The Smell of Trouble

     It’s Friday night when, sniffing, I stepped into my little-used half-bathroom to look for a Kleenex. I wrinkled my nose. The small room reeked of urine. The lid on the toilet was open. Yep. Yellow water.

     I sighed. “Boys.”

     I have two of my own: the husband and the 8 ½ year old. I also have a few spares: some daycare kids and the occasional wandering farmer and/or government employee.

     I like having boys around. I really, truly do. But sometimes, they’re messy.

     I flushed the toilet, and went to get the Lysol and a wad of paper towels. I cleaned the toilet the way my mother, the germ-a-phobic nurse, had taught me when I was a young girl. I sprayed everything down, then started to wipe from the top, working my way down. It gets dirtier as you descend, you see – especially with boys of a certain age in the house. I cleaned the seat, top and bottom, and the spot where the hinges attach it to the base. Then I squatted down and cleaned the bowl and base all the way to the floor – careful to get the knob covers over the bolts, the tubes and valve, and the floor just surrounding the toilet. Once the outside was cleaned, I used the brush and scrubbed the inside, making sure to scrub the underside of the rim and jammed the bristles as far down the hole as it would go without getting stuck. I flushed again.

     There. Clean.

     So why was there still the overwhelming stench of urine?

     I shrugged, put the cleaning supplies away, and returned to the bathroom to wash my hands. It’s a very small bathroom—with not much more than a square of counter to hold the sink really—but we keep the little heart-shaped wooden toilet paper holder balanced on the corner, within easy reach of the seat. I turned on the tap, and almost knocked the TP holder into the open toilet.

     Oops!

     I caught the holder and started to set it on the top of the toilet.

     It had been covering a pool of fluid. Yellow liquid dripped from the heart-shaped base.

     Stinky, foul, smelly yellow fluid.

     You guessed it.

     Pee.

     Just when I thought I could no longer be surprised by the minutiae of my job, I find a hidden puddle of piss on my bathroom countertop.

     Husband, wandering farmers and/or government employees, you are excused from scrutiny. This is clearly the work of someone far more devious than the likes of you.

     Furthermore, I must now add to my list of suspects. And I know just the culprits that are capable of such devious deeds: the stepstool-carrying, cabinet-climbing, tapwater-slurping, babydoll-shampooing, soapbubble-obsessed short people that frequent the watering holes of this household.

     The Girls.

     I have two of my own: the 6 ½ year old and the 3 ½ year old. I also keep spares of these: more daycare kids, and a regular convoy of friendly working mommies.

     Friendly, working mommies, you are exempt from the aforementioned suspect list. I will, however, need you to stay in town in order to remind me that one day I’ll laugh about things like piss-on-the-counters. It might get funnier faster if there were some form of “adult juice” involved in those discussions.

     The darkened yellow puddle now dripped off the holder of the-very-thing-that-should-be-used-to-clean-it-up and spilled over the edge of the counter, slid down the cabinet, and created a pool on the floor.

     I rolled my eyes, sighed, and went back to collect my cleaning supplies.

     And I’d thought I’d “clocked out” at 8:00pm when I’d finally – gratefully, blessedly, necessarily—tucked my kids into bed.

     As I wiped pee off the bottom of the holder, I fully realized the culprit had intentionally covered the evidence. The only way to get the pee Up There would be to climb up the toilet seat and perch on the edge of the counter—as A Little would have to do in order to reach the soap on the other side of the sink, or to lean over to slurp water from the spicket. In order to do either of those things on the four inches of counter space, they would have had to move the TP holder out of the way first.

     Having done just that, and then perched precariously on the edge of the crime scene, the peeing would have thus commenced. Most likely, this was the direct result of a full-to-bursting bladder, an overly occupied mind, and the gurgling of tapwater running down the drain suddenly crashing into one another.

     We can discuss intent later.

     I can almost picture it—the moment of backing up to climb down, when The Little’s mouth rounds into a perfect “O,” and he or she glances rapidly around to see who has witnessed their crime. No one comes, so their eyes fall to the TP holder and light up with the realization that they needed to return it to its original spot! Exactly in the spot where the evidence was!

     It was the perfect crime.

     Until the time-honored search for a Kleenex and a nose with a talent for sniffing out trouble inadvertently led me to the buried pool of piss.

