights thinking differently about those things I yearned as essential to my happiness. How odd it is to look at them in terms of what my mother now faces. They are so completely inconsequential and frivolous, microscopic now on a horizon full of monstrous unknowns.
So, while we all handle unhappy news with our own methods of defense, I want to remind my mom and anyone who will listen that life is not measured in minutes or hours or days or years. Life is measured most accurately in how we use the time.
Since my mom learned she has cancer, I have seen my dad exhibit amazing fortitude and boundless love. The limitations of his Parkinson’s have somehow given way to a freedom of hope and the call to duty. She has noticed, with deepest gratitude. Together, they make a formidable pair, a couple of seasoned adventurers forging ahead on uncharted waters. I am stunned by the grace and commitment of their bond. One morning, as my mom and I headed to the clinic for tests, my dad waved to us from the front porch like a madman. She blew him a kiss. And I discovered a new sense of resolve, forever reminded of how love conquers all.
My parents, who prefer matters of a sensitive nature to remain private, may chafe at this public proclamation of their current struggles. But, it wouldn’t be the first time they wished their daughter would shove a sock in her mouth. It is from them that I learned early and well that the power of prayer and the perseverance of the human spirit can accomplish great and wonderful things. I am asking anyone who reads this and feels the same to add my mom to their list of those in need of God’s healing wisdom.
To those who have suffered the brunt of cancer, I want you to understand how fervently I hope and pray for your peace and recovery and that researchers find the answers they need to unlock this disease’s dark mystery. I will continue to find solace and hope in the hands of physicians who amaze us with their abilities and talents and in the sincerity of kindness and invaluable skills of those who work in medicine. From the mouths of pastors and the deeply spiritual come words that supply their own healing salve.
Meanwhile, I will remind my mom that there is a season for all things, that the verses from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tell us that while there are times we break down, weep and mourn, there also are these: a time to love, a time to laugh, a time to dance and a time to heal. This is a season of difficulty, worry and pain, I know, but it is also a season of living with better days to come.
Because It's Still Home (One Year After Katrina)
Because It's Still Home:
One Year After Katrina
When I turned five in August 1969, we Gulf Coast folks had just suffered the fury of Hurricane Camille two days prior.
When I turned 41 in August 2005, we had no inkling of the onslaught Hurricane Katrina would unleash ten days later. Had I known what was coming, I would have celebrated my birthday differently. I would have gone home.
I would have taken hundreds of photos. I would have tried to capture the essence of where I grew up. Somehow, I would have tried to chronicle those special places before they ended up the scarred and ransacked leftovers of a catastrophic storm. I should have known it would happen. Living inland for so many years as an adult lulled me into a false sense that those photographic opportunities would be there forever.
Growing up in coastal Mississippi, I knew that everything I treasured could be lost in the matter of hours. August and September always meant that the Gulf of Mexico could deliver another Camille, a killer that showed no mercy for the sensibilities of humans.
Now I rely on photos taken by strangers to remind me of how things used to be. It is a deeply disturbing fact that many of these newcomers never heard of Camille until Katrina arrived. For thirty-six years, the people of the Gulf Coast rebuilt their lives and restored what Camille devoured. And now, on the one-year anniversary of Katrina, they persevere. Heroic volunteers have bonded with the natives as friends. Some of the visitors have decided to stay. And together they wield a powerful weapon in the face of ongoing recovery. They call it community, a place that feels safe and hopeful, a place to bravely call home.
No matter how long I am away, I feel the pull of that salt air and the vibrant warmth of the people. While we all have the usual daily struggles, these south coast folks have dealt with all that plus the thick, suffocating layer of loss that remains. On a recent trip to Gulfport with my mother, we didn’t feel so well. She has been very sick, and I have been very worried. When we arrived at Highway 90 that stretches along the beach, a familiar lump of disbelief rose in my throat.
Clumps of broken concrete still dot the sites along the seawall, but mostly an open landscape gapes at the southern horizon. Ghosts of familiar buildings haunted me as I tried to get my bearings. I missed the turn for Memorial Hospital on Broad Avenue, a road I have taken a hundred thousand times. It’s a sobering experience, to see the ragged remnants, unable to recall exactly what was lost. There is no way to fathom it.
