Lightning can be your friend

My father and his wife of fourteen years moved into their new house in September of 1997. They spent the previous two years building it exactly to their upscale specifications.

Almost three years later, in June of 2000, the house was struck by lightning for the first time. In the following three months, it was struck three times.

Insurance adjusters and experts told him that lightning typically strikes the highest object in any given area and his house, being on top of the only, yet substantial, hill in his neighborhood, certainly qualified. They couldn’t explain why nothing had happened the three prior years, but they advised him to arm his house appropriately.

He grounded the yard with lightning rods, bought lightning arrestors for his electrical, cable and telephone systems, and accumulated a wide array of surge protectors for every piece of equipment inside the house.

But nothing helped. For the next three years, my father’s house was hit by lightning more times than he could admittedly count. Then, as curiously and abruptly as it began, it stopped in January 2004 and, according to relatives’ reports, hasn’t occurred since.

My last communication of any kind with my father was Christmastime, 2003. This synchronicity is insignificant to everyone but me.

The Best Strikes

June 2000:

My father typically has three computers in the house: one in the kitchen, one in his office, and one in her office. The newest one, purchased for his wife just a few months before, smoked, caught fire and literally exploded the day after my son and I left his house after a week-long summer visit.

I was two weeks away from graduating college and declared my pending accomplishment (because nobody had asked) during the visit. His wife’s response was “Oh, we thought you were done with all that school stuff.” My father said, “Yea, we thought you were already done.”

I should mention that my father stopped paying for my college education when I was a sophomore at the University of Georgia’s Journalism School in 1983. That summer, he married his new wife after my mother’s death two years earlier. He and his new wife had worked together at the same company for twenty years and “dated” for nobody knows how long prior to my mother’s death. I only mention this because I was fairly proud of the fact that I had finished my college degree (granted, 20 years later at age 39 and as a single parent) with no help from him. I felt that it was an accomplishment of which any parent would be proud. Or at least not ignore. And definitely not belittle.

July 2000:

My father’s other two computers and his intricate home intercom/security system snapped, fizzled, and died the day I informed him that I was sending him some money I owed to him.

I paid my father $800 that I had borrowed (actually, I had begged because he wasn’t pleased with this request at all and I was desperate for the money) for my first class. My company would reimburse steadily after that, but I needed the first payment upfront. My father is a firm believer that children should automatically become financially independent from their parents exactly at age 18, with the possible exception of college tuition and only tuition. His parents forced this belief on him when he was 18 as well, so I assume he felt compelled to carry on the tradition.

I should mention that they bought a $38,000 Chrysler Town & Country Limited van just a few weeks prior with money that my father’s wife’s 90-year-old mother had given them from a stock sale. She regularly showered her daughter with monetary gifts, which was just wonderful for my father, because, inexplicably, he didn’t view this as a compromise to his belief system.

September 2000:

A tree in my father’s yard was struck and fell through the guest bedroom roof of his house a few days after I sent an e-mail informing him that I was moving to Indianapolis.

After being unemployed for five months, I was offered a position in Indianapolis and moved in ten days. My father sent one congratulatory reply email and then didn’t contact me again until March of the following year. I’m not sure, but I believe he thought I would have asked for money.

November 2000:

He has a complicated telephone system. Phones popped and fizzled and died fiery deaths (actually creating a fire in the kitchen cabinets) two days after his wife refused to donate money for my son’s airline ticket to visit Indianapolis for Thanksgiving.

With only one day off work, I could not drive back and forth between Memphis and Indianapolis to be with my son for the Thanksgiving holiday. I couldn’t afford a plane ticket at the time, so I was sad and worried that he wouldn’t see his new house until he moved up officially at the end of the first semester of school in January. Unbeknownst to me, a friend of mine sent email to four people (including my father’s wife) asking to chip in ($40) for a plane ticket for my son. The only person who refused was my father’s wife. But not only did she refuse, she sent a lengthy embarrassing email to all my friends about how offended she was by being asked in the first place.