    The crime scene has been discovered. There is proof of a cover-up (tampering with evidence). There is a list of suspects, all of whom have connections to the crime scene and weak alibis (opportunity). But the time of the crime could not be determined due to the inactivity and isolation of the area in this spring month, and motive cannot yet be pinpointed for any of the suspects.

     Of course, they have all entered “not guilty” pleas.

     The D.H. (District Husband) probably won’t grant me a warrant to collect DNA samples from the suspects because my case is circumstantial at best, and inconclusive in the least.

     Besides, the suspects have parented up and been released on their own recognizance for the weekend.

     Even now, my lead suspect sleeps soundly in the next room, her pink cheeks pressed against the babydoll she named after me, and her little fingers caught in golden curls that spill across her Dora-printed pillow.

     Yeah, sure they all look innocent when they sleep. But mark my words, I’ll find out whodunit the next time I find pee on my countertop.

     (Now there’s a sentence you don’t get to say everyday...)

Coffee and Murder

There's nothing like taking a life to ruin an otherwise perfectly nice evening.

I murdered tonight. I've done it before, and I suspect I'll do it again. But tonight murder was not in the plan. Tonight was about freedom. It was a night to treat myself, to be alone with the thoughts and voices in my head. The murder that followed the treasure hunting, coffee sipping, and escape into the alternate reality of books put a real nasty kink in my mood.

The dark night enveloped me with warm, spring air that dissolved into rain and slid down the windshield. I was alright with the rain. Early April in Canada has too often been bitterly cold and altogether too attached to its winter-long stock of snow. So rain, especially in combination with plus-zero temperatures, is an old friend to be welcomed home. I pressed the corner of the chocolate expresso brownie I'd saved for the ride home to my tongue and savored the rich, melting sugar. I set it aside, and focused on rounding the curve. The machine in front of me seemed unsure of itself in the wet blackness, and crept over the dotted center line. Apparently that driver didn't have a daddy that taught them the trick of using the white side lines to guide oneself in case of visibility problems. Fortunately, I did have one, and steered easily through the curve (letting up on the accelerator just before the start of the curve, gently pressing on it again at the middle of the arc, and then pushing forward with careful speed to finish out the round; Daddy's voice echoed from memory in my mind, just as if he were sitting in the van seat beside me, white knuckled, but calmly coaching me with the intricate details that he'd always used to navigate our lives). I then shifted lanes to move around the nervous, slow-moving vehicle in front of me, relieved to leave it behind. I relaxed again.

And just like that, I was no longer a woman enjoying a first evening away from my nine month old daughter, but a slaughtering she-beast in a killing machine slashing its way through a sanctuary that did not belong to me.

The creature darted from the natural, grassy environment onto a strange, hard substance that he had never experienced before. The ground felt rough beneath his feet, and offered none of the safe shadows he was accustomed to using for his nightly scavenging. He ran on the unfamiliar surface, sure only that it must end and give way to the nourishing, hidden feasts he required of the land to sustain him. But the bizarre, ungiving earth did not end, and worse, the moon began to move rapidly in different directions above him. It confused the creature, and he hesitated only briefly before instinct assured him he was in imminent danger. He turned to run back to the brushing softness of the safety he'd unwittingly left behind.

The black and white form flashed clearly in my headlights as a recognizable, wild delight for a fraction of a second before the inevitable crucifixion. I mowed the skunk down. It disappeared beneath the killing machine I operated; the sickening thump under the back seat confirmed the murder. I screamed, and then moans slipped down my cheeks in tears.

The very haste and pathways that I deemed necessary as a modern-day human were the very things that had transformed me into a barbaric killer.

Like I said, I've killed before. Sometimes even on purpose. As a zookeeper, I often played my hand in the great circle of life. It is something of a paradox that one called an animal caretaker actually needs to kill some animals in order to feed others. In addition to assisting the captive food chain, I participated in mercy killings, more gently referred to as euthanasia. Sometimes it was necessary to bid farewell to an aging animal whose quality of life gave way to suffering. Other times it was an animal with life-threatening injuries or an illness that no treatment could improve. One way to look at it might be that part of a keeper's job is to sign the Do Not Resuscitate forms for the animals in their care. I can attest that causing death for any reason is not a pleasant part of the job. Fortunately, there were more often cases of assisting in the recovery and rehabilitation of wildlife than that of the life-ending type.

