Guardian Angel

If you were to remind me that it’s been 5 years, 3 months and 3 days since my mother died, I would swear that somehow you were wrong.

 And then I would change the subject.

I wouldn’t tell you how I really feel about the whole thing.  I wouldn’t tell you about the good and the happy.  I wouldn’t tell you about the sad and the void.  I know I wouldn’t say much at all.  I’d keep it all inside.

 

 

But then along came Gracie.

 

She is beautiful and innocent and every part of her is good.  

Somehow fate has determined that my mother would never meet her 5^th grandchild. Gracie would never sit in her arms, look up at her face and giggle.  Granny would have loved Gracie.

 It all seemed so incredibly unfair. 

 

I look at Gracie’s Facebook pictures and each one is cuter than the last.  I read the comments about how much she looks like her mom-and she does look like her mom.  But sometimes she looks like her dad.  Sometimes I’m staring at a baby that looks just like my brother did when he was a baby. 

 

 

 

It was either Thanksgiving or Christmas, 1975.  The picture was taken at the Bernice Street house.  We were all sitting on the orange and harvest gold flowered couch.  Grandpa had that thin short sleeve button up shirt on with those black rimmed glasses.  Uncle Steven had a freckled face and sat on Grandpa’s lap in wearing Toughskin jeans.  I was missing my front tooth and had hair that flipped up at the ends.  Great Grandma Titus sat on the edge wearing an oversized sweater draped over her best housecoat.  She crossed her hands across her chest in the same way I’ve seen every female in our family do.  And Granny sat on that couch, right in the middle, wearing a matching two piece black and white polka dot polyester ensemble.  Her hair was done. She was smiling.  On her lap was my brother, Gracie’s dad.   He was 7 or 8 months old.  He was wearing brown overalls and didn’t have any socks on.  His hand reached for the ribbon in my hair, his face full of concentration.  It is the same face of concentration I saw in Gracie’s Facebook video.

 My mother would have told Gracie she looks like her dad.  She would have showed her that picture.  She would have told her that story.

 

 

The chaos of the Christmas shopping crowds swirled around me as I looked at wrapping paper in Target a few weeks ago.  I mindlessly debated what I should buy when I was tapped on the shoulder.  I turned to find no one there.  I turned back to the wrapping paper.  There was yelling in my ear.  “I said turn around!”  But it was a quiet yell, somehow.  I knew it was only in my head.  I turned around to face the wall of Christmas ornaments behind me.  They were almost completely sold out.  There were 4 Disney ornaments off to the far left side.  And there was one ornament left smack dab in the middle of the display, all by itself.  It was an angel.  Carved into the ornament was, “Guardian Angel”.  

 

I don’t have any proof that I’m not crazy. 

I don’t have any proof that angels exist.

I can’t explain who spoke in my ear and said, “It’s for Gracie.”   But without one single ounce of doubt, I know I heard them. 

I have no way to explain how in an instant, in the midst of a crowd of Target Christmas shoppers, all was peaceful and all was good.  

But without one single ounce of doubt, I know that it was.

 

 

 

If you were to remind me that it’s been 5 years, 3 months and 3 days since my mother died, I would swear that somehow you were wrong.  And then I would tell you that it’s been over 3 months since my niece Gracie was born.  I’d tell you how sometimes she looks like my brother.  I’d show you the pictures to prove it.  I’d tell you how much my mom would have loved her.

 

 

And if you were lucky, I might even tell you a little story about a guardian angel.



Check This Out!

Of course, if you haven't seen one of the best angel movies ever, I strongly encourage you to watch It's a Wonderful Life.  With Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in the lead roles, it's a classic everyone should see at least once.

Call Me Jose

It was Cinco de Mayo when the drunk man handed the boy a small Mexican flag and asked him when the train was going to leave.  The boy took the flag, looked over at me nervously and then told the drunk man that the train had already started moving.  The drunk man looked outside the windows, confused, and said,”Nooo!  This train is NAAAWT moving.  It’s the people outside that are moving, not the train. Right?”  The drunk man then turned around suddenly and commanded all those who could hear him, “Hey!  Stop with the Mexican jokes!  This is no time for Mexican jokes!”