I never heard from my father during this time. I’m not sure what he thought we did for the holidays. I guess, if I were honest with myself, he didn’t think about it at all.

March 2001:

With this storm, he lost his phone system again. Nothing caught on fire, but the kitchen wall phone flew off the wall and made a decent dent in the hardwood floor.

I don’t know what this was for. Perhaps this was just a reminder that he should check on us.

November/December 2001:

This series of strikes actually did damage to the roof. Something (wiring) caught fire in the attic and they were told by the familiar firemen that they were lucky the whole house didn’t burn to the ground.

Again, my father never asked what we were doing for Thanksgiving or Christmas. He didn’t call to find out.

However, his wife did email to ask me what my son was doing for Thanksgiving. I told her that I would be driving to Nashville, Tennessee to meet my son’s father so they could drive to Atlanta and spend the holidays with his parents. I would be staying in Indianapolis.

She told my father (I later found out) that we were going to Memphis for Thanksgiving. Obviously, my father gave this no actual thought, because I know not one person with whom I would spend a holiday in Memphis.

My son and I went to Chicago for Christmas because we received no family invitations. It was actually a wonderful trip and I know he enjoyed it. We did drive to Atlanta the day after Christmas – I spent a few days visiting friends and my son spent a few days with his father’s family. My father called my cell phone a few days after Christmas to ask how our holidays were and, unfortunately, found out we were in Atlanta.

We spent two hours at a Red Lobster on New Year’s Day with my father and his wife.

July 2002:

Another computer. This time, my father’s.

My father is, and has been for years, on the Board of Directors at Rome’s First United Methodist Church. He considers himself among the godliest of all the godly businessmen in the church. It is the wealthiest church in the town and requires a lot of money to run. It also requires a lot of money to keep and attract the proper minister. Only ministers who are capable of hobnobbing with the wealthy church members would be acceptable. Therefore, the minister needed to have access to and afford all the things his flock could. This summer, my father donated $20,000 for his minister’s annual country club membership. It was just what Board members do in the name of Christianity.

December 2002:

This time, the television in their sitting room was struck. It popped and blew, but did not catch on fire. Typically, they unplug appliances now at the first sign of rain, but they forgot this TV.

My son visited in Atlanta for Christmas. He and my father made arrangements to meet for lunch while he was in town. Immediately after ordering, my father’s wife got a phone call from her son whom she talks to on a daily basis. She left to talk on the phone outside the restaurant. She sat in their van for over 45 minutes. By the time she came back, they had eaten their food and my father had paid the check. I guess the two hour visit the year before hadn’t worn off yet for her.

December 2003:

A laundry room fire.

My father actually invited us to visit for Christmas. He hadn’t done this in years, and I had expressed to him how shitty I thought our visits had become, so I honestly thought it was something like a peace offering. I accepted and made plans for the whole week.

I emailed that we’d come Christmas Eve day and spend two days and then go on to visit other family and friends. My father’s wife saw the email and replied. “We have plans for Christmas Day. I guess your father forgot.”

So my father called and asked, “Can you come the day after Christmas?”

“No.”

“Well, you can come Christmas Eve but we have to spend Christmas Day with family. Maybe there’s someone you could visit while we do that?”

I don’t even remember what I said. I do remember crying for months. I also remember forgiving him (only in my heart – he has never acknowledged doing anything hurtful) about a year later. But I haven’t talked to him since. I let the machine pick up his quarterly phone calls.

I guess he hasn’t given much thought to the fact that I haven’t called him back. He’s probably just glad that lightning hasn’t struck his house again.

-- Karen Rutherford, March 2005
-- ~ 1,700 words

An Unintentional Journey

He would be her one and only child. She didn’t know that at the time she gave birth, but since she had thought twice about bringing him into the world, she suspected. Motherhood wasn’t anything she had ever dreamed about. She never played dolls as a child, and, as an adult, never had pangs of envy when other women she knew had announced pregnancies. She had only held a baby once or twice and couldn’t even remember the circumstances. She never really knew why she had gone through with this pregnancy, other than lacking the money for an abortion.

