(Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction, Poetry, Metaphysical Musings, Occasional Humor and B.S.) featuring Guest Musicians, Poets, and Other Creators because variety is the spice of life.
So the way to deal with Doubt is to
apply Grace, and Judgment. So far in every instance, the way to carry
on and maintain our spirits has been to openly apply Grace. When
Trust is broken, Grace covers it. Doubt is raised, Grace applied.
Just as Grace and Rationalization are
two sides of one coin, the thought occurs to me that so too are
Motivation and Judgment. Bear with me on this.
Motivation is what spurs the action,
Judgment is what tempers it. A child wants a cookie but is able to
apply its mother's caution “Don't eat any cookies before dinner. It
will spoil your appetite. You can have two after you eat.”
Motivation is and is not important. The
end result remains in spite of motivation – the car's bumper is
smashed, the plate is broken, trust is destroyed. So the damage
exists separate from motivation. Amends must be made regardless of
motivation. Repairs to the car, replacement of the plate, whatever
can be done to acknowledge the disconnect and rebuild the
relationship.
But motivation does come into play in
some regard. If you accidentally back into another car, your actions
are forgiven once restitution is made. If, however, you did a Kathy
Bates in “Fried Green Tomatoes” and purposefully smashed into
someone's car – that's another story. Dropping a plate is one
thing; throwing the plate, another. Then there are various shades of
“throwing the plate” and what those mean. It can get endless.
So is Motivation important, or not? How
does Judgment fit in? What about – oh no, another concept rears its
head – Forgiveness? Will this butterfly chase ever end? I doubt
it.~~GHC
Excerpt from "The Epic of Sadness" by Nizar Qabanni If a person without sadness is only a shadow of a person, does that conversely mean that a person with sadness realizes the fullness of personhood? Or is that fallacious thinking? I do not know, but I doubt it. But if it were so, I would overflow with personness. I would be the most complete person imaginable. People would stare at me on the streets and whisper in amazement at how much of a person I was. I am so tired of feeling sad. Sometimes I forget I am sad, and I laugh and make others laugh. Sometimes we laugh so hard, we have difficulty breathing. Sometimes the others tell me how happy I make them, how much they enjoy my company. How much I am loved. Sometimes. Then the episode draws to an end, and the others go home. And I am left alone with my thoughts and myself. I have spent most of my life by myself, with my thoughts. As a child, I spent the vast majority of my days locked outdoors, alone, while my siblings and mother stayed inside. At night, I was locked in my room, alone. My father conditioned me not to cry. He began when I was two weeks old and started spanking me every time I cried. The family story goes that his method was such a great success, I soon learned not to cry. I guess I was a quick study. Without going into a lot of how did I get Here from There (and it was an epic journey), I now am able to cry. Sometimes I wonder if it's a mathematical equation, that I must shed a certain number of tears in my lifetime to "catch up" to an equal sum or something. If it is, surely to God I am nearly there? I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy reminding myself it is not a weakness to cry, to feel sadness. I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy trying to convince myself there is nothing inherently wrong with me, that the reason I am alone is not because of some intrinsic flaw. I spend a significant amount of time telling myself I will be loved, I will not end my days alone, I am worthy and deserving and will be vindicated. And so today, my guest poet is once again Nizar Qabbani with his exquisite "The Epic of Sadness." I guess it's better than a sharp stick in the eye. Sorry I can't reach into my bag of tricks and haul out a smile for you. Thank you for reading and hang in there. Tomorrow's got to be a better day. ~~GHC Your love taught me to grieve and I have been in need, for centuries a woman to make me grieve for a woman, to cry upon her arms like a sparrow for a woman to gather my pieces like shards of broken crystal
Your love has taught me, my lady, the worst habits it has taught me to read my coffee cups thousands of times a night to experiment with alchemy, to visit fortune tellers