But, the signs of rebirth bolstered a hope that new homes and businesses will indeed rise on those empty lots. Here and there, construction has begun. From condos to raised cottages to homes fortified with concrete and steel, the new face of the Mississippi coast is emerging, slowly but surely. Battered and broken, the coastal live oaks stand vigilant. They remind everyone of the strength and beauty that endures in spite of Mother Nature’s assault.
As the sun lowered itself behind the outstretched arms of those oak tree sentries, the clouds broke into an artist’s dream, a panorama of ruby reds and glittering golds atop the shifting waters of the Gulf. It was the kind of sunset that I remember from my youth when I strolled the beach at low tide in fervent anticipation of the promising years ahead. What does the future hold? I wondered. I suppose it is a question that never leaves us, one that is particularly poignant when your past has washed away.
I pray for the people there. I hope they can look into those brilliant sunsets and recall the unique and fortifying pleasures that are found in a sense of place. To truly appreciate those pleasures is to comprehend the reason these survivors continue to love the very waters that nurtured a savage storm. It is where they belong. It is a place like no other. It is home.
One Year After Katrina
When I turned five in August 1969, we Gulf Coast folks had just suffered the fury of Hurricane Camille two days prior.
When I turned 41 in August 2005, we had no inkling of the onslaught Hurricane Katrina would unleash ten days later. Had I known what was coming, I would have celebrated my birthday differently. I would have gone home.
I would have taken hundreds of photos. I would have tried to capture the essence of where I grew up. Somehow, I would have tried to chronicle those special places before they ended up the scarred and ransacked leftovers of a catastrophic storm. I should have known it would happen. Living inland for so many years as an adult lulled me into a false sense that those photographic opportunities would be there forever.
Growing up in coastal Mississippi, I knew that everything I treasured could be lost in the matter of hours. August and September always meant that the Gulf of Mexico could deliver another Camille, a killer that showed no mercy for the sensibilities of humans.
Now I rely on photos taken by strangers to remind me of how things used to be. It is a deeply disturbing fact that many of these newcomers never heard of Camille until Katrina arrived. For thirty-six years, the people of the Gulf Coast rebuilt their lives and restored what Camille devoured. And now, on the one-year anniversary of Katrina, they persevere. Heroic volunteers have bonded with the natives as friends. Some of the visitors have decided to stay. And together they wield a powerful weapon in the face of ongoing recovery. They call it community, a place that feels safe and hopeful, a place to bravely call home.
No matter how long I am away, I feel the pull of that salt air and the vibrant warmth of the people. While we all have the usual daily struggles, these south coast folks have dealt with all that plus the thick, suffocating layer of loss that remains. On a recent trip to Gulfport with my mother, we didn’t feel so well. She has been very sick, and I have been very worried. When we arrived at Highway 90 that stretches along the beach, a familiar lump of disbelief rose in my throat.
Clumps of broken concrete still dot the sites along the seawall, but mostly an open landscape gapes at the southern horizon. Ghosts of familiar buildings haunted me as I tried to get my bearings. I missed the turn for Memorial Hospital on Broad Avenue, a road I have taken a hundred thousand times. It’s a sobering experience, to see the ragged remnants, unable to recall exactly what was lost. There is no way to fathom it.
But, the signs of rebirth bolstered a hope that new homes and businesses will indeed rise on those empty lots. Here and there, construction has begun. From condos to raised cottages to homes fortified with concrete and steel, the new face of the Mississippi coast is emerging, slowly but surely. Battered and broken, the coastal live oaks stand vigilant. They remind everyone of the strength and beauty that endures in spite of Mother Nature’s assault.
As the sun lowered itself behind the outstretched arms of those oak tree sentries, the clouds broke into an artist’s dream, a panorama of ruby reds and glittering golds atop the shifting waters of the Gulf. It was the kind of sunset that I remember from my youth when I strolled the beach at low tide in fervent anticipation of the promising years ahead. What does the future hold? I wondered. I suppose it is a question that never leaves us, one that is particularly poignant when your past has washed away.
I pray for the people there. I hope they can look into those brilliant sunsets and recall the unique and fortifying pleasures that are found in a sense of place. To truly appreciate those pleasures is to comprehend the reason these survivors continue to love the very waters that nurtured a savage storm. It is where they belong. It is a place like no other. It is home.