 

The boy and I were lucky to find empty seats on the loud and crowded commuter train that would take us home. We were surrounded by boisterous, mostly intoxicated, mostly harmless soccer fans celebrating a victory.  It was the drunk man however, who took the final empty seat beside me.

He looked to the boy, seated across from us, still holding the Mexican flag.  His face lit up. “Hey, buddy!  Where’d you get that Mexican flag?  Did you know today is Cinco de Mayo?  Do you know the real reason for Cinco de Mayo?  Well, really, it’s an excuse for Americans to drink.”    The drunk man then lectured the boy and I on the history of Cinco de Mayo.  We also learned about his wife and his kids and his job and the biggest regrets of his life.

 

Across the aisle, a group of young men were debating what to draw on their friend who was “resting” with his eyes closed.  One put down a Sharpie marker and reached in his backpack.  He announced, “ZONE Bars!  These are my victory ZONE Bars!”  ZONE Bars were passed out to all.  The loud, young men were overly polite and offered unrestrained hellos to all who passed through our train car.  The man closest to the door was even kind enough to secretly drop a piece of ZONE Bar in every bag or purse that passed in front of him.  One member of the group chastised 3 kids who ran through the train.  “Where are your parents?  You are disturbing the nice people on this train!  Sit down and put on your seat bolts.”  Someone else yelled out, “Seat BOLTS!  You said BOLTS!”  And all the men laughed.  Someone in the group opened a beer he had hidden in his coat.  And all the men cheered.

The least rambunctious of the young men looked across the aisle and saw the boy, the drunk man and I staring at his group of friends.   He tried to hush his them, “Hey guys, hey guys, calm down a bit.  That lady over there--she’s clearly with child. You should really calm down.”

I turned around to find the pregnant person behind me.  There was no one there but me.

 

The drunk man next to me began asking me questions.  Did you like the soccer game?  Is that boy holding that Mexican flag your kid?  Where are you from?  Are you married?  For how long?  What do you do? 

I told him that sometimes I write stories.

“Are you gonna write about this train?  Are you gonna write a story about ME?” he said with a smile.  “If you do, don’t use my real name.  Don’t call me Pete.”

There was a pause and then he requested proudly,

  “Call me, Jose.”

Drunk Jose then turned to the boy and with much surprise asked him, “Hey buddy!  Where’d you get that Mexican flag?  I used to have one just like it.”

 

When the train pulled into our station, the boy and I stood up to leave.  Drunk Jose said it had been a pleasure.    And then he grabbed the boy by the arm and looked him in the eye. “You’re a good kid.  I can see that.  Don’t ever change that.  Ever.”

And with that the boy and I and a small Mexican flag departed the train.

As we walked off the platform I wondered out loud to the boy if our train ride was awful or hilarious.  I wondered if he was scarred for life.  And then I remembered those young punks across the aisle.

“Those drunk Zone Bar guys who kept yelling ‘seat bolt’-- I didn’t like them at all.” 

The boy shook his head in confusion. “Why? What are you talking about?”

“They thought I was pregnant!   They said… ‘She is clearly with child.’”

The boy was dumbfounded. “They didn’t think you were pregnant!”  He said, shaking his head.  “They didn’t say ‘clearly with child’ they said you were, ‘here with her child’.  They were talking about me!”  The boy didn’t have much more to say to me after that.

 

 

The boy and I walked away from the train station in silence.  He waved his new Mexican flag.  I looked at my reflection in the store front windows trying to see if I really did look pregnant.  And somewhere further down the train tracks, drunk Jose, on his way home from a soccer game, was thoroughly enjoying a Zone Bar as he tried to remember where he left his Mexican flag.

 

Check This Out!

At a loss as to what to recommend to you this time, the teenager has submitted her new favorite lip balm.  She is quite taken with Nivea- A Kiss of Smoothness Hydrating Lip Care SPF 4.  She declares it "the best Chapstick ever!”.  I agree, since she stole it from my purse.

 

 

 

Microwave Vacation

The frozen blueberry muffin sat on the counter for 20 minutes before I realized I no longer needed to live this way.  My lengthy, first world hardship was over.  Nearly instant gastronomic gratification was mine again.  After 20 minutes of course, the muffin was just about defrosted.   I ate it standing up in my kitchen, staring at my brand new microwave oven and wondered how many days would go by before I’d start using it.