How many times have we heard people say with absolute surprise, "That deer (raccoon/cat...) came out of Nowhere!"?


Now try this: Imagine yourself stepping out your back door one early, fresh, spring evening. You've fired up the barbeque for the season's first juicy, grilled burgers. You've already got the tomatoes sliced, the lettuce separated, and the ketchup, mustard, mayonaise, and pickles are set out on the picnic table. Your loved ones might be sitting at that table waiting for you to join them for conversation and fun. You walk across the yard towards the cooler that holds that ice cold beer you've been looking forward to all afternoon. You know that it's going to taste so much better sipped outside by the firepit than it ever could sitting at the kitchen counter looking at a view of snowdrifts out the window. The scent of sizzling charcoal, new grass, and fallen rain underline the song of frogs croaking in the fields. The hanging laterns stretch cozy light across the patio and enhance the moonlight. "Ah!" you say, breathing in the deep pleasure of being alive in this moment, because you feel more fully energized right now than you have in months. You've taken several steps forward when suddenly everything goes wrong.


You're blinded by what you can only guess is the lanterns exploding, even though you know there's no logic in that because the lamps are electric, not kerosene. A roaring noise blocks out the comforting sounds of the voices across the patio, the gentle croaking of the hidden frogs, and the hiss of fire under the barbeque hood. You swing your head left and right, trying to figure out where you are in this confusing new reality. An instinctual fear for your life thumps like a jackhammer in your heart, though you don't understand why your home is suddenly the most frightening place on earth. You don't know if you should run towards your loved ones; you aren't even sure you know what direction that is anymore. You think it might be wiser to return to the house you just left, but can't be sure that's the better choice either. What you do know for sure is that you can't just stand there because Something BAD is happening! You hesitate, just for a second, while all sense of contentment, appetite, and the utter peace you were feeling is wiped clear with terror. You turn to go back to the moment before the bad feelings, blindness and deafness assaulted you, and there's a shape, bigger than you've ever seen, looming over you. All you can think is...

"It just came out of Nowhere!"

Yeah, so I cry, even when I hit a skunk in his home. It just reminds me of how inconsiderate I can be, what with my big feet, my map, and the fumes that I sputter about in my quest for, well, overindulgent calories, well-versed wisdom, and witless freedom.

So, am I the only person on earth who weeps over slaughtering a skunk? Is there anyone else out there who feels we're truly the ones who are "coming out of nowhere," and not so much the other way around? I'm listening...

Brother-in-Shining-Armor

You never forget your first. Hero, that is.

My first hero came galloping up the beach when I was only two years old.

OK, so I'm not positive he was actually galloping. I mean, I was only two, so how could I really know? Besides, I was busy being about to die, so I can hardly be responsible for noticing how my knight approached me for the big event. So, just because I enjoy the idea of it, let's just say he was, indeed, galloping...

I toddled along the hot, white sand of Ocracoke Island, oblivious to the lurking dangers before me, probably picking up seashells, or digging in the heavy, wet sand. It was a family vacation, and we were tent-camping on the beach like some misplaced gypsy nomads. Mommie was tending to Baby Lori, Daddy was firing up the Coleman for burgers and sipping a beer, and the relatives were staking their own tents into the shifting sands. I must have been fast. Or quiet (though that's not all that likely, or so I've always been led to believe). Most likely, I was just plain naughty, and had wandered off in spite of dire warnings to the contrary.

But there I was, enjoying the feel of the warm saltwater licking my ankles and listening to the crashing slush of the ocean rolling over itself in its rush to get to shore. Since the water felt so good on my ankles, I figured my knees might like it too. And then my toes could really squish through the sand. When the water ran back off the beach, it stole the sand from under my feet. I landed on my batoot. That's when the sneaky wave jumped over my head, hit the shore, and invited me (none too gently) to join it at sea. It scooped me up, and rolled me outside-in, off the shoreline and into the green. I might have screamed, but for the burning water taking up all the space in my mouth.

And then he came. Galloping along the beach, feet pounding through the fettering sand, sun scorching his golden head. He dove into the water, unafraid, unwavering in his determination, and without a single care for his own safety. He plucked my fat, tumbled body out of the certain clench Death had on me, and plonked me back onto the beach where I belonged.

