SANTA BABY

Well, once again, 'tis the season for me to wrestle with the bipolar roller coaster that is my Christmas thrill ride of holiday mental states.  I both love and loathe this season for many reasons.  It is the epitome of all that is right and wrong in our culture.  No need for me to illuminate this thought much.  You get it, I'm sure.  It's everywhere -- the commercial excess, the mean-spirited greed, the peace of a full moon-lit night and the open-hearted generosity we remember to act upon.

And unbidden memories often come a-calling that are not in keeping with the season at all.

Today as I was sipping my Starbucks Decaf Peppermint Mocha, inching my way in heavy traffic down a city thoroughfare through a commercial strip that runs north and south in my city, I noticed on my right an establishment called Lover's Package.  There was a mannequin in the window dressed in red, in a rather more skimpy Santa suit than you see at the Mall.  Oh, and the mannequin was a shapely woman.  Barbie figure shapely.  Her "suit" was of fur and lace, set off by patent leather knee high boots.  Very Christmasy.

I was suddenly boosted from my grumpy holiday gloom and let out a LOL chuckle.  (ChOL?)  I recalled the one time I actually went inside that store many years ago.  Hub and I had been at a fundraiser at a social service agency nearby.  Maybe we had a couple of little glasses of wine.  Or three.  On a lark, we said, "Hey! Let's go in there!  Could be fun!"  So we did, rather sheepishly.

We are not prudes, but it is still a bit unsettling to wander among the DVD shelves displaying titles like, 'You've Got Male", "On Golden Blonde", "Good Will Humping"…. not to mention the many and varied tools and toys of the trade so brazenly displayed.  One tries not to make eye contact with other customers.  One hesitates to ask the clerk for assistance or recommendations of any kind.  One refrains from standing too close to the window facing the street and wishes their car was parked in a less conspicuous location.  One just wants to get the hell out after only a relatively short time.

One does NOT want to look up from studiously purusing the Pocket Rocket options to see one's elementary school-aged son's male PE teacher walking through the door.  Especially when one is the PTA President that year.

It would be a very discerning observer to be able to determine which face turned the most crimson as eyes met between PTA Mom and Mr. P.E., or to determine which did the most stammering, stalling, and making of excuses for being there.  PTA Mom finally just busted out the truth -- "I'm maybe a little tipsy and just thought this would be a lark; didn't expect to see anyone I knew."  Mr. P.E. claimed to be searching for a Stag Party gift and they didn't have what he wanted, so, "I'm leaving now."   PTA Mom challenged that lame excuse with a huge guffaw and wondered aloud…"What is that you could possibly want that they do not have in here???"  Then we both laughed and swore each other to secrecy.

On Monday morning,  when Mr. P.E. and PTA Mom met in the school hallway, there was a cordial nod.  Maybe there was even a slight smirk, but nothing was ever said of it again.   Ever.

And that is my happy Christmas tale for today.  I'm going to put Eartha Kitt's slightly racy rendition of Santa Baby on the stereo, and find solace that the Spirit works in mysterious ways to lift one from the doldrums.

At least, that's the view from here….©

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL

Angel's childcare provider up and left for 2-1/2 months to visit her family in Pakistan, so Hub and I volunteered to help out last week until another provider stepped in this week.  It was a week when semi-retired Hub was scheduled to work 3 out of the 5 days -- wouldn't you know it?!

I decided that to keep both Angel and I sane during our 10-hour days together, I would schedule "theme days" with outings each day.

Last Monday was "Art and Nature Day".  Most of the morning was spent with art supplies, primarily focused on Angel's idea to create a Halloween mask.  Hub took over in the afternoon with a "hike" through a local park on wooded trails leading to the playground.  Then, naturally, they went to Costco since Hub can't get in the car without ending up a Costco.  They scored big time, since it was "sample day" and returned with Food Court frozen yogurts for everyone!  Yay!

On Tuesday I was on my own.  "Library Day"!  Angel's first library visit delighted her, starting with the huge aquarium at the entrance to the children's section and finding little Nemo swimming around in the coral.  She was overcome with excitement at the amazing numbers of books and DVD's, kicking off her shoes and settling in for a lengthy perusal.  She played with some toys and the dollhouse,then we retired to the Library Coffee Shop for a hot coco and a mini lemon scone, paging through the books and chatting about art.  We stopped at the park on the way home.

Wednesday was "Girls Go Shopping" day, when we met up with a friend of mine for browsing antiques, gifts, and bookstores in a nearby town.  Angel's favorite store, also my own favorite, had so many wondrous things to touch!!!  And tiny purses that just fit a 4 year old's hands.  I try to not encourage impulse buys, but she did, in the end, walk out with a little purse.  We also stopped for coco and croissants and a joint coloring project as my friend and I talked and colored with Angel for over an hour.

Thursday Hub helped plan a day-long "Public Transportation Day".  We took the bus from the bus/train station to the ferry landing, then hopped on the ferry for the crossing to a nearby island where we spent two hours playing on the beach, building sand castles, collecting seashells and exploring a "cave".  We also stopped at a coffee kiosk for coco and cookies.  Late in the afternoon we took the ferry back to the mainland, had a bite of lunch, watched a guy crabbing off the pier,  then boarded the train for a ride back to the station.

