FORETHOUGHT (August 2001)

Preface: Often a particular expression on Brandon's face reminds us of the so-called "chickenshit" grin his grandfather, Roy, often displayed.  Pulling one corner of his mouth tighter than the other, the look is short of all-out smile and includes a hint of bravado.  I recall a particular time when, as he explained how he'd gotten into a predicament, Roy displayed this special look.

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

I've done it and perhaps you've done it.  Who hasn't?  But once is enough.  More than that, the absent-minded should take preventive measures.  I refer to locking the car, leaving the keys inside.

Being locked out of your car at home is inconvenient.  Being away from home in similar circumstances can really trash the holiday spirit.  With this in mind, Roy and I agreed that we'd take both sets of car keys with us when we traveled.  He'd have one set; I'd have the other.

On one of our trips, with two sets of keys in our possession, we set out for Niagara Falls with Roy's sister Gwen and her husband, Hank, for a weekend visit.  It was our intention to do a lot of sightseeing. Walking long distances is difficult for Hank, so Roy dropped us off at an overlook and continued on to the parking lot.  We sauntered along the footpaths while we waited for Roy to join us.  When he hadn't appeared after several minutes, I suggested Gwen and Hank sit in a shady area while I backtracked to find Roy.

Finally back to the parking lot, I was relieved to see that there were very few cars and easily spotted ours.  Roy was standing beside it.  When I reached him, I asked why he hadn't come to meet us.

"I'm waiting for a tow truck," he replied.

The car was sitting there in the middle of an almost-empty lot.  I saw no indication that he'd hit anything or been hit.  In fact, the motor was running.  I asked why he was waiting for a service vehicle.

His crooked grin began to develop.  "Well-l-l-l, see, this good-looking girl pulled in, and I got out of the car to see her better."

I nodded my head, indicating I was ready for more of the story.

"She had on these short shorts and a tight top and I just forgot, just for a moment, to turn the car off when I got out."

To which I replied, "An-n-n-d????"

"I locked the door just before I slammed it shut."

I reminded Roy that I had the second set of keys in my purse.

"Yes, you do," he agreed, nodding. "And where is it?"

I looked down and then recalled that since I hadn't expected to need my handbag on this short walk, I'd left it, with my keys, locked in the car trunk.

________________  

Owning multiple sets of keys isn't helpful if none is available when needed.  Consequently, following this trip I invested in a plastic coil to which I attached my car keys.  Now if I don't want to carry a handbag and have no pockets, I put the coil around my wrist.  As with most insurance, once this second precaution was taken, the car's never been locked with the keys inside.  But now I'm ready, just in case.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

LIFELINES (August 2001)

Time goes on.  I continue to discover life by observing someone else's exploration.

Grand boy Brandon is nearly nineteen months old.  He walks, he runs.  He skins his knees.  He cries and, repeating words he's often heard, says, "Hold you" when he needs a hug.

He continues to learn sign language, although for some reason he insists on signing "rhinoceros" for "horse."  He saw a real horse for the first time last week.  He was more impressed with the fence that separated them than by the animal on the other side.

There have been times when he's said a word that I couldn't understand, so he signed it.  For example, he said "gaga" and I was without a clue.  So he signed "water."  When we're driving in the car he entertains himself saying words he's learned, copying the inflection of some phrase used previously: "Mommy bye-bye, Daddy bye-bye, Nana bye-bye...." until he puts you, or himself, to sleep with the monotonous repetition.

Others asked, "What will he call you?"  I called both my grandmothers Gramma, even though it appears that's now old fashioned.  Today's monikers have more flair: Brandon's other grandmother is Nana.  And a friend decided to be Mimi to her grandson.  I, on the other hand, elected to allow the child to pick something meaningful to him.

And one day he looked at me, pointed, and said, "Maw."  Not Ma, not Moi, but Maw.

To my ears, the sound of "Maw" was like fingernails on a blackboard.  