It has taught me to leave my house to comb the sidewalks and search your face in raindrops and in car lights and to peruse your clothes in the clothes of unknowns and to search for your image even…..even….. even in the posters of advertisements your love has taught me to wander around, for hours searching for a gypsies hair that all gypsies women will envy searching for a face, for a voice which is all the faces and all the voices…
Your love entered me…my lady into the cities of sadness and I before you, never entered the cities of sadness I did not know… that tears are the person that a person without sadness is only a shadow of a person…
Your love taught me to behave like a boy to draw your face with chalk upon the wall upon the sails of fishermen's boats on the Church bells, on the crucifixes, your love taught me, how love, changes the map of time… Your love taught me, that when I love the earth stops revolving, Your love taught me things that were never accounted for So I read children's fairytales I entered the castles of Jennies and I dreamt that she would marry me the Sultan's daughter those eyes.. clearer than the water of a lagoon those lips… more desirable than the flower of pomegranates and I dreamt that I would kidnap her like a knight and I dreamt that I would give her necklaces of pearl and coral Your love taught me, my lady, what is insanity it taught me…how life may pass without the Sultan's daughter arriving
Your love taught me How to love you in all things in a bare winter tree, in dry yellow leaves in the rain, in a tempest, in the smallest cafe, we drank in, in the evenings…our black coffee
Your love taught me…to seek refuge to seek refuge in hotels without names in churches without names… in cafes without names…
Your love taught me…how the night swells the sadness of strangers It taught me…how to see Beirut as a woman…a tyrant of temptation as a woman, wearing every evening the most beautiful clothing she possesses and sprinkling upon her breasts perfume for the fisherman, and the princes Your love taught me how to cry without crying It taught me how sadness sleeps Like a boy with his feet cut off in the streets of the Rouche and the Hamra
Your love taught me to grieve and I have been needing, for centuries a woman to make me grieve for a woman, to cry upon her arms like a sparrow for a woman to gather my pieces like shards of broken crystal
This isn't my actual birthday cake, but I wish it was!
For my birthday, I'm not writing a
column. I'm just listing random images and lyrics I like (emphasis on “random”). Because that's how I roll, baby! It's my day and it's even more about me than usual! Um, did I say that out loud? I provided links (and in some cases, imbedded the videos themselves) to videos for easy reference. You can get my intended effect from this column without listening to the songs themselves. They will, however, enrich your experience if you do choose or are able to listen (specifically, the two videos past the photo of a leopard).~~GHC
Vincent van Gogh's “Starry Night” is my favorite painting. The
rhythm of the elements, the theme of darkness and isolation and
nature, the redemption of Light – yeah, good stuff.
Procol Harem's “A Whiter Shade of
Pale” - Keith Reid
If Music be the food of Life
then Laughter is its Queen
(Keith Reid suggests he wrote “Life” although the lyrics are
almost always transcribed as “Love.” To me, Love is Life,
so it's all the same.) Music and Laughter. Good stuff.
I wonder what influence music had on van Gogh? Music is vital to my
soul. An artful lyric turned just so can affect my mood and change my
outlook for hours, if not days. A rhythm, a tone, a note can resonate
and touch my heart in a way little else can. A good laugh can lift me
for a week.
Alan Parsons Project “The Eye in the
Sky”
The sun in your eyes made some of
the lies worth believing.
Songwriters:
WOOLFSON, ERIC / PARSONS, ALAN / LELEY BERTAZZO, WANDERLEY BERTAZZO
PINTO / LUIZ BATISTA, LUIZ ANTONIO BATISTA MONTAGNA
Did
you ever really pay attention to the full lyrics of
“Scarborough Fair”? The full version has two songs, Scarborough Fair and Canticle sung in a
quasi-round, and the second song is about war. The best I could come
up with as far as a label goes is it is a “canon.” (Forgive my musical ignorance). Trivia: Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme represent comfort, strength, love, and courage.