But when she saw his pink, wrinkly face and his tiny body, she felt a sudden connection and responsibility. She finally had a purpose: she would learn how to be a mother. This made her think things would change. He would make her life better, happier, softer. He would bring love to the house and make it a home. He would make them a family.

A nurse at the hospital gave her a book of baby names after discovering that she didn’t already have any names in mind. With momentary hope and care, she named him Nathan, meaning “a gift”. The nurse sensed that she was alone and completely unprepared, so she searched the hospital for some of the basics: extra diapers, blankets and bottles, a diaper bag, and a carrier to use as a car seat. The staff didn’t typically allow new mothers to leave alone, but, in her case, they just didn’t have another choice. So she drove herself and her new gift home from the hospital.

Her husband came home from who knew where a few days later. He never acknowledged his son. He neither spoke to him nor about him and he did everything he could to avoid being anywhere near him. He just didn’t want to look at him at all. He swore Nathan wasn’t his child, so he snubbed any of her attempts at association. Her bothersome pleading became just another excuse to use her as his punching bag.

Before Nathan, she had the schedule down pat. Mondays were always bad days at work, Fridays were nights of drunken stupors, Saturdays were hangovers, and Sundays were boring days with nothing better to do. She had come to expect it and wondered what she had done wrong when it didn’t. She always saw it coming and felt good about having the foresight to mentally prepare. She really wasn’t as stupid as he always said she was.

But she couldn’t schedule things as well with Nathan in the house – babies being so unpredictable. She had to hide his cries, his needs, and as he got older, his every movement. She started making sure Nathan was never in the same room with his father, because she ached, not for the beatings to stop, but for the schedule to return.

She loved her son, but he seemed to be making things harder for her.

Still, she lived with this man for six years, raising her son in fear. The boy heard and sometimes saw his mother get beaten every week of his life. He usually hid in his closet so his father wouldn’t remember he even existed – not that he did anyway.

Eventually, her husband started to spend more and more time away from home and, ultimately, left her for another woman. He simply forgot to divorce her.

When the food ran out and the landlord demanded payment, she walked to a tiny church not too far away and knocked on the door. The woman who answered let her in and offered her some comfort by recommending that she apply for assistance at the local social services office. She also said that the church would add her to the prayer list that Sunday. The woman let her use the office phone to call and make an appointment for the following day.

The next morning, she put Nathan on the school bus and walked to the closest city bus stop, three miles away. At the welfare office, she discussed her situation with a caseworker named Jane who actually offered her a job. They needed some office help and Jane decided that she could work part-time while Nathan was in school. Jane referred her to an apartment complex nearby which was on the bus line and wouldn’t require a change of schools. Jane arranged to have some of her and Nathan’s things moved and found some donated furniture.

The apartment wasn’t really fit for stray dogs. A few windows were broken out, paint was peeling off the walls, the floors had unidentifiable stains she tried to clean but never could completely remove, the kitchen cabinets were full of chewed up holes and rat droppings, and the water from the taps was a color she had never seen before. But, it would have to do, because she barely earned enough money to pay the subsidized rent and feed herself and her son.

Over the next months, she didn’t look for a better job or a better apartment. The thoughts never really occurred to her.

And, after a year of waiting to see if her husband would come back to her, she finally filed for divorce. She thought about trying to get child support, but she never got around to starting the process. Jane thought about forcing the issue, but decided that it wasn’t her business. He would never pay a dime to help the son, that, in his eyes, he never had.

Luckily, just a few months later, she met a new man. After knowing him for three weeks, she moved herself and her son into his rented house. They all lived together for six years - six more miserable years. Though this man didn’t beat her up, he had so many obsessive rules and mental problems that she started longing for the dependability of physical torture.