Undoubtedly this is shortened version of the word yet too difficult for him to say.  To my ears it lacks charm, wit, sophistication.  But truth be told, so do I!  I am what I am, and this child led me to see that it's okay!

I've adjusted to Maw and now accept it with pride.  I like hearing my new name best after he's awakened from a nap.  I can hear him stir in his bed as he talks to himself or Elmo, his sleep companion.  When he tires of the solitude, I am summoned to his rescue as he loudly calls, "M-A-A-W-W-W!"  As I stop in the doorway, I see this teacher, standing at the rail, grinning his greeting, arms raised to be lifted from the crib.

And our next few hours together begin as he shows me life outside the lines.

 

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

SECOND CHANCE (April 2001)

The little boy is now 15 months old.  He's learned to crawl and walk, and with each physical achievement, there are parallel advances in his mental prowess.

Were my children as clever, perceptive, bold, or curious as this little one is?  Why do I not recall the moments of their childhood accomplishments?

First he crawled and then he walked.  Each milestone predictable.  But I am awed as I have watched Brandon's face when he realizes what he's accomplished.  His eyes grow big and his little mouth forms a tight O.  And then he seems to think and he does it again.  And again.  Over a period of time he perfected crawling forward and suddenly crawled backward, giggling at the experience.  After weeks of struggling to walk forward, he discovered he could walk backward, not yet knowing that he must look over his shoulder to see where he was going.  Once again, big eyes and tight O as he bumped into the wall.  Now he's learning to march, but it's really more of a foot stomp, for he raises only his left knee.

Until this past week our northern winter has kept us isolated indoors.  Recently on a sunny day we went outdoors for a walk.  Almost running as toddlers do, he refused my hand.  I wanted to go this way; he wanted to go that.  And so we did.  Brandon spied his shadow and squatted to touch it, a puzzled expression on his face when he couldn't pick it up.  He found a sloping driveway and insisted on walking up it.  Half way, he turned around and, with his little feet struggling to keep him upright, Brandon discovered the sensation of coming down a hill.  Repeatedly, he went up the pavement, turned round, and came down, chortling each time.  But for my eventual boredom, we could still be there.

There was a breeze that day and we faced into it.  Suddenly Brandon threw back his head, mouth agape.  Pausing a moment, he laughed as he felt the cool breeze rush into his warm little mouth.  We walked a few steps that way, his head tilted back while he sampled the air.

Dawn, his mom, and I had read that the use of sign language helps a child communicate before he's able to do so verbally.  Therefore, when he was about six months old and began eating baby food, we began simultaneously signing and saying "drink," "eat" and "more."  Now he signs if he's thirsty or hungry.  If we think he's eaten enough but he disagrees, he signs "more."  He's even begun signing and speaking simultaneously as we do.

I'm beginning to feel as though we adults are now walking in place and Brandon's running ahead.  A few weeks ago, he was sitting in the child's seat of the shopping cart as Dawn pushed it down the aisle.  When she looked away from the merchandise and down at Brandon, he was rapping his fists together.  Dawn thought this was odd behavior until she realized they were passing the shoe department.  Brandon was signing "shoe."

Brandon signs and says Mommy and Daddy, and he identifies Matt's parents, Pappap and Nana, saying their names and signing (simplified by us to double "p" and double "n") at the same time.

We've taught him to sign and say "Kitty."  However, I think he associates this with the two cats that share this condo with me.  It's likely that when Dawn tells Brandon they're going to Grandma Kitty's, Brandon believes he's coming to see the cats.  He's gleeful when he spies them and he'll point, flick his cheek with the sign for cat and say "key" (his spoken t's are silent!).  I look forward to the time when he understands there are THREE kitties here.  Oh well, at least he smiles when he sees me.

I logged in my children's baby books the first day each sat up, rolled over, stood and walked.  But I don't recall an emotional reaction, merely the mechanical notation.  I find such joy in watching this little one grasp concepts and explore new challenges.  I am amazed and amused whenever we're together.  Thank heaven for a second chance.

Copyright ©2002  Kitty Park

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