Simon
and Garfunkel “Scarborough Fair/Canticle” - Traditional/Traditional
Blankets
and bedclothes the child of the mountains
Sleeps
unaware of the clarion call
That's
the first verse of the second song. I won't spoil it for you. Watch
the video and read the lyrics as you listen to the canon. Maybe
you'll understand why this line touches me so: And to fight
for a cause they've long ago forgotten
Yes
- “I've Seen All Good People” - Jon Anderson and Chris Squire
Vicky Bragova-Mitchell is a friend and fellow Zazzle designer (except she is an actual Artist with a capital "A" and I just play a graphic designer on the Internet). We first got to know each other in 2004. Check out her Wikipedia page for info about her fascinating life (and trust me, there is SO much more). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vicky_Brago-Mitchell
While
the majority of the song is sailing jargon, the heart of it is, I
think, about recovery.
In
a noisy bar in Avalon I tried to call you...
What
Heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten
Who
knows Love can endure and you know it will
The
truth you might be running from is so small
But
it's as big as the promise of a coming day
And
my love is an anchor tied to you with a silver chain
She
is all that I have left, and Music is her name
So
we cheated and we lied and we tested
And
we never failed to fail – it was the easiest thing to do
You
will survive being bested
Somebody fine
will come along and make me forget about loving you -------------------------------------------------------------------- There is a line from "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves" said by the dark-skinned, tattooed Moor in response to a little Anglo girl's question about why he looks different ("Did God paint you?"). Akeem gently answers, "For certain. Because Allah loves wondrous variety."
Julie Fowlis and
Bruce Molsky - “Bothan Airagh Am Braigh Raithneach”
“A shelter on the
slopes of Rannoch (in Scotland)”
**If it is at all possible, I urge you to listen to this song.**
English translation: It was
my love and my treasure
who
went yesterday to Glengarry,
the
man with hair like gold
and
kisses that taste of honey.
You
suit your clothes
better
than any man on earth;
you
look better in your garments
than
any man I've ever seen.
You
look better in stockings
and
comfortable laced shoes,
a
dark blue London coat
that
cost many crowns to buy.
When
you arrive at the fair,
you'll
bring home my gear,
my
small belt and my comb
and
my little narrow fastening
head-band.
My
belt will come from Edinburgh
and
my marriage head-dress from
Dunkeld,
we'll
get cattle from the Mearns
and
sheep from Caithness.
And
we'll rear them in a sheiling
in
Bràigh Raithneach,
in
the brush-wood enclosed hut of
dalliance.
The
cuckoo will sing
its
song to us from the trees,
the
brown stag and its roaring
will
wake us in the morning.
Who
could ask for more than to be sequestered in a shelter on the
slopes of a hill in Scotland with Nature surrounding you and the one you love? Throw in some music and books, good food and an animal or two or three, and you've pretty well defined Heaven for me.
--------------------------------------------------------------- Then there's Dr Pepper, and cheesecake.
Then there's the Shenandoah Valley, my favorite place on earth. Photos do not do it justice.
This time last year, I thought I knew what Life held for me. I was married and expected to remain so for the rest of my days. Now I find myself turning 55 today, unattached, the future a blank slate. I hold my chalk and doodle, wondering how the shapes will firm up. And just when we think we understand, Life giggles behind her hand and shows us what fools we are to think we can ever figure her out. As Robert Frost said so well:
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.
Or as my favorite writer put it: So it goes.~~Kurt Vonnegut Which leads me to close with my favorite singer's lyrics to "And So It Goes":
In every heart there is a room a sanctuary safe and strong to heal the wounds from lovers past until a new one comes along
I spoke to you in cautious tones you answered me with no pretense and still I feel I said too much my silence is my self defense
And every time I've held a rose it seems I only felt the thorns and so it goes, and so it goes, and so will you soon I suppose
But if my silence made you leave then that would be my worst mistake so I will share this room with you and you can have this heart to break
And this is why my eyes are closed it's just as well for all I've seen and so it goes, and so it goes, and you're the only one who knows
So I will choose to be with you that's if the choice were mine to make but you can make decisions too and you can have this heart to break
And so it goes, and so it goes, and you're the only one who knows.