He worked nights so he insisted that the house be in full darkness during the day. He duct-taped foil to all the windows and ordered that no lights should be turned on. He didn’t like noise much either, so there were no telephones or televisions. He had a car, but she couldn’t use it. It took just a few weeks for him to decide that it was too good for her.

She had one living relative: a sister who lived about 500 miles away. They had always enjoyed writing to each other over the years, but, when he started reading her mail and forbidding any communication, her sister eventually gave up trying to get through to her and never wrote again.

And so, every day, she came home from work and waited, sitting as motionless as possible on the couch, for Nathan to get home from school. She had to meet him at the door to make sure he didn’t make any noise. She learned how to cook meals according to his schedule (dinner was breakfast and breakfast was dinner) and without making a sound. Morning after morning, she and Nathan got ready for work and school in silent darkness so his sleeping wouldn’t be disturbed.

Soon after Nathan turned ten, Jane, her caseworker told her about a better job. It was full-time, still on the bus line, and paid more money. She didn’t like the idea, because Nathan would be alone in the house after school and she just knew he’d make noise. But her caseworker had been insistent. He was old enough to know the house rules, after all. She grudgingly interviewed and was surprised when she was offered the job.

With more money coming in, her boyfriend quit his job and stayed in the house sleeping most of the time. The only time he left the house was on her paydays. She signed her checks over to him and he gave her a weekly allowance, but it was never enough for household groceries and Nathan’s school lunches. She cooked huge meals at home and hoped her son didn’t get too hungry. Nathan never complained to anyone but himself.

And then, two years later, this man left her, too. She wondered why but had no way to contact him to find out. She stayed in his house and paid rent until his lease ran out. Nobody said a word so she stayed and just kept paying. She took the foil off the windows and got a phone and a television. She tried to contact her sister but the number had been disconnected and she didn't think to write. She never heard a word from the landlord when she met the next man and moved out.

He was 50 years old and had never been married. They met in the parking lot of the grocery store. She talked about him at work as women normally do, but nobody knew of him. They asked about his family, but she didn’t have much information. He never talked about anyone, other than an occasional casual mention of his mother who had died when he was in his twenties. It was surprising in their tiny town that nobody could place him at all. She took him to a company function once to show him off, but nobody seemed to like him. When she later prodded, they reluctantly told her there was something about him that just didn’t seem right.

But he had money. He had worked for the phone company since he was 18 years old and could retire anytime with full benefits. He paid cash for his house years ago. Finally, she had met someone who could support her and Nathan.

Six weeks after meeting him, she moved herself and her 12-year-old son into his house in the woods. It was so far in the country, their mail was held at the downtown post office because there essentially was no address for any delivery route. Luckily, 911 dispatch never had to find her.

Then, three weeks later, she quit her job. It was her only experience with money and she planned to enjoy every minute of it. He gave her money for lasik eye surgery, frequent makeovers at the mall, weekly massages and a new wardrobe. He also gave her an American Express card. They married about a month later.

And then the real trouble with Nathan started.

She never asked why, but her son and new husband didn’t get along. Her former co-workers reassuringly told her that he probably wasn't adjusting well to people being in his house after so many years living alone. They tried to be positive because she was so happy. He just didn’t seem to like Nathan very much at all.

He also didn’t like his new wife out of his sight for a minute. He was so jealous, so protective, only wanting her for himself. She thought he was so sweet and she felt more loved than she ever had in her entire life. She didn’t want to think about anything bad. If she thought too much, she might think about how hard things had been since Nathan came along. And she certainly didn’t want to think about her son ruining this wonderful new life for her.

She had spent so many unhappy years with no money and she vowed never to live like that again, no matter what. She was finally happy, able to afford things she wanted and living with a man who obviously cared so much about her. She just wanted to keep her husband happy, too, and, if that meant certain tiny sacrifices from her son, that was the way it had to be.