My brother-in-shining-armor. My hero.

Having saved my life, he was doomed to be my hero for eternity. Lucky for me. Busy for him.

He came to my rescue countless times throughout my life. None quite so daggers-n-death as the first turn, but all necessary in their own right. There was the time I got myself into a pinch in the eighth grade: The Night of the Tainted Kisses. I'd lied to my parents about going to a county basketball play-off game with a girlfriend, when actually I was there meeting an older boy. After we'd snuck off to make out (my very first kisses....), I missed my ride home with said cover, my girlfriend. Oops! It was my brother who answered the phone (praise be), and told me not to move an inch until he got there. I'd never seen his face quite that shade of purple before. I think it may have been worse than if I had actually gotten Mommie to come to the rescue. To use a favorite word of hers, Big Brother was livid. He threatened me through the tight spaces of his teeth to Never, Ever, Ever try such a stupid-ass thing again. He explained how I couldn't possibly know what I had been messing with. Although initially I'd hoped I'd actually gotten away with my escapade without getting into trouble, I soon learned I was sadly mistaken. It was months before I could meet my hero's eyes without quivering in shame, and actual years before I ever let a boy kiss me again. My first kisses were tainted by shame and the disapproval of the boy I loved above all others, my brother.

There was a price to pay for being saved. I had to be worthy. I wanted to make it worth his while to keep sticking out his neck for me. He was not without demands of his own....

I stared through the clear, turquoise water to the tiles barely visible below, chemicals already assaulting my nose from the hot, heavy air. My bony knees were knocking against each other in stark fear, yet determination kept me on my feet. I waited my turn on the poolside, watching my group jump in turn. My instructor stood before us, calling out names as sharp and staccato as the shot of a starting gun. "Michelle! Go!" Splash. "Good! Chris, go!" Splash. "Great job. Stacey, go!" Splash. "Good. Kelly, go!" I bent my knees and my eyes swept the pool to see my brother instructing another one of the groups at the other side of the pool. He wasn't looking. My sister was in a group at the shallow end. Not looking. I looked at my instructor again. My toes curled over the edge of the pool with a grip as tight as an eagle's talons clutching its dinner. "Kelly?" I nodded, puffed my cheeks and sealed my lips and then, like I'd seen everyone else do, I reached up and pinched my nose tight and leapt from the wall. The fledgling had left the nest, ladies and gentlemen. It seems I soared high for a brief second before I lost gravity and sliced into the pool with all the gracefulness of a buffalo. But! There was no burning in my face. I hadn't drowned, smashed into the tiles below, crumbling my legs like matchsticks, and I had floated back to the surface of the water just like my groupmates had. Once I paddled down to the shallow end to exit, I looked around to see if my brother had seen me. He was still busy. Too bad. He'd missed my big jumping debut. Now all I'd have to talk about after swim lessons would be how many of my female classmates thought my brother was 'Soooo cute!' Same old story.

After showering and meeting my siblings in front of the school, I looked up at my brother, ready to brag. Before I had a chance, he looked down, right into my eyes and said, "Don't you Ever, Ever let me catch you jumping into the pool holding your nose like that again. Holding noses is for babies and no sister of mine is going to jump like a baby."


And there you have it. There are high demands for pleasing one's hero. It seems that whether I was rolling into water, or jumping in it, my technique needed work. Needless to say, I quickly got used to the singe of chlorine in my nose. Whatever he told me to do, I did in the throes of maniacal devotion, set on making him proud of me. Whatever he told me not to do, I avoided (at least until I was old enough to suffer the consequences without requiring his imminent rescue, or until I lived far enough away he wouldn't find out about it).

Though I might have started out camping under his pedastal in a state of reverence born of him saving my life, it wasn't the only reason I came to adore my big brother. He didn't always rescue me by galloping up with a swooping sword, cutting back the enemies. Much of my life I've simply followed his example. I stand up for what I believe in. Don't cave in to peer pressures. Work hard. Take responsibility for my actions. Know what I want, and then do what is necessary to get it. Decide it's okay to change my mind too. Marry the man I love. Devote myself to him. Create a family of my own that encompasses openness, sharing, laughter, rules, respect, trust, and love. These are some of the gifts my brother has given me by lighting the way. So...