 

 

On the day the microwave blew up, the boy developed an uncontrollable craving for popcorn. 

Microwave popcorn.

We had none in the house.  We never had it in the house.  4 out of 4 family members preferred ice cream instead of popcorn.  There was plenty of ice cream in the freezer. Suddenly there was no ice cream love to be found. Without a microwave, 4 out of 4 family members now longed for microwave popcorn.

 

The microwave had been misbehaving for quite some time.  Arcing and sparking and randomly scaring the living daylights out of me with its loud, eruptive caterwauling.  Unpredictable and infrequent, this behavior was easily ignored.  Tired of not being taken seriously, the microwave, at last, angrily threw its biggest fit ever-an epic, raging tantrum, spewing forth the most unpleasant smell as a final, emphatic exclamation point.

The normally handy husband briefly feigned interest in fixing the microwave but ultimately announced it permanently disabled.   My normally frugal self refused to allocate funds to replace an item so many people in history had managed to live quite well without.   And so for nearly a year I poured the Beefaroni into a saucepan and placed it on top of the stove. Leftover enchiladas were reheated in a baking dish in the oven.  I set my frozen English muffin out an hour before breakfast to defrost.  I’ve eaten one frozen microwave meal in those long months-it took me 45 minutes to cook in the oven on a cookie sheet.

And nearly once a week, someone mentioned how nice a little microwave popcorn would taste.

 

Santa brought me a microwave this year.  The normally handy husband installed it.  My normally frugal self was pleased Santa found a good sale.  And then it sat.  Unused. I stared at it while I ate my defrosted blueberry muffin and for so many days after that.  Finally, on movie night, the boy suggested we get some microwave popcorn. 

We popped 4 bags of popcorn that night.  My new microwave and I, still unfamiliar with each other, managed to burn two of them to the point that not a single kernel was salvageable. The other two bags we shared.  4 out of 4 family members declared the popcorn “fine”.  There were leftovers.

The next morning I got up and set my frozen English muffin on the counter top to defrost. I told myself this would give me time to drink some coffee. I made oatmeal on the stove top.  I told myself it was almost as fast as the microwave and it was fun to stir.  For lunch I reheated leftover pizza in the oven.  I told myself I liked how the crust didn’t get soggy this way.  For dinner I baked potatoes for over an hour at 400 degrees.  I told myself I’d have plenty of time to prepare the toppings and help the kids with homework while they baked.  

 And that night I heard someone call out, “Hey, do we have any ice cream?”

 

Check This Out!

My new favorite cookbook is How to Cook Everything-the basics by Mark Bittman.  If you only wanted to own one cookbook, this would be a great candidate.  If you want to own more than one cookbook, check out Mark Bittman’s other cookbooks. They are all fantastic.

 

 

5th Generation

The baby girl crawled over to the boy, balanced on her knees and lifted her hands toward him. 

This was not a shy baby. It was immediately clear that ignoring her was not going to be an option for the boy. 

It mattered not that she had just met him.  It mattered not that he looked down at her as if she were an alien species. It mattered not that he preferred appearing aloof, thinking instead of food and video games and how much he wished he were somewhere else.  That baby held her head high, looked him straight in the eye and stood her ground.  She wanted to be picked up and he was the one who was going to do it.

Perhaps it’s unfair to judge the baby by this singular instance.

But, I had seen that look before.  I knew that look.

I had seen it in her mother.  I had seen it in her aunt and cousins.  I had seen it in her grandmother and her sisters.  I had seen it in her great-grandmother.  And without a doubt, I had seen it many, many times in her great-great-grandmother.   This baby girl came from a long line of self assured, confident women who were not afraid to speak up--women who made things happen. When I saw that baby girl reach up to the boy with such expectation, I saw five generations of women flash before my eyes.  It was clear to me that the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

And this baby was quickly growing impatient with the almost 13 year old boy who had yet to pick her up. He stared bewildered, looking down at the baby and then pleaded in my direction with raised eyebrows, big eyes and reluctant face.

 I let him flounder alone under the uncomfortable, resolute, piercing regard of the baby.

