"It's not your birthday!"

In planning for Joan's birthday dinner Saturday afternoon, she codependently considered the children as she weighed her choices.

Evan, as I've chronicled before, is a notoriously picky eater. Painfully picky. "Why don't you wait in the car while we go in and eat?" picky. Lora is not so picky, she's just opinionated. She knows what she likes and where to get it.

Joan narrowed it down to three choices:

1. [local Italian bistro with the patio view of the traffic headache that is Highway 280]
2. [local seafood restaurant with the kicking catfish tenders]
3. [internationally-famous local rib joint]

Early polls indicated a preference for [seafood], as Joan had a craving for coconut shrimp. Evan was excited by this prospect, since he likes the chicken fingers there, though I tell him they fry them in fish grease.

[Aside: Are chicken fingers a product of poultry genetic engineering or something? When I was a child, chickens didn't have fingers. Or lips, either.]

Lora protested because seafood is on her short-list of won't-eats.

Then Joan leaned toward [ribs], which got Lora's and my attention. Yeah, a thick slab of juicy ribs with vinegary red sauce, tea sweet enough to give a zombie the shakes, and a pint of banana pudding to top it off. Lora's chant of "Ribs, ribs, ribs!" was overshadowed only by barfing sounds from Evan, who, it pains me deeply to report, "doesn't like bbq." The last time we ate at [ribs], he dodged flying sauce from my fingers while picking the onions out of a pint of potato salad with a spork, no less. Joan responded to his protests with a hearty "it's not your birthday!" but the gagging didn't stop.

Then Joan mentioned [Italian], home of the piping garlic rolls and gnarly eggplant parmesan, and the more she thought of Lora protesting seafood and Evan eating melba toast and Sweet'nLow at [ribs], she decided that [Italian] was the way to go.

Which broke Lora's heart. She lay face down on the ottoman and wailed, "I want to go to [ribs]!" She was inconsolable. "It's not your birthday!" Joan reasoned, but the wailing only got louder. I felt like crying, too, because I realized that [ribs] was now out of the question. Going to [ribs] after an outburst like that would concede all sorts of parental power to a pugnacious five-year-old, and bad as I could taste that sauce hours later in my goatee, I knew it was not to be.

So we ended up at [Italian]. Joan had a tasty loaded calzone, I had eggplant parmesan, Lora had spaghetti and meatballs, and Evan had a cheese calzone (the Italian counterpart to the cheese quesidillas he orders when we go to [local Mexican dive with the hottest salsa on the planet and tea sweet enough to rival that at [ribs]]).

"I have an idea," said Evan. "After we're done here, can we go ..."

"It's not your birthday!" said Joan and I, at the same time, as Lora dropped a fully-loaded 7-Up onto the patio floor.

Joan's Fortieth

Joan turned forty today.

It makes me old to think that I have a forty-year-old wife. And that I was around when she turned twenty. And that we've been together over half our lives. Wow.

I think for her first birthday I got her an add-a-bead necklace. Anyone remember those? Yeah, I don't think she was impressed either.

This year has been tough on both of us, as a couple and individually, so I thought it best to test the waters before acquiesing to the pull-something-over-on-someone crap that is mandatory on birthdays that end in zero. Her response? "Under no circumstances am I to be made the center of attention, anywhere, at any time." Rather vague, no? I abided her wishes through firestorms of protest from some of her well-meaning friends, even though they thought me either a cold-hearted bastard or a walking manifestion of male cluelessness, of which I am neither, I must say. Some people just have to learn things for themselves.

Joan had a prior obligation for tonight, so we did her celebratory dinner Saturday night at [local Italian bistro with the patio view of the traffic headache that is Highway 280]. Yesterday we gifted her with birthday bounty. Zelda is a writer, too, so I gave her a copy of A Writer's Paris: A Guided Journey for the Creative Soul as inspiration for her in-progress manuscript, and a copy of Paul McCartney's new CD, just because I heard an interview about it on Morning Edition a few weeks ago. Lora picked out a necklace and earrings from her and Evan. I think we did well. The sentiment was there, anyway.