Once upon a time, a misplaced gypsy band happened upon a land where the soil wrapped around their feet and followed them to the edge of the earth. At the edge of the earth, the sky and the soil melted together into a playful, endless fluid. It was here that the wee gypsy lass wandered in a mischievous adventure. She didn't know that the fluid was hungry and impolite. She had found pretties and wanted more. She wasn't missed, but for one...

He saw her at the end of it all and noticed he was the only one who noticed. Though the fluid was foreign to him, he heard it's hunger as a pleasant hum, accentuated with the smashing bites it took of the earth. He somehow understood that the lass wouldn't be meal enough for it, but that it would take her just the same. It was already tasting her. His legs began the fight with the gripping soil even as the fluid swallowed her whole.

He flew through the air and sliced into the water in a single movement. It enveloped him, chewing him as it had the lass. Blind, he reached out a frantic hand in the mouth of this unfamiliar beast, and he felt her plump flesh against his palm. He grabbed her slippery, heavy body, pushed with all his might against the hold of the fluid, and they erupted together into the sky. His feet found purchase in the migrating soil, and he carried her limp, beaten body away from the reach of the furious fluid. They collapsed into a coughing heap at the feet of the astonished clan.

And as the wee gypsy lass opened her eyes to see the sun again, she saw first the face of her beloved brother, and in that moment she knew that the sun was now because of him.

The End.

The Littlest

I don't know when she started following me. I only know that she did. Like the fool that I am, I walked away with my back turned, and kept moving. I only slowed down enough occasionally to make sure she was still there. She always was.

"Wait up, Kelly," would come the whine. I'd move faster, challenging her to earn her right to stay with me. She always did. I still wouldn't let her know that I liked it: her need. In fact, I needed her to need me. It fed me. It gave me purpose. It handed me who I was: her big sister.

"Come on, brat," I would spit at her in a Great Show of Disgust (because what other kind of show was worth putting on?). I'd grab her little wrist in a grip that would make red marks in the shape of my fingers and pull her so fast her own toes would act like hurdles that tripped her up and over herself ('trip, trap, trip, trap went the littlest's feet...'). She never complained. She was just glad to be connected to me, even if it hurt.

It seems I made sure it did, more often than not. I didn't punish her for being littler, or because she wanted to be with me. I didn't even punish her because Mommy and Daddy made me take her with me. I punished her because I so often failed at my job as The Big Sister. It was my first and most important job. As far as I could tell, I wasn't much good at it and figured somebody had to pay for that.

"Why can't you be nicer to your little sister, Kelly?" my parents would ask, or tell me, "You need to forgive her. She's littler and she doesn't understand why she shouldn't do that (hurt you/take your toys/break your crayons/etc.)." Yet I couldn't understand why I got so many spankings while she never seemed to. I just couldn't seem to forgive her for being better than me. Her goodness made me feel mean and ugly, and I didn't like that feeling, not one bit. So I would unleash upon her tender skin and psyche the bubbling furies that coursed through my monstrous soul.

I had plenty of guidelines to help me in my sisterly responsibilities. "Share your toys/books/clothes with her. Hold her hand and take her with you, she's too scared to go alone. Show her how to do it. Give her a turn. Be gentle with her. Don't hit her. Help her with that, she can't do it herself yet," my parents directed. Even my big brother (eight years my senior) had instructions for the job. "You need to look out for her, take care of her when things get crazy," he'd say. Being a Big Sister was a Big Deal. I wanted to do it well, but I found it incredibly difficult to live up to such high expectations. I screwed up on a regular basis.