Friday, on my own again, and OK, maybe dragging a bit, I declared it "Halloween Day".  We went shopping for a costume.  I was delighted she wanted to be "Spiderman Girl" and was all set to find a terrific super hero costume for her, but once in the store the fairy princess sparkle took hold and we came home with a winged pink and purple sequined frock.  We stopped at Starbucks for coco and bought a small pumpkin to carve, saving the seeds for roasting, and then made sugar cookies shaped like pumpkins and ghosts, frosting them in orange and white and black.

I think we had a pretty good week.  I do have to wonder if Angel was as exhausted at the end of each day as I was.  Probably not.  Her creativity and imagination seem to power her through each day with constant enthusiasm.  I love being with her.  And I get tired.  Friday night I sort of collapsed in gratitude -- for the time spent together and for her aunt, who would be taking over care this week.

But I think I did a good job teaching her a few new things -- her first trip to the library and her first bus and train rides, how to make a mask, roast pumpkin seeds and make cookies.  And other stuff too I'm sure; things that kids just absorb with no effort or recognition by the adults around them.

Most importantly, though, I taught her that no day is complete without a brief respite over coffee, coco, and a sweet treat, best enjoyed with a good friend.  And since she has declared me her "best friend", I look forward to many more cups and conversations in the years to come.  This Gramma thing is awesome.

At least, that's the view from here....©

JACK WAS NIMBLE

I am having people over on Saturday.   I should be cleaning, shopping, getting ready.  But that's not what Jack would do if he could be writing instead.  That's what I tell myself.  I don't really know what Jack would do.  I didn't know him that well.  I didn't know him much at all, really, other than the "public" Jack who stood on stage and mesmerized us with his words.

Jack McCarthy, Stand-Up Poet.  That's what he called himself.  He showed up at our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship a number of years ago and hung out.  Sat sort of towards the back, slouching a bit at the end of the row, when he came to Sunday service.  Didn't say much.  I heard he was some sort of poet, so I was immediately intimidated and bestowed upon him all sorts of magical powers he probably didn't possess.

Then he started performing his poetry at local coffee houses.  And organized Invitational Poetry Slams at our Fellowship -- got all the best local poets to come and compete.  Local poets who had already made names for themselves in National and International Slam Poetry competitions.  I was completely and utterly blown away.  The raw power, the amazing stringing together of words that created image and emotion, told a 3 minute story that often stayed with me for days and weeks.  I became a FanGirl of Slam Poetry.

What I later learned about Jack was that he was legend in the Slam community, first at his home base in Boston, then the Northwest and points in between.  He was the "old guy" who hung with the 20-somethings and mentored them, shared space with them, competed with them.  And they loved him.  We all did.  He could make you laugh until you cried, then cry only because the next three lines of his poem were so poignant there was no other choice.  Following the flow of his words was like watching a kite fly in a blue sky, swirling, soaring, diving, reviving.

When he decided to teach a performance poetry class at our Fellowship I was the first to sign up.  I was elated.  I wanted to see if I could in any way produce that magic too.  I used to have dreams of writing. Not "daydreams", actual nighttime lucid dreams in which I wrote the most amazing things -- all kinds of writing -- and I'd know in my dream that it was real, that I was doing it, but the moment I came back to this world, the words drifted slowly away and were lost.   Still, I had never thought of myself as a writer.  I wrote. Yet to say "I'm a writer" was too big.  But Jack taught me otherwise.

The first thing he said at the first class was, "If you say you are a poet, you're a poet."  And with that out of the way, he showed us how to be better poets.  And encouraged us to keep learning, practicing, just doing it.  He was a "performance poet" where the verbalization of the words he wrote were as important as the words themselves.  I loved that.

Every class we were asked to come up to the front and read/perform a poem.   Being externally motivated and used to "teacher-pleasing" I always read with the hope of getting Jack's "atta-girl".  I was usually disappointed.  His response to a reading was usually a non-committal comment, but nothing like accolade, although he was very kind to one very bad poet and I loved him for that.  Once he even pointed out to the group that one poem I read was a good example of spotting a beginner poet, those who always seem to write about the craft of writing poems.  Grrr...  Another time, after what I still consider to be among my 2-3 very best poems, he said this:  "Sometimes you just know when you get it right."  I took that as high praise.

And I learned from his stingy compliments that my heart-song was my own to sing, whether anyone else liked it or not.  So I just kept going.  Kept writing.  Started going to Open Mics and Talent Nights and organizing readings with my women's poetry group.  People responded to my poems with laughter, tears, and applause.  It's a fabulous feeling to get that approval.  But that pales in comparison to the few who came up afterward to tell me they were touched, could relate, I spoke their own experience.  Writing, for me, is about connection.  The highest praise I can hear is that someone felt their own experience reflected and validated in my words.

And maybe that's ultimately what Jack taught us.  That each person's particular experience has universal appeal when we speak it out loud, sometimes on stage, under the lights...allowing our own vulnerability to give permission to another to touch theirs.

Jack died today.  He's one of those people who touched many lives.  I'm sure his memorial service will be packed with all sorts of people who will be a reflection of his amazing life.  I will sit towards the back, slouching a bit, remembering a man whose poems will never die.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Jack McCarthy  May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013