Trivia: This song was so intensely personal to Billy Joel that it was not released for seven years after he wrote it. I think it's exquisitely beautiful.
Thank you for reading. I'm looking forward to the best year yet. Thanks for traveling along with me. You're a great companion.~~GHC
My birthday is tomorrow, and as a result, I'm doing a lot of introspection (more than usual!). One mini-goal I have is to label or name my spiritual belief system. Hint: It's not going smoothly. Labels are difficult for me. Boxes are worse. Wish me luck.~~GHC
My response to:
“Make no mistake about it –
Enlightenment is a destructive process. It has nothing to do with
becoming or being happier. Enlightenment is the crumbling away of
untruth. It is seeing through the facade of pretense. It is the
complete eradication of everything we imagined to be true.
~~Adyashanti
I must agree. This "Road to Enlightenment" ain't for sissies. It feels like all the hard crust is being broken off and chipped away, revealing a tender nerve that has never been exposed to the atmosphere.
Sometimes the hardest part is knowing the delicate bit is itself a crust surrounding an even more vulnerable core.~~GHC
Thank you for reading my blog. I greatly appreciate your loyalty and interest and hope my words enrich your life in some way. ~~Ginger
In
a perfect Universe, when Doubt stands on your shoulder and whispers
sweet somethings in your ear, Grace steps in.
Grace
is transforming. Grace offers a safe haven that enables us to gather
our courage and take action, but does not restrict us. Grace is an open shelter.
Grace's
evil twin is Rationalization. Rationalization is crippling.
Rationalization is a wall that blocks us in and keeps us trapped.
So
how do we recognize the difference between the roof and the wall?
First, let me remind you that I am not a psychologist (nor do I play
one on TV), or anything else; I am just a person like you traveling
the Path. I have no authority or power. These are just my thoughts,
expressed and shared with others. This is some heavy-duty stuff. Each
of us is responsible for doing our own work. I'm just letting you
peek at my paper.
So
I am faced with the situation (carrying over from yesterday's blog
post) where I need to decide whether I can trust others (Still? Ever?
Someday?), or whether it is safer/more acceptable to me to choose not
to trust. Note that this has nothing to do with others and everything
to do with me.
Grace
says, “Rest in me and it will be enough. You are safe. You can do
it; you can move forward. It will be all right. I promise and I
always keep my promises.” And She does.
Rationalization
sidles up and whispers, “Do [or don't]; you can always change your
mind later.” Rationalization is the voice that tells you to stop
thinking about a situation and put it off until tomorrow. Sometimes
we get so overwhelmed and confused that we rationalize in order to
function.
Rationalization
is like quicksand. It sucks at your shoes and prevents you from
moving forward.
I'm
thinking Grace allows all parties involved to move freely;
Rationalization holds back the one who rationalizes while permitting
the object of the rationalization to move along.
The
illusion is that you are moving on. Your feet shuffle, the
scenery changes, it seems like you're traveling. But in reality, you
are marching in place. Rationalization says “He meant well; he
wasn't trying to hurt me with those lies.”
Now
we're moving into not only Motivation, but Judgment as well. This may
well be a neverending series of musings, folks. Every time I think
I'm coming to a natural conclusion, I find another butterfly to
chase. Maybe I'm drawing closer to finding Truth?
Then
again, maybe all of this is total bullshit.
Still,
I find myself wanting to forgive, to let go, to refuse to hold onto
anger and resentment, to trust. This represents one of Life's
paradoxes. While it is simple to close one's eyes and -- poof -- blow away the chaff from one's hand, it is complicated to let go of
anger and resentment.
Forgiveness
and trust feel a lot alike to me. The sensation I get when I actively
forgive another person is a breath of fresh air, a lightness, a
positive energy. Trusting someone freely feels nearly identical.
I
like how it feels.
So for Today, with the help of Grace, I choose...
to trust.~~GHC
A person whose role in my life has been
significant for many years was recently exposed as having habitually
lied to me. Under numerous circumstances, sometimes seemingly out of
no deeper motivation than avoiding a second question.