Despite her attempts, his complaints started almost immediately after they married. He had a long list of house rules and got upset at the slightest deviance. He had rules about how to fold clothes, how and when to cook, how and when to vacuum, how to eat at the dinner table. And he had written procedures for stocking the kitchen pantry, washing the car, mowing the lawn, making the beds, cleaning bathrooms. But she made sure all his demands were met. It was his house, after all, and she had no intention of leaving.

Buying things for Nathan wasn't easy either. Her husband had to approve any purchases for the boy. He gave her money for groceries with directions that it was for the two of them. He insisted that her son, at age 13, was old enough to get a job and fend for himself. He complained if he saw Nathan looking for extra snacks in the kitchen, doing too much laundry, taking much too long showers or asking his mother for anything. Nathan didn’t know what to do, so he tried his best to avoid him altogether. But his best wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t long before Nathan was moved into the attic to live.

The attic had its own door leading outside and stairs to the back patio. So, the annoyance of seeing him coming and going to and from school was not a problem anymore for her husband. They quickly installed a small kitchen and bathroom, eliminating the need for him to come downstairs at all. She would sneak her son food from the grocery store as often as she could without her husband noticing. Nathan learned to ask for extra helpings from the lunch lady at school, cook boxed macaroni and cheese and hot dogs and ate alone every night. Nobody cleaned for him, did his laundry, bought him clothes or shoes, helped him get to or from school, or even asked how he was doing. He still never complained to anyone.

The day he started his freshman year in high school, his mother and her husband were on vacation in Hawaii. Luckily, he was old enough to get himself there the first few days without any help. And he got a job after school to support himself in the attic.

When he graduated high school, she mailed a few announcements to make sure he would get some gifts, but he attended the ceremony alone.

The day he turned eighteen, Nathan walked to the recruiting office, signed the paperwork and left for Marine boot camp. He never talked to his mother again. He did not return her phone calls or letters and she gave up after a year of trying. As usual, she never really knew why.

And so, she lived in the woods with her husband. They stopped going to the tiny church that had helped her a lifetime ago. Then, they stopped going to the mall, to the grocery store, to the movies, or anywhere in town. They essentially disappeared. Initially, a few people from church and former jobs checked on her every so often. She snappily responded to everyone that asked that "things are fine". The questions became such a bother for her and people felt like their concerns weren’t welcome, so they stopped calling. And it didn’t take long to unintentionally forget about her.

Over the coming years, Nathan married and had three children. He was an excellent father. When his kids asked about their grandmother, he lied and said he was raised by his father, who, he lied some more, had died admirably in combat. He told them that he never knew his mother.

Her husband died twelve years later. It wasn’t long before the house became overgrown with weeds and grass. It had always been hard to detect from the street, but now it was barely visible at all. Eventually, it just seemed to disappear. With her in it.

Decades and decades passed. Nathan’s 40-year-old granddaughter ended up moving her family onto the property after she received a notice demanding back taxes. He would have hated these people taking over his land, but, if only on paper, they had been and always would be considered family.

She spent a full year demolishing the house and rebuilding it from scratch. When they jack hammered the foundation of the house, they found a dirt cellar below the kitchen. An old rusty lock was still attached to the shredded, termite ridden boards of what had once been the door. Inside, there was an old-fashioned hot plate, a small refrigerator, and a lamp still plugged into an extension cord hanging from an outlet in the kitchen above. There was a tiny table covered in cobwebs and dirt, and a thread-bare mattress used by generations of varmints. The undetectable blood stains had long since blended in with the Georgia red clay. When they looked more closely, they found an old Bible, resting between two mattress springs, still open to the passage she was reading. Yet, nobody would ever know she had even been there.

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you. (Isaiah 66:13a)

-- Karen Rutherford, March 2006
-- ~ 2,800 words

Christmas 1970

I was seven years old and at the age when, way back then in simpler and slower times, most children just begin to seriously contemplate the logistics of Santa Claus’ annual visit. I had asked a million questions that Christmas season, but no explanation made sense.

I announced at the dinner table that Christmas Eve that I would be staying awake all night. I intended to prove once and for all that there was no Santa. After all, I was too grown up for this nonsense. With whom did they think they were dealing - a 5-year-old?