Dog Whisperer Shares Power of the Pack
Dog Whisperer Shares Power of the Pack
The Dog Whisperer can do amazing things with any naughty dog, from Pit Bulls to Pekingese. Cesar Millan is the Dog Whisperer whose show airs Monday nights on the National Geographic channel. (Comcast Channel 109 for this area). He is the “Super Nanny” of canines, the enforcer of discipline and acceptable behavior among dogs.
When I caught my first episode of the Dog Whisperer, he was attempting to rehabilitate a service dog from attacking other dogs. The woman who handled the dog suffered a severe form of panic anxiety. Are we surprised? Obviously, a dog that lunges and snarls viciously at others does little for calming nerves and fears. The Dog Whisperer worked his magic, and by the end of the show, the dog performed flawlessly for a service evaluation. What proved most remarkable was how the woman had changed, from cringing wallflower, to assertive, commanding leader.
The Dog Whisperer’s “Power of the Pack” premise showcases how dogs look to their pack leader for guidance and discipline. We humans, if things work as they were intended for domesticated animals, are the supreme commander. But, too often, the little pistol of a Chihuahua will run the household, snapping at ankles and attacking beneath the bedcovers. In one episode, the Dog Whisperer trains two tiny Yorkshire terriers to mind their leader, who just happens to be a policeman. “They’re so little,” said the officer as the Yorkies attacked the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. “I guess I was afraid of hurting them.”
We have experienced some distasteful behaviors on the part of our four poodles, mainly Honey’s unprovoked barking and Beignet’s pitiful wailing at the back door. Both have since been zapped with the Dog Whisperer’s approach. We nudge them firmly with feet or fingers and make a sound that mimics that of a hissing cobra or a testy mother-in-law. We assume a stance of “calm assertion” that the Dog Whisperer uses when hanging out with his 30-plus pack of dogs. Amazingly, it has helped. Honey now hides from us when she has to bark, and Beignet simply cusses under his breath.
On a recent trip to the veterinarian, we learned that our cat was “morbidly obese.” Actually, we were well aware of the fact that he easily outweighs a toddler. His name is Puffin, but as my dad observed, he now appears to be fully puffed. He and Matilda are a perfect example of how genetics affect weight. We had the cat food in a self-feeder. They shared the same opportunity to eat, the same diet. Matilda, who is older than Puffin, has remained a fit and svelte kitty. Puffin looks like he swallowed a turkey. The vet instructed us to restrict the amount of food available by removing the self-feeder. In the weeks since, Puffin has picketed in the kitchen, demanding the veterinarian’s head on a plate, with a heaping side of tuna.
We love our pets, and it is easy to fall into habits that indulge bad behavior. But, if we truly love them, we will provide them a proper diet, exercise and a safe place to thrive. Our cattle dog, Spottie, is the oldest. He, like Puffin, could stand to lose more than a few pounds. He is getting arthritis and loves to lie down at the food bowl. I want to be a better role model for them, but like Honey hiding while she barks, eating ice cream in the closet isn’t really the best approach.
The message I get from the Dog Whisperer is that we should model the behaviors we want to see in our pets. Healthy actions help us to have healthy bodies, minds and attitudes. It encouraged me to see that even the Dog Whisperer understands that we all need a little scratch on the head or tummy rub, a little positive reinforcement for resisting the call of the wild or that self-feeder we call a refrigerator. Poor Puffin thinks we’ve all gone to the dogs.
“Scratch what you like, I want food!” he spits. Is it any wonder there is no Cat Whisperer?
The Dog Whisperer can do amazing things with any naughty dog, from Pit Bulls to Pekingese. Cesar Millan is the Dog Whisperer whose show airs Monday nights on the National Geographic channel. (Comcast Channel 109 for this area). He is the “Super Nanny” of canines, the enforcer of discipline and acceptable behavior among dogs.
When I caught my first episode of the Dog Whisperer, he was attempting to rehabilitate a service dog from attacking other dogs. The woman who handled the dog suffered a severe form of panic anxiety. Are we surprised? Obviously, a dog that lunges and snarls viciously at others does little for calming nerves and fears. The Dog Whisperer worked his magic, and by the end of the show, the dog performed flawlessly for a service evaluation. What proved most remarkable was how the woman had changed, from cringing wallflower, to assertive, commanding leader.