Today, Joan thwarted an attempt at pushiness from an aforementioned friend whom I'd tried to discourage for two weeks. Said friend couldn't fathom that Joan wanted nothing more than a picnic lunch with her children on her birthday, so that's what they did, with friend and son in tow. I'm expecting an apology from friend. I'm already practicing my I-tried-to-tell-you.

Happy fortieth, Joan. From Brian, with love.

Wedding Surprise

A couple of months ago, I ran into a friend who introduced me to her fiancee. I didn't know she was dating anyone, so I asked the requisite questions such as How did you meet?, When did you get engaged?, and When is the big day?

The first two answers were somewhat predictable (went to high school together; over the holidays), but the third answer gave me fleeting pause (we're going to have an engagement party at the end of July and announce our wedding date then). I've never known of anyone doing that before but I quickly shrugged it off, mainly 'cause I'm not really hip, socially-speaking. Joan and I got married in a pastor's office one morning before Sunday school without telling anyone, so it's not like anyone is beating on our door for successful wedding tips. I just do as I'm told, invitation-wise.

So in that spirit, we received our invitation a few weeks ago and calendared tonight for the engagement party.

As five o'clock rolled around, I dressed in my best silk Hawaiian shirt, beige cargo shorts and New Balance sneaks and drove toward the merriment. After a half-hour of manuevering through a crowd of many strangers (which bothers me somewhat), most of whom were dressed better than me (which doesn't), the happy couple interrupted the kickin' blues band to give the long-awaited announcement: the date of the wedding.

After some stalling by the groom-to-be for dramatic effect, the bride-to-be broadcast We're getting married tonight! and as the band cranked back up they ran off the stage to don their wedding togs. Ten minutes later (!), a procession of a groomsman, a maid-of-honor, the groom, the bride and her father met the pastor in the middle of the room and we had a wedding!

Congratulations Molly and Ben, and thanks for the surprise.

Between two pastures

Nanny, feeling cramped last Thursday in her basement apartment, suggested we go outside and see the animals.

Aunt Sandra got the golf cart and drove her to the barn. One of the livestock was way over her species' gestational average and they had been concerned about her. She was huge and uncomfortable, but spirits were high as she showed signs of the birth's imminence: restlessness, raised tail, wandering in circles. When she pulled away from the herd and headed for the privacy of the upper pasture, we were sure she was about to deliver.

We had been out for a good half-hour in the blazing sun, but Nanny insisted on following the mother-to-be. I escorted her, hand at her elbow, along the fence line between the pastures to a front row seat for the big occasion, though there was no seat. I asked Nanny if she was ready to go back inside. No, I want to see the baby come.

So we waited. Gradually, a glistening, spindly leg appeared, with a snout not far behind. Granddaddy was chomping at the bit to help the mother, but Nanny yelled at him to leave her be. I could tell he was tiring of being ordered around, even by a sick, weak wife, but he stood firm between the mother and her pasture-mates who had wandered into her delivery area.

Then, as another leg appeared, the mother squatted down and with a tremendous push got the baby halfway out, his wet head soaking up its first rays of sunshine there between heaven and earth. Another squat, another push, and the baby landed in a heap at the mother's hind feet. Her ordeal was over.

Nanny was enthralled, relieved for the success of the new mother and proud of her own baby's confidence as Aunt Becky rushed in with a towel and began drying off the newborn. Aunt Becky and Granddaddy stood guard as the baby struggled to find his legs. Time and again, he would get his front legs under him and be almost up on his back legs, being nudged by mama, but either his coordination or his strength failed him and he crumpled back into a tumbleweed on the high plains floor.

Suddenly, Nanny swooned at my side. She'd been standing in the hot sun for some time, her first foray into the wild in several days, and her strength was sapped. Her stomach protruded in front of her as she tried to relieve her aching back. Oh sugar, she said to me, I should never have come out here.

I grabbed her right arm to steady her, shocked by its clammy thinness. She grabbed the top of the fence on the other side, and we shuffled back toward the barn.

