MAKING TIME (November 2000)

Here we are again ... another notable change of weather conditions.  Seasons change gradually, usually, but for me, the turnover takes about 12 hours.  I have said, "This task having been accomplished, fall has now begun."  On the calendar fall began six weeks ago.  At my house its arrival started yesterday morning and was in place emotionally at the day's end.

Here on the lake there are two seasons.  Spring, when the boats go into the water and fall, when the boats come out.

Spring is a beginning: the boat is moored at the dock, the deck furniture is hauled in from the garage and the cushions are brought out of the closet.  The awning is rehung to shade the interior from the bold summer sun.  The warming breezes off the water encourage us to sit on our decks and chat with neighbors who have also vacated the confines imposed by winter.

Fall is marked with the jewel-colored leaves of the trees around the lake.  There is the need to pull the boats out of the water for winter land storage.  The baskets and half-barrels filled with happy colors of summer are now mere containers of plants too cold and weary to stand.  Outdoor furniture is returned to the garage, cushions to the closet.  Finally, the awning is taken down and stored for six months.

Those tasks of fall have now been completed.  I feel relieved to have beaten winter's arrival.  No sadness that the flowers are gone.  Their leaving gives me reason to look forward to next spring when the cycle begins again.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

HAPPINESS IS A COMFORTABLE PAIR OF SHOES (July 2000)

I've been flipping through the pages of my life, wondering how I got to the place I am today, stopping short of wishing to start over.

I have chosen a simple life.  My daughter is my best friend.  I live alone, but I'm not lonely.  When part of a group activity, I know I'd be more comfortable in the company of only two or three people.  The busy-ness of many, and the noise they create, even in happiness, are incentives to look for a quiet space away from them.

I have acquaintances who cannot sit still, who cannot tolerate being alone.  Their schedule of places to be and social events to attend takes my breath away.  And I thank God it's their agenda, not mine.

I remember that it's only in my shoes that I'm comfortable.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

IDLING AWAY A SUMMER EVENING (June 2000)

Brett mentioned several weeks ago that he'd been to the chiropractor because his back was acting up again.

"Again?" I asked, not aware that there'd been a first time.

"Yeah," Brett replied. "It's bothered me ever since ........"

And then he told me the story.

**************   

Brett was a typical boy child.  Anxious to be outdoors, involved in digging holes and filling them with water, playing with his Matchbox cars, practicing wheelies on his 20" bike.  Like I said, boy stuff.

We had black lab, Trixie, who needed to be exercised, and when Dawn and Brett reached their teens, I'd often cajole one or the other to give me a break and take her for a before-bed jaunt.  One summer evening a friend of Brett's came by and to have something to do, they agreed to walk the dog down the street to the schoolyard.

Once there, it was our practice to let the dog off her leash so she could run, chasing the scent of 'possums, squirrels and other suburban wildlife.  When I walked her and had set her free, I'd sit on one of the team benches at the ballfield and wait for her to wear herself out.

The boys, being boys, spent their time staying as busy as Trixie was.  They might hop the length of a team bench on one foot.  To make the task more challenging, they might try jumping the length backwards, perhaps with their eyes closed.

I believe they climbed the backstop only once, ever.  Obviously it was built to stop balls, not to provide supplementary seating.  The night of this story, the weight of the two boys cavorting 18 feet or so off the ground resulted in the top section collapsing backwards, swinging down (in slow motion, Brett said) to deposit the two teens on their backs in the dirt.

Brett doesn't remember how long they lay there.  His friend Todd was knocked out.  Not for long, Brett said, but it did take a few moments for him to come to.  Brett had the wind knocked out of him.  He recalls carefully sitting up, grateful to discover that he could.

When Todd opened his eyes, he immediately wanted to go tell his mother.  Brett told him he couldn't: They'd have to pay to fix the backstop, they'd probably be grounded and maybe they'd never be allowed together again without supervision.  He swore Todd to secrecy.  And nothing was ever said by either of them.  Until now, 15 years later.

Dawn and Brett have told me other horror stories as they've put time between the event and the telling.  And I know there are more, because one will interrupt the other who's relating something from their childhood to say something like, "Have you noticed the price of apples lately?...."

I hope they'll tell me when the stories have all been told.  And I hope it's soon.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

AND PUPPY DOG TAILS... (May 2000)

I live (well, I call it that!) and breathe just like you, but there doesn't seem to be a newsworthiness in relating such details. But my son (aka The Passionate Cyclist) has a tale worth passing along.

Part of Brett's training routine is to ride two or three times a week with other Orlando-area cyclists. Such a time was a Wednesday night a few weeks ago.

In e-mail he sent to teammates and me he said:

Wednesday night as I headed out for my weekly ride I had an accident. I found myself unconscious at the bottom of my apartment stairs. It seems that if you decide to descend a flight of stairs it's best to use every step on the way down. I must have missed the most important one (the first) and proceeded to hit every vertebra in my back on the way down.

I was taken to the hospital and they said I'm going to be at 50% mobility for a while. Against all doctors orders I've been on the bike to see what would happen. It seems that being bent over is the most comfortable position. In fact, being on the bike is the most comfortable thing I've done since the accident. Standing upright is virtually impossible, and sleep is done in 10 minute intervals. My weekend will be spent in bed allowing my back to heal.

**************

As I said, I learned of his accident and visit to the hospital two days after it happened.  Casual notification by e-mail.  Sent by Brett from work. So I called him there.

"Yes, Mom, I'm fine. I just thought you'd get a kick out of reading what happened."

"Yeah, right. So you fell down two flights of stairs?"

"No, just down the first seven or so steps to the landing."

Continuing, I asked, "Who called the ambulance?"

"I woke up and crawled back up the stairs and called myself."

