November 26, 2009

Pin It My mind is a tumult of thought.

I thought about Mom today; as I did, I found it strange that someone you care about in this life could suddenly be whisked away. Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of their voice might still be in existence…yet they are no longer with us.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to write about Mom, about how I’ve felt, about the good and the bad moments over the previous months since that fateful day this past summer. A whole lifetime has passed since those heartrending moments, and yet, it feels like it was only as long ago as a whisper shared amongst friends.

Time keeps going on whether or not we’d like it to.

The house was a melee of smells as family members were preparing the food for our Thanksgiving feast; however, I just felt that I needed to get out for a little while—to be alone—to think.

I decided to take out the trash.

I moved outside into the bitter crisp of November as the Thanksgiving wind buffeted me from all sides. In the distance, the pale light of the sun shone through the horizon’s misty clouds. I wanted that sun to bury its warmth deep into the empty and dark places of my soul. I stood, breathing in with lungs capable of still doing so, feeling the oxygen filling me.

I thought of the meal we were about to eat; the meal that she would not be taking a part in. It just seemed so inequitable, so unfair.

I retreated to my basement office to escape everyone and everything. I decided to organize files—as well as the accumulated slices of decades’ worth of living—to take my mind from the pummel of reflection. I settled down and found boxes rising about me in the minefield of disorganization…

Letters, photographs, various knickknacks and paddywhacks; they surrounded me like a vestibule of yesterday.

As I sifted though these fragments of my own life’s history, I felt myself remembering this particular student, that specific moment of childhood—a fragmented memory which had long-since been forgotten and lain dusty and dormant.

It wasn’t long before my dad came into the room.

Against the wall was a collection of artwork Dad had given to me on that last visit home, nestled amongst them were the sticheries, those which Arlene had done while she was still alive. Dad stared silently at each of these pieces in turn and then asked:

“Did you know that she wrote to you on the back of this one?”

I looked up from the papers I’d been sorting through, and shook my head. I arose from my place and moved slowly to where my dad was standing. The stichery was large, proclaiming “Welcome to the Zimmerman’s” proudly from its frame.

I turned the frame with trembling fingers and looked down at the brown paper backing. There, scrawled in curls I immediately recognized, I saw a message written to me. Mom had written it, she’d written sometime before—before the final days and moments that had taken her inescapably away.

I read over the note she’d written, my mouth dropping open. I was devoid of speech for several moments—I simply gazed at the writing before me.

And, just for a moment, she was there. Whispering those things I so much needed to hear, a message spoken from beyond the blistering confines of this thorny life.

When my dad departed from the room, I remained a few moments longer, gazing at the letter written to me.

I smiled.

Photographs still remain. Videos might be left behind. Recordings of voices might still be in existence…and testaments of love will not be forgotten.

Repost: I have no speech

Pin It Originally posted on March 9, 2008

I will be honest; I don't always relish phone calls from parents...one can never be sure just what type of Pandora's Box is just waiting to be unleashed when that receiver is lifted. This experience is yet another landmark in the saga of teacherdom calls; however, this phone call is probably one of the most odd that I have ever received. This in itself warranted a re-posting of this particular experience.

I hung up the phone and shook my head.

I couldn’t believe it.

The conversation that I had had with this particular student’s mom was a bit out of the ordinary. I never thought a conversation like this would’ve happened…at least, I didn’t ever think it would.

But happen it did…

Z: Hello?
P: Hello, Mr. Z. This is Mrs. So-and-So; What’s-his-face’s mom.
Z: Good afternoon, Mrs. So-and-So. What can I do for you today?
P: Well, I needed to ask you a question, Mr. Z.
Z: Sure, what is it?
P: Well, my son, What’s-his-face, wanted me to call you and ask about your hair.

Pause

Z: My hair?
P: Yes, you see, What’s-his-face wants his hair to stick up like yours and the gel we have doesn’t seem to work very well. He was just wondering what kind you used and where you buy it.

Pause

Z: You’re serious?
P: Um, yeah. (In the background: “What kind does he use, Mom?”)
Z: Well, actually I buy it at Albertson’s.
P: Albertson’s? Great, and what’s it called?
Z: It’s called “Spike Glue.”
P: Spike Glue?
Z: Yes.

Pause

(In the background: “What does it look like?”)
P: Mr. Z? What does the container look like? What’s-his-face wants to be sure we can find the right one when we get to the store.
Z: Well…I think the container is kind of a light bluish-green color to tell you the truth. It says “Spike Glue” right on the lid. It also has kind of a yellow packaging around it.
P: Hang on, I need to write this down.