The boy did pick up the baby with the grace you would expect of a young one from the male species who has never done such a thing before.  He plopped her unceremoniously down upon the sofa.

Because I am a dues paying member of the Always Looking One Step Ahead Paranoid Mother’s Club I knew that baby was in immediate danger.  She was facing the wrong way and she was going to lean backwards and fall off the sofa.

I yelped out to the boy, “Ahhhh…watch her!  You can’t leave her like that!”

He answered quickly and firmly. “MOM!   I’ve GOT this.   Chill….”

 

And that baby sat content, swaying and tilting and patting the boy’s knee, defying all the natural laws of babies in danger because they are placed backwards on the edge of the sofa.  She looked up at the boy and he grinned at her.  She rewarded him with a new tooth smile and reached her arms up again.  The boy picked her up and sat her in his lap.  The baby played with the boy’s face and they twirled each other’s fingers. She leaned in and he held her tight.

“See Mom?  You worry too much.  It’s all good.”

 

As his mother, I refused to consider the future ramifications of how quickly the preteen boy had been swayed by a cute girl with a pretty smile.  It was hard not to acknowledge, however, how completely he had come under this baby girl’s charming spell and quiet determination. Five minutes earlier he was a dismayed boy intent on avoiding all contact with the unfamiliar, drooling baby.  Yet, now I heard him speak baby talk.  I watched him play peek-a-boo.  I saw him love that baby.

Yes, there was something about that baby girl.  I had seen that personality. I had seen that resolve.  I had seen that girl power.

Yes, I had seen the same look that determined baby girl had.  In fact, I had been seeing it for the last five generations of women who knew how to make things happen.   

And I shook my reserved and jealous head and laughed to myself, “Watch out world.  Here comes another one.”

 

 Check This Out!

This photo of that wonderful baby girl and her grandma, my cousin, was taken by Chantelle from Memories by Chantelle.   Her philosophy Live! Love! Laugh! Photograph! is one that we all should embrace. Every one of you should check out her Facebook page  and if you live near me then you should definitely consider hiring her.  My teenager is a senior this year and Chantelle is my first choice to take her senior pictures. She is truly, without a doubt, a gifted photographer and you would be so lucky to have her photograph you and your family.  I mean, really, tell me that priceless picture below doesn't make you smile....

 

 

Not So Different

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was stunning.


She entered the courtroom in absolute possession of determination, self-assurance and flair. The fabric of her African dress swished and flowed as she marched to the front of the room. She flung her brightly colored wrap around her shoulders before she raised her right hand. As she took her seat, she adjusted her perfectly matched head wrap.

I suppose you could call her an imposing figure-her height, her confidence and the abundance of deep purple, magenta and orange fabric she was wrapped in all demanded your attention. Yet, it was the intensity and pinpoint focus of her eyes that caught my attention.



We couldn’t have been more different.

She owned the room while I shifted awkwardly in my chair. She was tall, black and elegantly African. I was short, white and wearing comfortable Nike shoes and mom jeans. Her oversized orange hoop earrings hung from her ears. I fingered my ears and tried to remember where my stud pearls were. We were not just different physically. Geographically, politically, economically and philosophically we were born into opposite ends of the worldwide spectrum.

Yet here we sat, 20 feet from each other--her fate was in my hands.



Her history brought her to the United States, where, many years later, she found herself fighting to prove her innocence. As the lawyers presented their sides, it was clear the case was quite complicated on many levels. The testimony required interpreters for the French and Arabic languages as well as a few unique African dialects. The difference in cultural nuances and traditions often clouded the facts and made testimony quite unclear and certainly more complex. Even the simple definition of “friend” was never quite nailed down. Each day I found myself in a whirlpool of African immigrant history, tradition and culture mixing with the spirit, routine and resolve present in their current, very American lives. It was my job to filter it all through the American judicial system.







Later, I would find out she lived not far from me-just a few miles. I wondered if we shopped at the same stores. I wondered if she was being a good mother to her kids.

Later, I would find out the incident took place half a block from where my daughter was considering going to college. I drove past the door they said she stormed out of. I recognized the very place they said she became guilty. I saw the very place she became bloodied.