If you know me, you know I am innately
curious and ask lots of questions. I don't interrogate anybody for
the sake of judgment; I seek to understand for my own edification.
It's really all quite objective. It is extremely rare for me to “get
personal.” Think of me as a slightly more mature four year old:
“Why? Why? Why?” I imagine I can be annoying. That's why I try
not to ask any more often than I feel compelled to know. The world is
definitely not ready for my level of curiosity; this I learned the
hard way. I am a giant knowledge sponge.
So this significant person established
a decades-long relationship on a foundation of lies. I only recently
came to understand this reality. Now I am dealing with the fallout.
And in my objective, scientific-ish way of handling relationships, I
weighed the impact of this break in trust. Naturally, I find it
difficult to trust this individual, but it goes far deeper and
further than that. I hear whispers of doubt when dealing with others,
as well.
Doubt is a bastard. But like a sherpa
on a trek up Kilimanjaro, a necessary bastard. We all need a little
doubt to stay alive. If we blithely walked everywhere without
questioning, we'd soon end up dead. But too much doubt undermines
one's ability to lead a fulfilling life. Too much doubt causes one to
question others' motivations when maybe it really doesn't matter.
When what the others do really doesn't have a thing to do with US.
When we hold up the yardstick of our existence and force-measure
someone else against our standard. That's a negative result of doubt.
Another negative result of doubt is
questioning ones self. What was wrong with me that I believed those
lies for so long? Is there something functionally wrong with me that
I cannot see through deception? Is this new person lying to me now?
Will the next person I run into, say at the post office, lie to me
too? Does everybody lie? Studies tend to suggest everybody does. What
does that even mean?
These are the truly evil consequences
of his lying. Not even the situations that were hidden and lied
about, but the fallout, the loss of trust, the doubt, the residual
lessening of ME and my spirit, my life, the revealing of my weakness,
my reluctance to trust.
In my spiritual Universal way of thinking (my
personal spiritual path that remains unlabeled yet is fairly defined),
the lesson here is that I must trust more fully, more deeply, more
willingly. His lies exposed my doubt. They laid open a wound that had
never fully healed, an ugly wound at that.
Two sides of the coin: Trust, and
doubt.
So how does one deal with Trust and
Doubt? I'd say with Grace and Judgment. More on that tomorrow. ~~GHC
As expected, eight-year-old Kelly wailed when she learned her pet hamster Henry died. She asked me if she could hold him. Hold him she did, for half an hour. She made a little bed of sorts with a paper towel carefully folded under his body and a sweet little top sheet made from a Husson's Pizza napkin. If Henry so chooses, from the afterlife he can order the largest pizza in town.
In our family we use humor as a yardstick to gauge where we stand emotionally. Later in the evening I pointedly caught and held my daughter's eye and asked, "What do you think about making a raft out of popsicle sticks and giving him a Viking funeral once the rain picks up? I think the flow in the gutter would support his weight."
Kelly tried to look unhappy but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away.
"That would be awesome. Can I help you make the raft?"
The rain didn't pick up and we didn't make a raft – never intended to, of course. Later in the evening I came up with another idea, since no one had offered to take on the task of burying our little hamster. In our family, it's customary for someone to volunteer to bury a pet. Otherwise, Daddy does it by default.
"Hey, Kelly, maybe you could just take Henry to school tomorrow for show and tell," I teased. My husband glared at me. Apparently, he'll be the one to volunteer for burial duty.
"That would be fun, Mama," Kelly said.
James chimed in. "Yeah, you could say he was alive when you left home, and then see how panicked your new teacher gets."
I knew Kelly would be fine when she added, "I'll take him in a Ziploc bag and when we `discover' that he's dead I'll say, `Wow, guess these Ziploc bags don't keep things as fresh as you'd think.'"
Doc began putting on his shoes. "Somebody bring me the damned shovel."