The Dog Whisperer’s “Power of the Pack” premise showcases how dogs look to their pack leader for guidance and discipline. We humans, if things work as they were intended for domesticated animals, are the supreme commander. But, too often, the little pistol of a Chihuahua will run the household, snapping at ankles and attacking beneath the bedcovers. In one episode, the Dog Whisperer trains two tiny Yorkshire terriers to mind their leader, who just happens to be a policeman. “They’re so little,” said the officer as the Yorkies attacked the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. “I guess I was afraid of hurting them.”
We have experienced some distasteful behaviors on the part of our four poodles, mainly Honey’s unprovoked barking and Beignet’s pitiful wailing at the back door. Both have since been zapped with the Dog Whisperer’s approach. We nudge them firmly with feet or fingers and make a sound that mimics that of a hissing cobra or a testy mother-in-law. We assume a stance of “calm assertion” that the Dog Whisperer uses when hanging out with his 30-plus pack of dogs. Amazingly, it has helped. Honey now hides from us when she has to bark, and Beignet simply cusses under his breath.
On a recent trip to the veterinarian, we learned that our cat was “morbidly obese.” Actually, we were well aware of the fact that he easily outweighs a toddler. His name is Puffin, but as my dad observed, he now appears to be fully puffed. He and Matilda are a perfect example of how genetics affect weight. We had the cat food in a self-feeder. They shared the same opportunity to eat, the same diet. Matilda, who is older than Puffin, has remained a fit and svelte kitty. Puffin looks like he swallowed a turkey. The vet instructed us to restrict the amount of food available by removing the self-feeder. In the weeks since, Puffin has picketed in the kitchen, demanding the veterinarian’s head on a plate, with a heaping side of tuna.
We love our pets, and it is easy to fall into habits that indulge bad behavior. But, if we truly love them, we will provide them a proper diet, exercise and a safe place to thrive. Our cattle dog, Spottie, is the oldest. He, like Puffin, could stand to lose more than a few pounds. He is getting arthritis and loves to lie down at the food bowl. I want to be a better role model for them, but like Honey hiding while she barks, eating ice cream in the closet isn’t really the best approach.
The message I get from the Dog Whisperer is that we should model the behaviors we want to see in our pets. Healthy actions help us to have healthy bodies, minds and attitudes. It encouraged me to see that even the Dog Whisperer understands that we all need a little scratch on the head or tummy rub, a little positive reinforcement for resisting the call of the wild or that self-feeder we call a refrigerator. Poor Puffin thinks we’ve all gone to the dogs.
“Scratch what you like, I want food!” he spits. Is it any wonder there is no Cat Whisperer?
Jerry Sutton Had Courage to Be Kind
Jerry Sutton Had Courage to be Kind
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. It’s not that I purposefully conjure his image. I see my kids join yet another set of classmates and teachers, some familiar and some not, and I immediately hope for the kindness of strangers. That is what makes me think of Jerry.
When I was in Mrs. Moran’s fourth grade class, Jerry sat two rows over from me, near the front. He was shorter than most boys his age. He was funnier than all of them. Jerry had the kind of charisma that landed him lots of friends and a solid spot as teacher’s pet. We didn’t mind. We all loved Jerry.
Mrs. Moran began each day with a writing and art assignment that I loathed. We had to copy a poem from the chalkboard, in cursive. Worse, we had to transcribe it very neatly. I struggled with handwriting. Mine resembled the garbled combination of English and poorly done hieroglyphics and ranged in size from microscopic letters to huge words better suited for a billboard.
Beneath the poem, we were to illustrate the meaning of the verse with crayons. Most of the time, I would end up wearing a hole through my paper, trying to erase my attempts at drawing a plausible likeness to a human or a dog or a tree. I hated every last one of those insufferable poems.
One particularly challenging assignment nearly had me in tears. The poem was long, the visuals were many, and I didn’t feel so well. Somehow, as I commenced with the transcription, I flipped the pencil point up from the page and impaled the lead deep within my right palm. Stunned and horrified, I watched as the yellow Number 2 pencil dangled from the center of my hand. Then, I threw up.
When you have taught as long as Mrs. Moran had, things like vomit tend to lose their shock value. She stepped into the hall, called to the janitor and calmed the masses all while insisting that everyone continue working. Meanwhile, I slowly raised my head from my injury-induced stupor.