We were passed in short order by Aunt Becky, who, concerned that the sun was too intense for the baby, had scooped him up and headed for the shade of the barn. And there I stood, flanked between an eighty-year-old woman in the grip of a terminal illness and a newborn creature not fifteen minutes old. Neither of them seemed to have mastery over their musculature. Both of them relied on the strength of others to protect them from the elements and get them to the safety of the barn. One had just been introduced to the pasture and his new home while the other was making one of her final visits as precious time slipped away. One was on a fast track to growth and development, while the other was on a fast track to atrophy and confinement.

Aunt Becky, the new baby, Nanny, the cycle of life, and me, slow-waltzing between two pastures.

Nanny

One Sunday in late May, I was on my way to worship, alone - Joan was on a writing retreat with some friends, and Evan and Lora spent the weekend with my parents. I received a cell phone call from Aunt Becky, informing me that Nanny been rushed to the hospital in the night with a severe bleeding problem. Joan was to return from her retreat that afternoon from the airport that serves Aunt Becky's community, and she immediately changed her flight to check on my grandmother.

A phone call from Joan later in the afternoon confirmed our worst fears. Nanny had undergone emergency surgery to patch a blood clot in her chest cavity, as well as cauterizing an ulcer, and that recurring problems with her liver weren't helping matters. I met my parents with a heavy heart to pick up the kids. I would have to explain to the kids Nanny's situation as I told them why mama wasn't coming home as expected. It was a tough night.

But Nanny pulled through, and a week later she was back home in the apartment in Aunt Becky's house that she shares with Granddaddy, her husband of sixty-three years. Nanny slowly improved, and last Wednesday week I booked a plane ticket out out west for mid-July to spend some time with them all.

Then Aunt Sandra called last Friday week.

Nanny's internist called her in to reveal results from earlier testing. After giving her the results, he sent her home to "get her affairs in order," which is 21st century medical euphemism for "your condition is terminal, and we've done all that we can do."

Aunts Becky and Sandra were understandably devastated. As were we, 1800 miles away. Joan and I broke the news to the children and spent the next several nights crying and praying Lora to sleep. Evan slipped into a quiet funk. Joan began planning for the inevitable, a bit morbidly premature perhaps, but that's how she copes. I, on the other hand, was my usual cool self in a crisis, slowing to a glacial pace of life. I did have enough synapses firing, though, to realize that sticking with my planned visit in mid-July just might be too late.

So I flew out last Wednesday.

I wasn't quite prepared for what I encountered. Nanny had gone down considerably since I left her last November. She is so frail, and forgetful, and weak. She is already a shell of the woman I knew as grandmother.

She has been diagnosed with non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver, caused by hepatitis-C she picked up on a mission trip probably thirty years ago. She will slowly bleed to death.

To talk with her and Grandaddy is to wrestle with paradoxes. At times they are at peace with her passing, yet at times grasping for hoped healing. At times they are complimentary of her doctors, yet at times angry at them for undiagnosing her problem for so long and mis-medicating her. At times they are grateful for the phone calls from friends who have been informed of her condition, yet at times they bristle at the intrusions and displays of "premature" grief. At times they brag on the care Aunts Becky and Sandra give them, yet at times they complain about their lack of privacy.

At times Nanny reverted to her benevolent-controlling ways, yet at times she couldn't remember who she had just spoken with on the phone, or wanted to argue about whether she had taken her medicine. At times she giggled like a schoolgirl at her clumsiness and forgetfulness, yet at times she despaired as she struggled to remember a friend's name.

I was a paradox as well, oscillating from being frustrated at hearing the same stories for the hundredth time to being melancholy over her dementia. At times I was ready to return home to my world and its challenges until I realized that once I left that place and time it would be lost to me forever.

It would take a lifetime to explain to you what an impact Nanny and Granddaddy, Aunt Becky, and Aunt Sandra have had on my life, both positively and negatively. Neither aunt has children. I am the first-born grandson and the only one that is still in contact with them. Neither can I express the relief I felt walking into the house last Wednesday to find Nanny still alive. I had made it. On time. I got four good days with her. She may not remember them, but I will. I hope to get back to see her again before she goes, but if I don't, I know that I did my best, I did what I needed to do, I said my good-bye, and I will see her on the other side someday. I pray that I will mean to someone what she means to me.