For one thing, my little sister was nothing like me. I loved danger and intrigue, such as our big brother's challenging games ("Come on! Attack the pillow! Run and hit it as hard as you can! Now wrestle it to the ground! You're weak, weak!" he'd scream, using the pillow to pummel us into the ground with one strong arm; or "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, stupid!" he'd yell, slamming our faces into the bed every time we'd lift our heads, all of us laughing ourselves limp; and then the favorite: he'd make chainsaw noises, yell, "Timber!" and then, stiff as a board, fall on us as we lay on the bed, using only our feet to try to keep him from crushing us.). She complained about getting hurt or tattled when we pinned her down to tickle her. I loved Daddy's ghost and pirate stories, but he often stopped halfway through because she was too scared to listen. ("I don't want to give her nightmares, Kelly. You understand," Daddy would explain, but I was too selfish to care.) I didn't mind getting into trouble once in awhile if it meant I got to experience something forbidden (like finding and eating the hidden cookies before dinner or hiding in the garage with our friends, ignoring our parents' screams to come inside for dinner). She preferred to obey our parents and steer clear of spankings and groundings. I was also good at holding a grudge, getting revenge, and acting out my frustrations with an insult, sharp slap, or denial of the privilege of my enthralling company. She would forgive, forget, and continue to love, in spite of how thoughtless or mean I was to her. I never understood it, but I certainly took it for granted. One could see how difficult it might be for me to perform my duties in 'taking her with me' when she couldn't or wouldn't keep up with my agendas.

I spent a good deal of my youth trying to teach her to be more like me. Naturally, it was for her own good. I was concerned about how boring her life would turn out to be without me to help her color it in properly. She wanted to grow up to get married, be a good wife, be a mommy, and possibly become a teacher. I couldn't imagine a more droll existence. Not that I didn't want a husband and family too, I just knew it would never be enough for me. I always wanted more, demanded more from life, so I couldn't fathom how the life she dreamed would be enough. I tried to lead her by example. I knew she looked up to me, even idolized me at times, and I was very proud of that. I took it very seriously. Too seriously. And that's how I failed her. Though she followed behind me, faithful as a beaten dog, she managed to do my life better than I could. She shared my activities, my friends, and many of my interests and talents, yet she was content to stay out of the limelight, while I would seek it in whatever manner necessary, regardless of consequence. I simply kept moving forward, my hand yanking on hers as tightly into adulthood as I had as a child, rarely stopping long enough to notice who she was becoming. I was still intent on inspiring her to be more, well, me.

And then one day I did: notice. She wasn't me. And for the first time ever, I thought, "Oh, thank God!" My little sister was a wife and a mother, a homemaker who cared for her children and others in her beautiful home. She was content, happy. Her biggest dreams had been fulfilled, and I was still chasing the fantasies of my childhood, running circles in my dramas, and not learning fast enough what it was I really wanted in life. Once I really stopped to look at her, The Little Sister, I realized that, like I've done so much in my life, I'd been doing everything with her inside-out and ass-backwards.

All the time I was charging forward, dragging her along, I should have been walking beside her, swinging our intertwined hands. The times I was teaching her how to find excitement in her life, I should have been learning from her how to find contentment and peace in mine. When I wouldn't forgive her for being so good (and therefore making me look bad), I should have realized how I was the one, above all, who benefitted from her gift of forgiveness, and stopped making my own destructive choices. My time would have been much better spent all those years learning from her how to love. How to forgive. How to listen, not just to the words, but with the heart. All the while I was pulling her, I rather should have been the one following.

We're separated by now by an international border, a twelve hour drive, and about fifty weeks a year we can't be together. Yet, we've never been closer. I've realized that while other people like to think of their mates as their other half, I believe it of my sister. She's nothing like me, and that's the blessing in this. She teaches me how to be a better me because she knows me so well, and loves me in spite of it. She can guide me back to myself when I get lost and scared and unsure along the way. She always takes time for me, she's gentle with me, and she shares her toys, her home, her family, her ideas, her dreams and stories. She makes me feel safe, able, and most importantly, relevant.

Now I'm still looking forward as I move along, but from an entirely different place. I call out "Lori! Wait for me!" I run along, hoping to one day catch up and earn my right to stay with her.

When I Grow Up, I Want to be a Granny

I wrote this little blurb for my sister to read at my granny's funeral. I was unfortunately unable to attend. I thought I'd post it now, as this week would have been Granny's birthday, and I'm missing her...



When I grow up, I want to be a granny.