"So your back's messed up." Then, thinking about the concrete steps, I went on. "What about your head?"

I could hear the shoulder shrug in his voice as he said, "Oh, it's okay. I was wearing my helmet."

  ************** In follow up:

There were probably two reasons he fell:
He descends steps two at a time, just like he goes up them.
He was wearing his cleated bike shoes.
He rode four hours the night after the accident.
I don't believe he spent the weekend in bed allowing his back to heal.
If he had, he'd have answered the phone when I called.
Since the accident he's moved to a house. It's a ranch-style -- no steps.

Another time I'll tell you why he was seeing a chiropractor before the fall. ("Idling Away a Summer Evening.")

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

FAMILY TIES (March 2000)

My family roots are German, Irish and English.  Among my physical characteristics is a nose that "stands out."  I married a man who was also of varied ancestry.  Roy must have had some Irish in his background, for he and his siblings had red hair.  He had close-set eyes, too, but I don't know which clan is responsible for that attribute.

Brett inherited my nose and his dad's eyes.  He chooses to wear his hair cut straight across the neck to shoulder length.  Freshly washed and still wet, he combs it away from his face.  But when dry, it falls to the sides, and the style resembles Buster Brown's (without the bangs).  The small-framed eyeglasses he wears emphasize this distinctive look.

Recently I watched two television game shows with contestants whose facial features -- hair, eyes, nose and mouth -- would have you believe they and Brett were brothers if not actually the same person.  My impression was confirmed when Dawn, my daughter, called me during the first show to comment on the likeness.

The second occurrence was during a recent "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" program.  I was so amazed at this contestant's similarity to Brett that I called him to have him tune in.

We talked after the program.  "Mom, you think I look like him?  Geez, thanks - a - lot," he said, sarcastically.  "You really made my day.  That guy is .....!"

Well, never mind how he described him.  I don't know how Brett saw himself, but I now knew how he didn't!

A few days later I talked to Brett again and he told me of an experience he'd had over the weekend.  He'd attended an auto race in Orlando and was returning to the parking area on a shuttle bus.  He noticed that the fellow sitting across the aisle kept looking at him.  Finally Brett turned and made eye contact with the man.

The stranger asked, "Don't I know you?"

Brett said he didn't think so, but the aisle mate continued, "Dan or ....?"  He frowned and shook his head for lack of a name.

Again Brett said no.

And then, a smile brightened his face in recollection of where he'd seen Brett.  The fellow said, "Is that your final answer?"

____________________

Already Brett's eyeglasses are gone and have been replaced by contact lenses. I anticipate a shorter hairstyle soon.  The nose, however, will probably have to wait!

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

HAPPY DAYS (March 2000)

I'm now comfortably settled into being a grandmother.  New mom Dawn returned to work a couple weeks ago, and I tend the nearly three-month old twice a week.  Brandon and I spend a lot of his awake time making faces and weird sounds for one another.

There are two times with him that I especially relish: The first is the end of his bottle when he's no longer hungry.  His eyes get squinty as he looks at me, he loosens his grip on the nipple, grins crookedly like his grandfather used to and utters a coo with a question mark at the end.

Then there are the times he's undressed down to no more than a diaper.  I watch as he wears himself out, spastically kicking his legs and pumping his arms to his own music.  His grins are not yet chortles, but he's having a grand time.

And so am I.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

THE FIREHOUSE (February 2000)

(The following story is fiction based on truth. The objective was to include in the telling, those words which are underlined.)

It was an early 1900's three-story building that was built to be a firehouse. The first floor had since been converted to offices; the second, a warehouse; and the third, which had been the attic, had been remodeled into a house. There were even shingles on the exterior of the wall that divided the living area from the rest of the attic space.

Two friends and I rented the apartment which included bedrooms for each of us, a living room and dining room, a huge kitchen (although we rarely used it) and a laundry room nearly as large.

I think there were stairs. Yes, there were stairs, but I don't recall much about them. There was a warehouse on the second floor, so the building had a freight elevator, and this is what we used to get to the apartment.

It was an ideal place for parties. There were no neighbors who would be irritated by loud music. The living area doubled in size when we included the "yard," an area outside the apartment that our landlord had left unfinished. Here we had a patio table, chairs and, for no logical reason, a sun umbrella. As in many ancient structures, the floors creaked and the apartment had an old wood smell. And being attic space, it was morosely dark.

Our landlord was a salesman whose office was on the first floor. His goods were stored in the second-floor warehouse. He sold caskets. The building was the perfect location for a Halloween get-together.

We invited a lot of people to our party. Friends knew that just the three of us were in the building at night and that we rode a freight elevator equipped with a single low-watt bulb to get to our apartment. They also knew about the warehouse. That's why a lot of them came to the party. They hoped to visit the second floor.

We obliged.

Most of the caskets were stacked in their shipping crates. But some were unboxed and sat on display platforms. As guests arrived that night, either Janie or I would lead a group from the third floor down the poorly lighted stairs to the warehouse. We encouraged them to walk quietly, and they did, whispering and on tiptoe. They were easy to guide, mostly because of what they were about to see, but also because we weren't supposed to be there.

Usually someone in each group asked to see the inside of a casket. If no one did, either Janie or I would suggest raising a lid. And as we slowly lifted the top, inside ... inside was Karen who "rose from the dead" and screamed! As did the visitors.

It was a memorable evening. I recall that we took at least four groups down. Each time Karen performed superbly. Unfortunately, on the last tour, the casket tipped over when Karen sat up. Somehow, when it fell, her neck was broken and she died.

Yesterday the rich warmth of the cherrywood casket stood in stark contrast to the broken plaster and stiff wooden pews of the small country church. It was less than a week ago that the casket laid empty in the warehouse. Now it was Karen's.