My parents agreed to the plan, but insisted that I still go to bed on time, explaining, for yet another year, that Santa only visited sleeping children and thinking, of course, that I wouldn’t last too long anyway once my head hit the pillow.

I reluctantly participated in their charade but I was confident that I would prove how silly this whole concept was. I knew there would be no signs of Santa that night.

I lay in my bed with the drapes open, staring out my window. I watched. I listened. And I waited. And waited. I refused to give in. I would not fall asleep! I was sure hours had gone by.

All of a sudden, I saw a tiny red light moving slowly across the sky. I jumped out of the bed and ran to the window for a closer look. Then I heard the bells. I saw the red light travel to the top of our neighbor’s roof and stop. The jingling stopped too. It was dark and I couldn’t see much, but there was no mistaking that light.

After a bit, the light took off again for the sky and the sound of jingling bells got louder. I couldn’t tell where Rudolph was going next, but I was positive that he was headed for my roof. I ran back under the covers and pretended to be fast asleep. I sure did hope that Santa didn’t see me watching him from my window!

Needless to say, I was a firm believer in Santa Claus for two more years.

_______

My father told me when I was a teenager that he and his best friend who lived next door had done all this from his friend’s deck. We were positioned on a corner lot and the back of our house faced the side of theirs. I had a perfect view of their roof and deck from my room. They had actually lain down on the deck so I couldn’t see them and shone a flashlight with red bulbs across the sky and onto the roof. My mother always insisted on a ridiculous amount of Christmas decorations, so they had no problem finding loud bells to jingle.

Today, I am the same age that my father was in 1970. As a parent, I can appreciate the desire to preserve our children’s innocence. And, as a middle-aged adult, I understand the power of Crown Royal on a winter night and the intense need for something fun, silly, and different to do.

-- Karen Rutherford, 2004
-- ~500 words

Jesus took me to the mall

I thought this topic needed something a little more - something special. I know it deserves more than my inept attempt at a poem.

But I desperately hope, if Deb finds her way here, that she will take it in the cute(!), funny, well-intentioned spirit in which it was written. And if Jesus reads it, I hope He knows how much we appreciate His gift of entertainment.

______________

Jesus took me to the mall By Karen Rutherford Circa 2005, the early poet years

______________

The famous poem “Footprints in the Sand” comes to mind
When Deb talks of how much time
She spends doing this and spends doing that
For every single person that never even has to ask.

But “Footprints in the Sand” feels full of peace
And Deb’s life is way too hectic, full of demands that never cease.
God could never carry Deb; she’s got too much to do and needs to move too fast.
Uphill, but outrunning the memories of the past.

One day recently, she ran out of time and called me in a frenzy.
“I’ve just got to slow down and listen to God and try to be less busy.
“There must be a sign in all this chaos, something to remind me of the key.
The light of God’s purpose I haven’t had a minute to see.”

We talked about praying for God to show her the way
To help her find time to still feel the meaning in each day.
And, indeed, that night in her dreams, He picked her up out of her bed.
“I’ll carry you to a place you go all the time but never really see,” He said.

There were people everywhere she looked, heading in every direction.
Seemingly no goals existed, or maybe too many to mention.
God helped her see herself in every aimless person.
He gently cradled her and told her that, with Him, she didn’t need to run

From things in the past, in the present, in the future; from things that spin her ‘round.
She now knew God was saying that it would be safe for her to slow down.
She called to say, “God answered my prayer and heeded my call.
It may sound silly, but I’ve never felt more at peace than the day Jesus took me to the mall.”

The Pool

Betty and Nadine, two single ladies noticeably past middle age and best friends since third grade, signed up for a water aerobics class at their local gym. Betty, the more adventurous one, had convinced Nadine that this could be a calm, stress-free way to get some of that low-impact exercise she’d been reading about. She also thought it could be an inconspicuous way to exercise while avoiding the twenty-year-old, thong-wearing, man-ogling women and the stereotypical, responsive men who inexplicably never forget to deposit their brains at the front door of the YMCA. But she graciously kept this opinion to herself.