Later, I would look up news reports of the incident. Later, I would be shocked at how much information was ruled inadmissible in court. Later, I would wonder if it would have made a difference in the outcome.







But sitting in my jury chair, I knew the only possible answer was “NOT GUILTY”. Was it possible she was guilty? Maybe. Was it proven? Not at all.

When I left that courthouse I went home to cook dinner for my husband and children. Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Most of all I wondered: Did she leave that courthouse and go home to cook dinner for her husband and children, too? Was it possible that we really weren’t that different after all?





Check This Out!

I’m currently in an “at-one-time-messed-up-rock star/actor” biography reading stage. Somewhere near all of these books on the shelf at the library I found this little gem of a book. Why is My Mother Getting a Tattoo? And Other Questions I Wish I Never Had to Ask by Jancee Dunn. Dunn, many years a rock journalist, is pretty darn amusing in this book of essays. I can’t imagine anyone not finding a bit of humor in her takes on life, her parents, and her siblings and how they all mesh together now that she might be called, by some, middle aged. It’s a quick read and was well worth my time—you should check it out!

Empty Your Pockets

Considering the public nature of the echoing rotunda, I thought his bellowing was a bit too dramatic. “For GOD’S sake! You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”, he yelled to the ceiling. His eyeballs rolled. He huffed.

Given the inherent tension of the situation, I found his hollering was a bit too alarmist. “Did one of you ACTUALLY put TWO Advil…and ONLY two Advil… into this pink plastic bin, send it through THEEE x-ray machine at THISSS courthouse?” He held the pink bin up high, for all to see, and shook his head, in disgust, from side to side.

And seeing a lack of any real threat from my apparent faux pas, I felt his vocal drama was just plain gratuitous. “Is this supposed to be FUNNY? Some sort of attempt at-----humor?” He narrowed his now frowning eyes as he glared at each of us in line.

It was clear the man in the security uniform was annoyed.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, though. I was trying to get to jury duty on time.


I had rushed through the courthouse doors carrying my reusable grocery bag. It had appealing pictures of fruit on the outside and was full to the brim with my lunch, a Regis Philbin biography, some yarn and a crochet hook.

I saw the dour warning signs the minute I entered the building. “STOP! EMPTY EVERYTHING FROM YOUR POCKETS! Place items in plastic bin and proceed to x-ray machine. ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING MUST BE EMPTIED FROM YOUR POCKETS!”

I fingered the two Advil in my jeans pocket. Hmmmm….it was just two Advil.

"YES! WE REALLY DO MEAN EVERYTHING!" the next sign said

The Advil quickly went into a pink plastic bin. I threw my purse into my fruit bag and waited in the slow moving security line. I had plenty of time to read the list of courthouse prohibited items. Striving to be a model juror, I had left my guns and knives at home. Also, thank goodness, I had not packed my skateboard, expandable baton, darts, syringes, corkscrew, stink bombs or fashionable metallic belt into my fruit bag. The last item on the prohibited list, however, caught my eye.

Knitting needles. They were not allowed.

I thought of my crochet hook hidden in the bottom of my fruit bag. I thought of all the trouble I could cause with my crochet hook that would most definitely be frowned upon.

I approached the x-ray machine and mindlessly sent my pink bin and two Advil through the x-ray machine. I anxiously put my fruit bag on the conveyor belt. I turned to the lady watching the camera and immediately confessed my guilt. “I’ve got a crochet hook in there.”

I waited to be apprehended.

She smiled at me. “That’s ok, honey. As long as you don’t have knitting needles you’re good to go.” Shocked, I shouted “REALLY??” inside my own head. I proceeded through the metal detector, a bit disturbed how easily I had conjured up crochet hook mayhem and a bit disturbed that they would have let me have a go at it.


I passed through security with a sense of relief and freedom, grabbing my cleared fruit bag. My bubble of relief was quickly burst by his bellowing. My stomach turned when I realized my security battle was not over. The crowd watched as I began negotiations to free my Advil hostages.

“Well, I’ll be! 23 years on this job and I thought I’d seen it all. Lady! What were you thinking?”

“But…well….the sign…it said EVERYTHING. So I emptied everything…”

“Lady! Do you have any idea the stuff that gets put in these bins every day? You’d better wash those off before you take them.”