Few things alienate you from your classmates faster than upchucking on your desktop. I never did care much for the girl who sat in front of me. She always cut in line, spread gossip and insisted that God never intended for women to have careers. So, the fact that I had splattered the back of her head with something unspeakably disgusting didn’t disturb me much. But, I dreaded the backlash from everyone else: the finger-pointing, the relegation to alien status as “the girl who threw up.” Fearing the worst, I lifted my eyes to gauge the reaction of my peers. And there was Jerry Sutton.
Jerry was looking at me like he would a lost puppy. His face was full of concern and compassion. As the janitor arrived to clean up the mess and I headed to the bathroom, he mouthed to me, “It’s O.K! It’s O.K.!”
And, it was. I went home and returned the next morning feeling fine. Not one word was said of the events from the previous day. As I slaved over the next exercise in penmanship and creativity, I glanced up at Jerry Sutton. He had drawn a beautiful landscape of golden sun and globular green trees dotted with huge red apples. He looked up and smiled at me.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. I like to believe that there are still plenty of Jerry’s out there, offering comfort instead of ridicule, kindness instead of rejection. I don’t recall the names of classmates from fourth grade who were most popular or best dressed, but I do recall with great reverence the boy who reassured me when others might have mocked me. It’s a lesson I am grateful to have learned early about the indelible mark left by special souls who have the courage to be kind.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. It’s not that I purposefully conjure his image. I see my kids join yet another set of classmates and teachers, some familiar and some not, and I immediately hope for the kindness of strangers. That is what makes me think of Jerry.
When I was in Mrs. Moran’s fourth grade class, Jerry sat two rows over from me, near the front. He was shorter than most boys his age. He was funnier than all of them. Jerry had the kind of charisma that landed him lots of friends and a solid spot as teacher’s pet. We didn’t mind. We all loved Jerry.
Mrs. Moran began each day with a writing and art assignment that I loathed. We had to copy a poem from the chalkboard, in cursive. Worse, we had to transcribe it very neatly. I struggled with handwriting. Mine resembled the garbled combination of English and poorly done hieroglyphics and ranged in size from microscopic letters to huge words better suited for a billboard.
Beneath the poem, we were to illustrate the meaning of the verse with crayons. Most of the time, I would end up wearing a hole through my paper, trying to erase my attempts at drawing a plausible likeness to a human or a dog or a tree. I hated every last one of those insufferable poems.
One particularly challenging assignment nearly had me in tears. The poem was long, the visuals were many, and I didn’t feel so well. Somehow, as I commenced with the transcription, I flipped the pencil point up from the page and impaled the lead deep within my right palm. Stunned and horrified, I watched as the yellow Number 2 pencil dangled from the center of my hand. Then, I threw up.
When you have taught as long as Mrs. Moran had, things like vomit tend to lose their shock value. She stepped into the hall, called to the janitor and calmed the masses all while insisting that everyone continue working. Meanwhile, I slowly raised my head from my injury-induced stupor.
Few things alienate you from your classmates faster than upchucking on your desktop. I never did care much for the girl who sat in front of me. She always cut in line, spread gossip and insisted that God never intended for women to have careers. So, the fact that I had splattered the back of her head with something unspeakably disgusting didn’t disturb me much. But, I dreaded the backlash from everyone else: the finger-pointing, the relegation to alien status as “the girl who threw up.” Fearing the worst, I lifted my eyes to gauge the reaction of my peers. And there was Jerry Sutton.
Jerry was looking at me like he would a lost puppy. His face was full of concern and compassion. As the janitor arrived to clean up the mess and I headed to the bathroom, he mouthed to me, “It’s O.K! It’s O.K.!”
And, it was. I went home and returned the next morning feeling fine. Not one word was said of the events from the previous day. As I slaved over the next exercise in penmanship and creativity, I glanced up at Jerry Sutton. He had drawn a beautiful landscape of golden sun and globular green trees dotted with huge red apples. He looked up and smiled at me.
Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. I like to believe that there are still plenty of Jerry’s out there, offering comfort instead of ridicule, kindness instead of rejection. I don’t recall the names of classmates from fourth grade who were most popular or best dressed, but I do recall with great reverence the boy who reassured me when others might have mocked me. It’s a lesson I am grateful to have learned early about the indelible mark left by special souls who have the courage to be kind.
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