West Virginia roads suggest dancing.
There is an innate rhythm to the undulations formed by lanes carved
to shadow waterways that gently curve down the mountains. A sensuous
sway of Nature's hips; she is a Mountain Woman making her way down
the path with an apron full of walnuts in Autumn.~~GHC
Nature, Grace, Redemption
Each morning, Sun's light darts through
thick foliage, seeking his mountain woman. He issues a clarion call
to awaken and join him in the forest. He watches over her throughout
the day even when she feels alone. She is courted by both Sun and
Wind. The jealous suitors vie for her affection in an eternal battle.
Sun soothes her spirit, warms her body,
lights her way in the gloom. Sun breaks the dark grasp of Winter,
heralds the promise of Spring. Sun beats her in Summer, smothers her
with his passion, lashes her with his harsh rays. His heat
coaxes her musky essence; it drifts on the breeze. Mountain Woman
lies panting and sweating in a verdant valley, drained and spent when
he leaves her. She cries out from her spirit to Wind to come and
bring relief.
Rivulets of perspiration trace the
curves of her countenance and she dreams of Wind's sweet touch.
Sensing her scent in the zephyr, Wind joins Mountain Woman. He
whispers against her cheek, smoothes her hair. He strokes her
everywhere at once. The hairs on her arms stand up as he wraps around
and over and under her, finding his way into tiny crevices that Sun
never discovers. Mountain Woman shivers from the sensation. He
brushes her nipples, causing them to reach for his touch. He obliges.
But Wind is as cruel a lover as Sun. In
Winter, he causes her hair to lash her face. He chaps her skin,
chills her to the bone. In Winter, she sometimes weeps for Sun,
wondering if he will ever return. Wind leaves as suddenly as he
arrives, without warning every time. He is capricious, unlike
faithful Sun who soars across the sky each morning and stays until
nightfall when he settles into the trees like a bird returning to its
nest.
Mountain Woman has a third lover:
Night. Night too is faithful but undemanding. She waits until Sun
leaves, gracious and patient for her turn. Her gentle fingers soothe
Mountain Woman's tired spirit and restore her soul. She pulls
Mountain Woman to her bosom, murmurs into her ear to rest, sleep,
renew, and refresh.
Sometimes Wind comes while Mountain
Woman lies within Night's arms. He rails against the walls, his
jealousy evident. He howls outside her window, impotent and incapable
of forcing her to unlatch her door and allow him in. He warns of
Night's deceit.
Glittering diamonds emphasize Night's
dark beauty. She offers gifts to Mountain Woman: the Moon and Stars.
Night's jewels are sempiternal but cold and distant. They sparkle
with false brilliance. Their light is mere reflection; their lives
forfeit long ago. Like Mountain Woman, they cannot be possessed.
Mountain Woman wakens and makes her way
down the hillside to the River. River is her true Love. River fills
her every crevice, gentle and insistent, patient, persistent.
Thorough. River caresses and treasures everything Mountain Woman
offers and nothing more. If she deigns to only dip a dainty foot in,
River caresses it, worships it. When Mountain Woman chooses to
disrobe away from the prying eyes of Sun, Wind, or Night, and offers
herself entirely into River's embrace, River welcomes her. River
always accepts, never judges. River extends an invitation but never
presses. Steady yet never stagnant, faithful yet not fawning, loving
without lusting, River is the keeper of Mountain Woman's heart.
It occurs to me that humans love and resonate when we expose our flaws, express our vulnerabilities, and reveal our weaknesses to one another within a narrow range. Too fragile or too strong and you will be #ForeverAlone ~~Ginger Hamilton Caudill
*Language* I meant to pick up cigarettes at the grocery yesterday, but I forgot and by the time I got home, it was too late to go back out. The neighborhood's gone downhill, if you know what I mean. I held off until five this morning and couldn't stand the nicotine fit another minute. Pulled on some sweat pants and drove over to the One-Stop. Around here, it's called Da Sto'.