Pause

P: Okay, got it. Thanks. What’s-his-face will be so excited.
Z: Great, hope you are able to pick some up.
P: Oh yes, we’re going to the store right now.
Z: Alright…well, Mrs. So-and-So, you have a great day and I’ll see What’s-his-face back here again at school tomorrow.
(In the background: “How much does he use?”)
P: Um, Mr. Z?
Z: Yeah?
P: How much of the ‘glue’ do you really use? I mean, I don’t want him to use too much. He hasn’t done this before.
(In the background: “Mom! Don’t tell him that.”)
Z: Well, I usually just get some on the tips of my fingers, that’s usually about enough for me.
P: Hang on. I need to write this down. (In the background: “How does he get his hair to stick up?”)

Pause

P: And then how do you get your hair to stand up like you do?
Z: Well, actually, the gel does most of the work…that’s my big secret. You just kind of muss up your hair until it looks right. The stuff holds pretty well.
P: Okay, Um…Well, I think that’s all we needed. Thanks for your help, Mr. Z, we’ll see you later.
Z: Great, glad I could help out What’s-his-face.
P: Oh, so am I. Well…um…goodbye.

In the words of Jerry Seinfield, “I am speechless: I have no speech.”

Come what May

Pin It I have not responded to your individual comments; I don’t know as how to respond to be completely honest; just know that I am thankful for them.

I am also grateful for the phone calls which I have not answered, the emails which I have not replied to. For the Facebook messages which I have not ignored and for the text messages which you know that I usually never read. For each of these, I offer up a hearty “Thank you…I’m so glad that I can count you as friends.”

To save time I will reply to the one incessant question which has been universal through most of these forms of correspondence: “Teachinfourth, what happened?”

Please be patient and indulge me just a bit as I answer as I can. I find myself doing what writers do when they are faced with a dilemma…they write about it. It is with this in mind that I put tremulous hand to page—

The steady beat of the windshield wipers scraped away the waves of water as the miles of highway fell away beneath the tires of my Honda CR-V. I hadn’t made this trip in years. The clouds overhead were gray and ominous; they were a good mirror for my thoughts—reflecting back the mood of what I had been feeling.

Wait, let me go back.

It was Saturday. I’d been in St. George when the phone call came

No, I need to go still farther.

18 years.

My parents got divorced.

Yes, that was hard. But that is a whole story in itself which could fill volumes. The life that I’d once known had become fractured into two. I at times wonder about the life that would be now had that dreadful event not come to pass, however I’ll never be privy to that information; what I do know is the life which ensued because it did.

That’s the one I am currently living.

To surmise: both my parents eventually remarried.

My dad married a woman named Arlene. To sum up nearly two decades in just a few sentences: she helped my dad and me to finally have a positive relationship. She always made it a point to make sure that we were all included as family. She cared about my father’s children just as much as if she had given birth to each and every one of them herself.

Is it any surprise that we call her, ‘Mother’?

I have two Moms. Two women I credit with varied parts of my life.

Fast forward sixteen years into the future—July 2007; Arlene was diagnosed with cancer. She was given between one and eight weeks to live.

This was the time I received a ticket for the emotional rollercoaster known as life, which would offer up its myriad of twists and turns over the next several months. I ended up flying home in October, thinking that one of my Moms was going to die.

She surprised everyone.

She began to get better.

She began to respond to treatments.

The cancer spread.

Saturday, June 20, 2009—1:34 P.M: The call came from Sandpoint, Idaho. My dad phoned to let me know that Arlene’s condition had rapidly deteriorated and it was not looking good. She had been admitted to the hospital just a few days before because of various complications which inevitably led back to the cancer. She had requested to come home—she told my dad that this is where she wanted to die.

There were to be no miracles this time; no saving graces where she would baffle the doctors and glean extra years to her lifespan as she had done so many times before.

This time, it was for real.

I was on my way. I bid farewell to the friends I’d been visiting and began the arduous trek to the panhandle of northern Idaho—a seventeen hour drive from my current location.

I ran the gambit of emotion as I drove in the rain nearly the entire distance to Tremonton, arriving at 9:00 P.M. and staying with an old friend so as to get an early start out the next day.

I was up before the sun, fumbling with contact lenses and car keys—slipping out into the early morning light, inking over the distant hills like warm butter. I drove along in silence. My jumbled thoughts were mismatched as town after tiny town nestled securely in and amongst the bosom of rolling hills passed in my wake, their inhabitants still aslumber.