I nervously chuckled and promised I would wash my Advil, which I was now in great need of. I walked away, toward the stairs, as quickly as would still seem normal. Unfortunately, he was not done.

“Hey, Advil lady!” he called out. “On second thought, I wouldn’t take those Advil at all. You really wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff I see come through in those bins. Bad stuff…..very bad stuff.” he said sternly. “We’ve got some really crazy people coming through this courthouse every day…..I’m just sayin’.”

And then he turned toward his security partner and said louder than I hope he had intended, “How nuts was that? I’ve seen some crazy stuff, but I never thought I’d see someone do that…….”



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 I recently read the thought provoking book, The Submission: A Novel, by Amy Waldman. A work of fiction, The Submission deals with a contest to design the 9/11 memorial in New York City. A jury judges the entries that were submitted, blindly, without knowing the architects’ identities. The winning design is ultimately revealed to have been created by a Muslim. While I did find the book slow in a few places and I wasn’t sure I liked the ending, I did find it incredibly interesting and timely. It tackled what is a very complicated topic quite well. Where would you stand? Are you sure?

Flat Tire

The freeway shoulder we were trapped on was no wider than the width of our small car. Wedged against the low concrete barrier, the boy and I peered out of the car windows to the river and train tracks far below the bridge we were on. The boy appeared unfazed by our precarious predicament and went back to playing his hand held video game. I was very much fazed by this predicament and began one of those secret silent internal prayers.


The trees were flying by at 60 miles an hour when the husband and I knew the tire was flat. Aided by my loud, reactionary recommendation to, “Do something!” the driving husband managed to limp our car from the far left lane of the freeway to the shoulder on the right hand side of the freeway. The car was rolling on the rim and was not making pleasant noises. We could see that the upcoming exit was quite long, shoulderless, downhill and one big curvy blind spot. Aided by my loud, spur of the moment conclusion that “Oh this isn’t good –ALL the stopping spots are bad!” the husband decided the skinny shoulder was at it’s widest just before the exit. This is where he would have to change the flat tire. He expertly eased the car to within a few inches of the side of the bridge we were on, aided of course, by my loud helpful screams of, “Ahhhhh…YOU’RE GOING TO HIT THE CONCRETE WALL!”

The husband waited for a break in traffic, got out of the car and ran like a track star back to the trunk. As he began unloading the jack and the mini-spare tire, a semi truck exited the freeway, covering the husband in freeway dust, vibrating fear right through me and leaving the boy completely unfazed. The dusty husband, jack and mini-spare in hand, waited again for a break in traffic and then ran up to the flat front left tire. For the next half hour, the husband kept one eye on the speeding traffic and one eye on his tire changing duties. He alternated 20 second intervals of tire changing with running, in calculated self preservation, for the marginally safer shoulder. And each time he ran, he was aided by my muffled, involuntary, inside the car sputterings of, “Oh, I don’t like this one bit!” and “Holy crap! That was a close one!”

In a somewhat incoherent panic, I turned to the unfazed, video game playing boy in the back seat. “This …it’s..bad…really, really……… not…good.”

Without looking up he muttered, “Why?”

My eyes widened to their limit and I shook my bossy finger toward him. I firmly informed him that his father could be hit by a semi truck at any minute. And that would be very bad.

The unfazed, video game playing boy then said, “Oh, it could be much worse than that, mom. A semi truck could hit dad and then hit our car, pushing us up over that small ledge right there. We could be pushed off the bridge and fall all the way down to the railroad tracks. We could then get run over by an oncoming train that just might possibly cause an explosion. That explosion could cause the bridge to collapse and create a crater that we would fall into only to have the bridge pieces fall down to bury us forever. OR…maybe we’d be thrown into the river where we would drown before anyone could get to us."


The husband got back in the car in one dusty, greasy piece. He started to drive away, aided by my new conservative, mini spare driving requirements. The husband turned to me and said, “Well, that was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

 I shrugged my shoulders and non chalantly said, “Oh I don’t know…..seems to me it could have been much worse……”


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My recent Johnny Cash obsession has led to a Highwaymen obsession. Willie, Waylon and Kris along with Johnny performed in the late 1980's and 1990's. Check out live versions of two of my favorites.