Being a granny takes more, you see, than collecting grandchildren to gather at my knees in my rocking chair. In fact, there may never be a rocking chair. There simply won't be time for sitting that still. There's too much to do. For being a granny is something of a job, and if there's one thing my mother taught me, it's that if you're going to do a job, you should do it right. Give it 100%. I'll need to be the best granny I can be. So, much of the time, my rocker will sit empty while I'm dancing to Lawrence Welk in front of the living room telly. I might wiggle so much my shorts will slip off my skinny batoot and slide to my ankles, and make my granddaughters dissolve into hysterical laughter. I'll be busy winding up the infinite stash of bath toys I'll keep in the bathtub. Though Grampa may complain about constantly stepping on them when he showers, it'll be worth it to take my grandkids to the imaginary ocean in my bathtub. I'll spend lots of time teaching them how to play checkers on a handmade barrel checker board I keep in the spare room, or how to dress and undress their dollies. I'll jingle all the bells of my three-shelf collection to see which ones are their favorites each visit. Of course, sometimes the grandchildren won't come to me, so Grampa and I will whisk them away from our own kids for a night here and there. We'll tuck the grandkids' warm, jammied bodies past their bedtime into our heated backseat and take the long way home, driving endless star-speckled country roads to lull them into sweet dreams. If that doesn't work, I'll slip them some "magic" brandy into a glass of milk to do the trick. As a granny, I'llbe all about family time. I'll relish gatherings around a Thanksgiving table, and know that the gratitude prayers of my heart will be the music of the voices of the children and grandchildren that surround me. They will be the rewards of the harvest I will have sowed so many years past. I'll giggle and clap at the antics of my talented grandkids as they dress up, sing, and dance for me. Their laughter will be the fuel for my happiness.

Should life dole out any bittersweet trips to hospital beds or funeral homes, I'll gather all those children and grandchildren close to me because their bodies will bring me comfort and that happiness they've fostered, along with our shared history will give us all strength. I'll take times like that as an opportunity to teach my grandkids that family is the heartbeat that gives us life and sustains us, even after our last breath has left our bodies. In teaching them, I'll learn this lesson again myself.

Naturally, my grandchildren will have lives of their own, like their parents did before them. So, I'll have to occupy myself in between visits. I'll be sure to meet with my girlfriends each week at McDonald's for cheap coffee and delicious gossip. We'll trade kids' pictures and stories of their accomplishments with pride and passion beyond what any Olympic gold medalitst's grandmother could cook up.

I'll take time to have my girlfriends color my hair a nice shade of pink or off-lavender in their cracked kitchen sinks, wearing one of Grampa's old work shirts over the new blouse and britches I found at the thrift store the previous day. The girls and I will gripe about the ridiculous prices they're charging nowadays down at the beauty parlour while we nibble on Elizabeth's homemade loaf cake and sip coffee sugared with the packets McDonald's wanted us to take. Perhaps once in awhile I'll be lucky enough to have a grandchild tag along for these appointments. I'll tell Elizabeth that the child would like another piece of cake or candy, then take a second one myself so the poor child doesn't have to eat alone.

When I'm a granny, I'll sip Grasshoppers just because they taste so good, even if they make me swoon at mass the next morning. I'll collect beautiful porceline dolls, but even at age 90, the old Raggedy Ann that sleeps on my bed will still be my favorite. I'll snowbird to Florida if I want to escape the miserable snow and cold, and then complain about the unbearable heat and humidity. But I'll get up at the crack of dawn to comb the beach for seashells, which I will glue artfully onto mirror gifts for the relatives back home I'm counting the days to see.

Now, as a granny I may bitch a lot about the state of the world (which, by the way, will certainly be going to hell in a handbasket), and the politics of a conspiring government (which wasn't like this in my day), but that will only be because I'll finally be old and wise enough to understand how it all works, but too damned old to do anything much about it. I may grump from time to time, or tell tall tales, but really, who cares? No one listens to an old lady anyway. No one respects their elders the way we respected our elders. Besides, I will certainly be entitled to complain in cases like where the damn doctor, who won't know anything, won't give me something for the pneumonia I've caught which he's diagnosed as a common cold.

But mostly, as a granny I intend to laugh. I will want my children and grandchildren to know that no matter how hard life has been, no matter what obstacles have stood in the way of dreams, no matter what heartaches, heartbreaks, or tragedies have brought you to your knees, there is still laughter to be had, still happiness to be found. I'll embrace second or third chances at love because I'll want to teach them that you're never too old for new beginnings, and that love comes in many different packages.