I should've known better than to get out when I noticed the man swigging out of a half-pint whiskey bottle. A sign on the storefront read "It is a crime (misdemeanor) to consume alcoholic beverages on these premises." But I needed cigarettes and figured I could buy them and scurry back to my car in less than a minute. Nothing else was open yet.
Four men stood in a clump inside the store, not really in line but not shopping either. I hurried to the counter and waited to be acknowledged. The clerk warily watched the group of men. They were shifting now, splitting like a cell about to divide.
"I need a pack of Basic menthol light 100s, please. The light green, long ones." The clerk ignored me. I glanced over my shoulder. The clump had mitosed and become two pairs of men. One pair moved toward the liquor section. "I'd like one pack of Basic menthol light 100s and I'm in kind of a hurry." I held up a five-dollar bill so the clerk could see I was ready to pay him. I noticed a sign over his shoulder. "You must be at least 21 years of age to purchase beer or wine." The clerk bent over and reached under the counter, keeping his head in sight.
The two men near the counter split – one dashed up and shoved me out of the way. I slammed into a snack chip display before I hit the floor. Frito-Lay products rained down on me. I wondered if my hip was broken. I heard a voice. "Give me your fucking drop cash. All of it. Don't hit no fuckin' alarm either, motherfucker." The two men near the back had disappeared. I covered my head with my arms.
"No problem, man. Be cool, it's all good. I can't open the drop cash box. Take the register money, okay?" The clerk's voice was high and wavery. I thought he might cry.
"Shut the fuck up! Put it in the bag, motherfucker. Put those cigarettes in there too." The cash drawer rang open. Coins pinged on the floor. I heard items being stuffed into recyclable plastic bags. "Don't look at me, fucker. Look away if you know what's good for you." Damn, I need a cigarette.
I heard crashing, glass broke. Fluids gurgled out. The door banged open and running footsteps faded away. Cautiously, I peeked between my forearms. "Are they gone?" The clerk finally answered me. "Yeah. I'm calling the law."
As I crawled to my feet, I repeated, "Can I have a pack of…"
Alma slid the timecard into the slot with a gentleness that belied the strength in her gnarled brown fingers. For years, her hands wrung the last stubborn drip from a thousand soggy bath towels, but Alma had the misery now. Oh, if she had to do it, she still could. Thank merciful heaven she didn't do washin' no more.
These days the only washin' she did was when the old folks didn't make it to the potty chair in time. She'd clean their bottoms, pat `em dry, and then powder `em so they didn't get a rash.
The patients loved her stories about the old days. Alma boasted how her deft hands sent yard birds to heaven before they could squawk in protest. She spoke of shucking corn and snapping beans, putting up dozens of jars of apple butter she'd cooked all day long in an old copper kettle. Alma figured she'd shucked a silo of corn and snapped a trainload of beans in her time. She'd changed enough diapers to cover every rear end in Potts County – man, woman, and child. She reckoned she'd burped four generations of babies -- black, white, and every shade between.
Her hands had lifted her man Leroy right over the edge of ecstasy and set him smack-dab in the middle, breathless and grateful. She'd plaited his hair, her nimble fingers a chocolate blur as she worked. When he'd had his heart attack, Alma kept things running smooth, selling her canned vegetables, fruits and jams to the tourists who came to town that spring. She'd even pocketed a little pin money nobody knew about but her and God. Leroy'd been dead three years now, she reckoned. He was a good man. He worked hard and turned his money over to her every Saturday morning when he got paid. He didn't have much to say but he loved her with a fierce passion and didn't trot around on her none. A woman couldn't ask for much more.
Her co-worker Nancy's soft voice transported Alma's thoughts back to the time clock nook. Alma blinked and looked at the timecard. "What you gonna do this weekend, Miz Alma?"
She flashed a broad smile at the younger woman. "Oh, lawd, child, I reckon I'm a-gonna keep on doin' what I always done." Alma patted Nancy's shoulder. "See you first thing Monday morning."