Happy Independence Day, Nanny.

Anyone seen my buggy whip?

We are in the midst of a minor monsoon season in Birmingham. My cheap, plastic, backyard rain-gauge has measured over 4.5" of rain since Sunday. It's been nice sloshing through my yard instead of crunching, and, as a bonus, the temperatures have remained cool.

On one of my regular excursions to the restroom at work today (my oily skin and small bladder make me a frequent visitor, if you'll pardon the overabundance of personal information), I saw something that I haven't seen in probably twenty years.

As I was washing my face, a man came in and set his briefcase on the counter and rounded the corner to the, ummm, facilities. I dried my face and put on my glasses and found myself staring at...

...a pair of galoshes.

That's right, folks, resting atop a soft-sided leather bag - black, vulcanized, injection-molded, rubber galoshes.

It was quite an anachronistic moment, right there in the fourth-floor men's room. Galoshes. Don't see those every day. At least I don't.

They looked heavy-dutier than the galoshes I remember. Of course, there probably have been exponential advances in galosh-technology in the past two decades since I've been as close to a pair as I was these. They were smooth and sturdy, yet pliant enough to hug whatever loafers the man was wearing that he didn't want to get wet. I never saw the man or his shoes, but I must say I was tempted to pick up the galoshes and examine them tactilely, looking for at least a brand-name to link you to a picture, but I estimated that the man was too far along in his, ummm, business, for me to safely do so. Besides, I'm not really into bothering other people's stuff (especially not in the men's room), so it was a fleeting temptation at best.

I am now, however, on a quest for obsolete (or rarely encountered) objects. Anyone seen a buggy whip, a coffee percolator, or a slide rule lately?

Know thy audience

Last night,the Alabama Symphony Orchestra gave a free Mother's Day concert at one of our upscale, outdoor shopping meccas.

Of course, we were there. It was free. And there were fireworks. Did I mention there were free fireworks?

We dragged our bag chairs through a sea of humanity to a relatively open spot stage right. The weather was much improved over the past two weekends. A cool breeze wafted Macaroni Grill garlic to mix with the aroma of tailgaters seated around us. There were people of all ages in the sea of chairs; old people with their older mothers, babies with their young mothers, middle-aged couples with their older children, and of course the pre-teen demographic.

Who were thrilled to be there, let me tell you. One in particular, seated in front of me to my left, stared a hole in the pavement, head in hands, waiting for the fun to end. He listened to his iPod until the batteries went dead, then he took pictures of his hand with his mother's camera phone before launching into a riveting round of Tetris. He was amusing to watch, and I was going to point him out to Evan, my pre-teen, but Evan was doing the same thing off to my right. Well, sans iPod and camera phone.

The concert was great. They played a tribute to Ethel Merman, some Edward Elgar, a couple of Latin-flavored compositions of Leroy Anderson, an extended medley from Camelot, and a medley of tunes from movie musicals.

Everyone seemed to enjoy the program immensely. An older man wearing a flannel shirt and a white-haired crewcut ask his daughter (I presume) to dance during one of the Leroy Anderson waltzes, to the delight of the crowd on our side of the parking lot. Several young girls, our Lora included, pirouetted between the chairs during some of the Merman numbers.

The pre-teens were, in a word, underwhelmed, let me tell you. Until the conductor related a story of taking his two young sons shopping for Mother's Day gifts. The punch line of the story was that they couldn't decide which Star Wars action figure to buy her. As the audience laughed, I read between the lines and correctly guessed what was coming next.

In that spirit, we'd like to present for you the Theme from Star Wars by John Williams, said the conductor.

That got their attention. They cheered, they applauded, they participated in the experience. Even before the fireworks.

Bravo, maestro!

See the Art in Me

Lora and I found ourselves alone this afternoon. She crawled up into my chair to share sunflower seeds and impede my reading.

With Joan and Evan gone, the house was unusually quiet. It apparently bothered Lora, so she climbed up on the computer table to retrieve a CD. She picked the self-titled Jars of Clay album and popped it into the player.