Someday, if I'm blessed enough to become a granny, I will take some time to rest in that rocking chair for a few moments, with all my grandchildren quilted on my lap. I'll take some time to tally all the names I've acquired, the honored titles I've achieved: Mommy, Mom, Mother. Grandma, Granny, Nana. Great Grandma. Sister, Aunt, Wife. Friend. These will be my badges of honor. I'll count all the dreams I did have come true in my life in the faces of my children, my grandchildren, my greatgrandchildren. For this will be my legacy. They will be the reason I'll stay around so long: to watch my wishes grow wings and take flight, to pack a suitcase full of memories and stories of those beautiful butterflies to take with me on that next mystery tour. I'll want to share the good days with those loved ones who weren't around to appreciate the moments with me.

Yes, when I grow up, I want to be a granny. Not to count the children at my knees, but to look backwards and see just how big the love inside me could grow to be.

We love you, Granny Schleeter-Sackett, our own Grandma Root Beer, our Idabelle. Thank you for making us your wishes come true. We will always miss you.

Why the attic?

We sat at the handcarved maple table, pressed between the backdoor and the washer and dryer that serve as extra counter space, my little sister and I. The smell of snap beans and ham mingle with the pine breeze coming through the screen as we await one of our two treats. The first must be earned by a supper well-eaten, and it sits hidden in a beaten silver tin on top of the refrigerator: Grandma's pound cake. My sister, motivated without reserve, has done her part to bring down the tin, but awaits me to diminish the lingering pile of greens I'm grimacing at on my plate. I get the final forkful down at last, and as we indulge in the sweet, yellow loaf Grandma's shivery hands set before us, I'm already fantasizing about the next treat.


"Can we go after supper, Grandma? Please?" I beg. My legs swing in anticipation just above the cracked linoleum floor.


"I have to finish washing the dishes first," she replies. "I wonder if there might be two girls who would help move this chore along?"


I inhale the cake and jump to duty. It was a fourteen hour trip from Indiana to North Carolina, to visit a small town made up primarily (as far as I could ever tell) of senior citizens who were either related to my daddy, grew up next door to him, or taught him everything he ever knew. It would be worth it though, once Grandma let down that ladder and allowed me to enter the stories tucked above it.


Dishes done, we walked into the tiny hallway of the humid house, where Daddy pulled on the dangling rope that let down the creaky wooden ladder leading up to Grandma's attic. Up we went, my sister cautious of the dark and skittering noises, myself in hot pursuit of them. Grandma, slower on the ladder, but more sure in the musty slants of space under the eaves, joined us, motioning to a large box to one side.


"Watch your heads, and sit down over there," she said. And then the storytelling began....


Grandma's attic was a place of mysteries to unravel, history to unfold, and questions to be asked. There were toys that my daddy and aunt played with, dollclothes that Grandma herself had sewn, scraps of fabrics saved from the ancient times of my daddy's youth, and even a pair of pantyhose Grandma kept that had been rationed once in a time of war. There were endless letters, documents, and books. Pictures on worn cardboard, cracked and curly-edged black and white portraits, even some imprints on tins or canvas. Antiques all, folded into dusty trunks and boxes, their significance unlabelled but for Grandma's remembering tales. Grandma had a good head for family history, not only of her own, but detailed accounts of Granddaddy's family that he himself had forgotten to care about long before. She delighted in the tellings that fed my appetite for knowing it all. Of course, the details have been lost through time and experiences more immediate to my growth, but the senses that attic had always opened in me live on.


The eternal quest for stories told and untold was my calling. I answer it still. Grandma's attic was the place where history was stored, tucked over the daily life that must go on in order to make futures, but still lovingly coveted under the same eaves that protected the family begotten of it. Musty smells and mothballs will take me there again, sitting on a box in my memory, enraptured with the stories of the ancestors that created me, the keepers of their lost treasures, and the damp, dark haven where it all came together.


I hear knockin' on the attic as voices in my head, whispery phrases that need a turn, stories aching to be told, or just memories wanting another moment of my time. An attic is where we store our stuff, not necessarily in the creaky, dank crawlspaces of our homes, but within the intricate and poignant workings of our minds. When I hear knockin' on my attic, I know there's a voice to be heard and a story to be told. So, be careful on the ladder, watch your head on that beam, and have a seat on that trunk over there. Lean in, for I have some tales to share...