As I drove, I passed from sunny skies to those of rainstorm. I traveled through storm after storm. Like the tempests in my own life, I traveled through he sun, rain and back again as the miles still fell away. From time to time I was in the sunlight, but I could see the dark clouds out on the horizon, and I was moving right toward them.

Bring it on.

Was this to be a metaphor of the events coming to pass in my own life? Leaving blue skies behind and trading them for heavens of ashen gray?

Makeshift crosses on the roadside served as sordid reminders of what was to inevitably come to pass. I winced every time I saw one, and quickly averted my eyes, as if having seen something repulsive.

I drove into the downpour.

Down it came, harder…threatening to dislodge my little vehicle from the road, but still I drove, unimpeded.

On the other side of the storm was a sky which was bluer than the one I’d left behind. It made the storm feel worth it, just to see what lay on the other side.

Joni Mitchell once talked about having seen clouds from both sides. I think I understood—finally—what she was trying to say….a road trip of this nature was the best thing for me at this time. It was just me—me and an iPod full of music and a head jammed full of thoughts and a heart full of emotions needing to be worked through. Like the trash strewn along the highways of my life, someone needed to pick it all up and sort through it.

Me.

So I kept traveling the road, with new sights waiting to be seen with the billboards of my life spelling back their messages in the broad moments of quietness.

This second day’s drive took 11 ½ hours, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. when I pulled into my parent’s suburban neighborhood. As I climbed out of my car I realized that had I flown, so many things would have been missed.

It was with a heavy heart that I cut across the evenly cut grass of the lawn and entered through the back door, silent as a wisp of smoke. The problems of the world were still gathering around me, pushing and shoving; they were mine to be conquered, mine to be vanquished.

But for now, let come what may; after all, there is nothing I can do to stop them.

I have no speech

Pin It I hung up the phone and shook my head.

I couldn’t believe it.

The conversation that I had had with this particular student’s mom was a bit out of the ordinary. I never thought a conversation like this would’ve happened…at least, I didn’t ever think it would.

But happen it did…

Z: Hello?
P: Hello, Mr. Z. This is Mrs. So-and-So, What’s-his-face’s mom.
Z: Good afternoon, Mrs. So-and-So. What can I do for you today?
P: Well, I needed to ask you a question, Mr. Z.
Z: Sure, what is it?
P: Well, my son, What’s-his-face, wanted me to call you and ask about your hair.

Pause

Z: My hair?
P: Yes, you see, What’s-his-face wants his hair to stick up like yours and the gel we have doesn’t seem to work very well. He was just wondering what kind you used and where you buy it.

Pause

Z: You’re serious?
P: Um, yeah. (In the background: “What kind does he use, Mom?”)
Z: Well, actually I buy it at Albertson’s.
P: Albertson’s? Great, and what’s it called?
Z: It’s called “Spike Glue.”
P: Spike Glue?
Z: Yes.

Pause

(In the background: “What does it look like?”)
P: Mr. Z? What does the container look like? What’s-his-face wants to be sure we can find the right one when we get to the store.
Z: Well…I think the container is kind of a light bluish-green color to tell you the truth. It says “Spike Glue” right on the lid. It also has kind of a yellow packaging around it.
P: Hang on, I need to write this down.

Pause

P: Okay, got it. Thanks. What’s-his-face will be so excited.
Z: Great, hope you are able to pick some up.
P: Oh yes, we’re going to the store right now.
Z: Alright…well, Mrs. So-and-So, you have a great day and I’ll see What’s-his-face back here again at school tomorrow.
(In the background: “How much does he use?”)
P: Um, Mr. Z?
Z: Yeah?
P: How much of the ‘glue’ do you really use? I mean, I don’t want him to use too much. He hasn’t done this before.
(In the background: “Mom! Don’t tell him that.”)
Z: Well, I usually just get some on the tips of my fingers, that’s usually about enough for me.
P: Hang on. I need to write this down. (In the background: “How does he get his hair to stick up?”)

Pause

P: And then how do you get your hair to stand up like you do?
Z: Well, actually, the gel does most of the work…that’s my big secret. You just kind of muss up your hair until it looks right. The stuff holds pretty well.
P: Okay, Um…Well, I think that’s all we needed. Thanks for your help, Mr. Z, we’ll see you later.
Z: Great, glad I could help out What’s-his-face.
P: Oh, so am I. Well…um…goodbye.

In the words of Jerry Seinfield, “I am speechless: I have no speech.”