We listened to the first four songs at varying volumes (she kept turning it up, I kept turning it down, an expected conflict between a four-year-old and a forty-year-old). When the fifth song started, Lora turned it up and got out of the chair.

And she began to dance.

Not head-shaking, bebopping, gotta-pee-right-now dancing. She became a ballerina. She twirled. She skipped. She jumped. She flew.

She never once hesitated. She never gave a thought to her next move as she followed her muse throughout the kitchen, around the island, and back to the reading corner. She was free. Flowing. Focused. I was floored.

The name of the song was "Art in Me."

Images on the sidewalk speak of dream's descent
Washed away by storms to graves of cynical lament
Dirty canvases to call my own
Protest limericks carved by the old pay phone

In your picture book I'm trying hard to see
Turning endless pages of this tragedy
Sculpting every move you compose a symphony
You plead to everyone, "See the art in Me"

Broken stained-glass windows, the fragments ramble on
Tales of broken souls, an eternity's been won
As critics scorn the thoughts and works of mortal man
My eyes are drawn to you in awe once again

In your picture book I'm trying hard to see
Turning endless pages of this tragedy
Sculpting every move you compose a symphony
You plead to everyone, "See the art in Me"

Thank you, Father, for letting me see the art in You, through Lora's dance.

Lord, teach me...

Last night: a funeral home visit. A young couple whose baby died in his sleep.

To a young mother, and a young father, and grieving grandparents: I'll pray for you.

Today: a chance meeting in the bookstore. An old friend whose adult child has moved back home in the throes of an addiction. A crumbling marriage. Three young children.

To a distraught father, searching for answers, and relief: I'll pray for you.

I love words. Words are my life. Yet, as hard as I try, try as I might, my words are not adequate.

Father, forgive my feebleness.

Holy Spirit, interpret my groanings.

Lord, teach me to pray.

You can't judge a book...

Perusing the library shelves today, I came across several classics that I need to read. I rejected them all.

One had a dingy, smudged cover with dirty finger prints all over the edges. One was printed on what appeared to be grocery sacks during an apparent paper-saving drive from back in the '70's. One had an eery, unpleasant typeface and the prospect of following it for 200+ pages made me nauseated.

Today, I was guilty of judging books by their covers.

What'd I do to deserve this?

We went to [trendy chain deli with the good salad bar] for lunch today.

I filled my salad plate to Neil Diamond's and Barbra Streisand's attempt to out-herniate one another.

My first bite was taken to the strains of Barry Manilow pouring his heart out over somebody named Mandy.

I finished my last bite as someone tightened the vise ahold Michael Bolton's thumb.

Disgustedly, I trudged toward the ice cream machine for some frosty relief.

I found a deli employee with his arm up to the elbow inside the machine, an "out of order" sign over his shoulder.

What did I do to deserve this?

Bilingual Conversation

I was sitting in the children's section of the library today, determining the check-out worthiness of a stack of books while Lora pestered the caged parakeet, when the cutest little scruffy-headed Chinese girl came around a shelf with a sippy-cup of milk.

Hi! she grinned at me.

Hi! I grinned back.

Her dad followed close behind. I nodded hello to him. Before he could respond, an older little girl came running toward him, clutching a video.

This one, daddy! she cried, holding it aloft for him to bag.

[Uninterpreted response in Chinese], he replied.

But just one more, please daddy? she begged.

[Uninterpreted response in Chinese], he replied, stuffing the video into his book bag.

Birmingham is a multi-cultural city, despite our well-documented racist propensity. UAB attracts medical students and researchers from all over the world. We have large Chinese, Korean, Indian, and Latino populations within the metro area. I grew up not too far from Birmingham (as the crow flies, that is; light-years away culturally and otherwise). I don't remember if I knew a single bilingual family then.

I was blown away today by the little Chinese girl's ability to converse with her father in two languages.

I have trouble conversing with mine in one.

Three wooden crosses

Three wooden crosses.

The cup and the bread.

Struggles written on index cards.

People lined up to nail them to a cross.

The sound of hammer and nails.

Good Friday. Good, indeed.

Two car lengths at a time

I was out early this morning. It was so foggy I couldn't see more than a couple of car lengths ahead of me.