The week before classes started, the two ladies went swimsuit shopping together to lessen the pain. Betty, the smaller of the two women by about seven pounds, was always the more confident one, but even this adventure was tugging at her resolve. So when Nadine’s dejected sighs got louder with each attempted suit, Betty tried to reassure her friend: “Remember, Nadine, we’ll be underwater most of the time.”

“How comforting,” she grimaced, but couldn’t help laughing to herself.

The following Tuesday evening, Betty picked Nadine up and they headed to their first class. They giggled nervously about wearing bathing suits for the first time in years. They joked about losing material in body parts unknown. They fretted about being the fattest women in the class. And being best friends, they encouraged each other enough so that it truly didn’t matter at all.

There were twelve women of all ages and sizes (it turned out that they were actually two of the smallest women in the group!) and one man obviously not there for any weight loss benefits. The women introduced themselves to each other as women do, but the stoic man smiled just enough to appear polite, never speaking to anyone.

The class lined up in front of a young, perky female instructor who obviously had an endless supply of motivation. Betty thought she was the perfect pick to lead this bunch!

And surprisingly, the class was a complete success. The ladies actually enjoyed themselves and were happy they went. Both of them actually looked forward to the next class!

Feeling much more comfortable in their suits than they had on Tuesday, Betty and Nadine strode confidently into the YMCA that Thursday night and headed for the pool.

Betty noticed it first. The only man in the class was already standing in the water waiting for the women to line up. And he was wearing nose plugs!

Why? Betty thought. Why did he need nose plugs? For the waves? Waves in a pool? There were no kids splashing around, no boats leaving wakes, no wind causing currents. For heaven’s sake, there were just women in the pool. Twelve women doing low-impact exercises. Twelve fairly large women. In the water. Moving and jumping and running …oh my.

The rest of the class arrived and noticed one by one, two by two. The man, who had said nothing to any of them, suddenly spoke volumes. Whispering, muttering, and shaking their heads in initial shame, then disgust for this man with no manners, they were determined to make the highest waves they possibly could. They would make him fight for every breath!

But it was too much for Nadine. Too embarrassed to exit the pool, she finished the class, but told Betty on the way home that she just couldn’t go back. And Betty, being the friend that she was, opted out in support. It was to be their second and last water aerobics class.

They made arrangements to meet Saturday to donate their new bathing suits to charity and go for Mexican.

“Food, Nadine, not A Mexican,” Betty joked, just to make her friend laugh.

Fan Mail

For a perfect read, find Elizabeth Strout in the shelves….

March 10, 2006
Ms. Elizabeth Strout
c/o The Random House Publishing Group Publicity
1745 Broadway 18th Floor
New York, NY 10019

Dear Ms. Strout,

I never write letters like this, so please bear with me if I begin to babble too soon. I recently read a magazine blurb about your new March 14th book release during an unusually long stint in the Target EXPRESS (but I digress) check-out lane. I realized that I immediately smiled and began a better day and had an urge to let you know why.

You see, I feel like I know you. I attended the annual Eudora Welty Writers’ Symposium at the Mississippi University for Women in 2001, at which you spoke about your life’s windy path back to writing and read selections from Amy and Isabelle. I will never forget that conference, because, for somewhat unexplained reasons to me at the time, I spontaneously cried (as inconspicuously as possible) through a lot of it.

I majored in Journalism (at the time, the only writing-related field at the school) my first attempt at college in the early 1980’s and had several, honestly many, jobs completely unrelated to writing pursuits since. My career path eventually forced me into computer-related work strictly for financial single-parent reasons. So, in 2001, I was a Systems Developer. And lost. And sad. And miserable. It was as though you were reading my mind. I had gone into so many jobs that didn’t matter, just to avoid possibly failing at the one I really felt called to do.