I drove those two car lengths and then I could see two car lengths further down the road. I drove those two and then I could see...well, you get the picture.

I never saw more than two car lengths ahead of me, all the way to my destination. The sun was up, but it was never more than just a dim blob. I could tell that it was there, but just barely.

The fog, my navigation through it, and the sun metaphorically reminded me of the journey of life. The sun is always there, though I don't always see it. I don't know what is three car lengths ahead of me, and if I'm not careful I can run off the road or head-on into someone else, especially if I think I know the way to my destination (since I'm so familiar with the route).

This metaphor also reminded me of a different perspective I received about this one night some time ago on a flight into Birmingham. On descent, while low enough to make out individual houses and cars but still high enough to see whole neighborhoods, I saw a car back out of a driveway and head down a street, its headlights shining on the pavement like thin ice cream cones in front of it. I could see to the end of the street while realizing that the driver could not. I could see the grocery store three blocks over that I imagined was his destination, while realizing that the driver could not.

Someone once described the difference in perspective of time between man and God as man standing on a sidewalk, watching a parade. Man sees the first band come into view, and then the next, and a couple of floats, more bands, some clowns, etc., until the end of the parade passes by. God, however, sees the beginning, middle, and end of the parade at the same time.

Every once in a while I get a glimpse of who I am and who He is, and the fog lifts, and I am grateful.

Mr. Potato Head

Children's eating habits are so enigmatic.

Lora is like a little chick pecking around the barnyard; she only eats a bite or two at a time, but she does it all day long. Rare is the meal where she doesn't want to sample off my plate. The exchange is usually thus:

L: What's that?
B: It's herb-crusted lizard brains in prickly-pear butter.
L: Can I have some?

If I sat down with a bowl of dirt, she'd want a spoonful.

Evan, on the other hand, is like a python; he eats one dish all in a big lump. We used to have a rule that he try everything once and what he didn't like he didn't have to eat. He just had to try it. We figured that if exposed to an assortment of foods he would build a vast menu of favorites. We were wrong. Were Evan a condemned criminal, his last meal request would be:

Chicken fingers
Spaghetti noodles (with butter)
Grits (with butter)
Potatoes (with butter)
Butter
Gatorade

It has been an exasperating experience for someone who enjoys food as I do. Growing up, I had a cousin who would circle my grandmother's potluck-laden table every holiday meal to score a piece of ham and a roll. I didn't understand picky eaters then; now I'm raising one.

Yesterday at lunch, Evan ordered a plain baked potato (a little cheese, a few chives, some bacon bits, and lots of butter) at [chain deli with the great salad bar]. Later in the afternoon, we were knocking around town when he reminded us of a play he wanted to attend. It was too short notice to take him home, feed him supper, and get him to the play, so Joan wheeled the family wagon into the parking lot of [chain faux-fifties ice cream parlor]. The drive-thru was backed up, so she handed Evan six dollars and sent him inside to buy his supper. He returned with drink and bag in hand, handing his mother two-seventy-five in change.

Lora, of course, wanted a sample of Evan's meal, which he, of course, declined to offer, so Joan intervened by ordering him to pinch off a bite of chicken finger for his sister (Joan, obviously concluding that he must have ordered chicken fingers based on years of precedence).

E: I don't have any chicken.
B: (shocked) No chicken? What did you order?
E: Large fries.
B: Large fries! You paid three-twenty-five for a coke and LARGE FRIES?!?
E: It's not a coke. It's sweet tea.
B: (bellowing) THAT'S BESIDE THE POINT!

I then gave him an economic lesson.

B: Your potato at lunch was six dollars, rounded off (Actually, it was two small potatoes crammed together to look like one large potato. They don't fool me.). Your potato at supper was three dollars, rounded off. So I paid nine dollars today for THREE potatoes. THAT IS THREE DOLLARS PER POTATO.

I was a raving lunatic on a spud-induced rant, the vicarious starch coarsing through my veins, raising my blood sugar to dangerous, apoplectic levels.

E: (with a twenty-five-cent french fry dangling from his greasy lips) Sorry.

And Dan Quayle thought he had potatoe problems.