This day being an up-close observer of the academic world and the writing world, and present in an area of the United States full of such culture and history was the first time I realized the connection between spirituality and authenticity. And I had ignored both most of my life.

Listening to you tell us about your life and your writing life comforted and inspired me so much. I bought your book and it is still one of my all-time favorites. Only two books in my life (and I consider myself a regular, if not avid, reader) have made me immediately miss the characters upon reading the last sentence: your Amy and Isabelle and Elinor Lipman’s Then She Found Me.

The theme of the conference was “A Kindred Soul to Laugh With” and you will always be that to this fan. A writer sometimes has no idea of the lasting effect she has on even the most inconspicuous audience member. Thus, the universal tug I felt to write and tell you how much I look forward to reading Abide With Me and appreciate just knowing that you’re out there writing.

I’m so excited! A new book! And it’s in Maine (my favorite place in the world)!

Thank you!
Karen Rutherford
Indianapolis, Indiana

Used Books

They were at least in their seventies. The wife was looking at paperback novels, when her husband spotted a chair near the window.

“I think I’m going to go sit down. I can hold the books you’ve picked out while you keep looking if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he assured, and took a seat in the chair opening his arms so she could fill them with the dozen or so Agatha Christie books she had already picked out.

She laughed. “You know, I really have enough here. I don’t need any more.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Aw, you go ahead and get as many as you want.”

She accepted that with a nod and a smile and went back to the shelves, but just for a second.

She came back to him and started to thumb through the book spines, giggling. “I can’t remember what I already got.” He smiled and repositioned the stacks so she could see more easily.

She returned to her search and, in just a few minutes, came back to him and said, “I think I’m through looking. I really do have all I need.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She smiled at him, and said she was. They went to the cashier, walking side by side, him carrying her books for her.

A Preferred Customer

Miss Hazel will be 76 this year. She has lived in or within 15 miles of Brownsville, Tennessee, all her life. When she turned 40 in 1969, she bought a brand new ranch-style house on a corner lot of a tiny subdivision on the outskirts of town. And she’s lived there ever since.

She commuted between Memphis and Brownsville several times in her life, but most importantly when she completed her Master’s degree in Education at age 45. She taught in the City of Brownsville and Shelby County schools the rest of her working life.

Even though the town of Brownsville is relatively small, with a population of around 10,000 people, it sure feels smaller to Miss Hazel. She either knows everyone or knows of everyone. And everyone knows her. I think it’s because of all those years teaching. She knew kids who grew into parents whose kids grew into parents.

For all those years of service to her community, Miss Hazel gets a few welcome perks. For example, since grocery shopping can add up to a long walk for someone in their seventies, management suggested that she park in the handicapped parking space at the E.W. James Supermarket until somebody in town had an unfortunate accident last winter and actually needed the space. But not long after, the store employees put up a big sign in front of the space next to it saying, “Preferred Customer Parking”, and designated it as Miss Hazel’s new spot.

The word spread pretty quickly among the store’s customers (the “new” Wal-Mart that came in 1995 took most of the business, so there weren’t as many people to notify). It wasn’t long before everyone just knew. They knew that Miss Hazel goes shopping every Thursday morning, without fail, (if she needs anything mid-week, she calls the store manager who just delivers what she needs on his way home) before going to get her hair done.

People use the spot on other days, but it is always vacant on Thursday mornings. I don’t know if Miss Hazel knows that other people use it the rest of the week. But if she did, she certainly wouldn’t mind.

She’d say, “Oh, that’s just grand, dahhlin’. I wouldn’t like to know that I’m the only preferred customer in town.”

Another perk that Miss Hazel didn’t even know about until recently, is that that she has had the luxury of choosing between two mailmen all these years. A walking city postal carrier delivers mail for her neighborhood and a rural driving postal carrier delivers mail for the county. Because she chose, when she moved in, to put her mailbox at the end of the driveway (it seemed like less trouble for the mailman at the time) that exits to a major highway, her mail has always been delivered by the rural carrier.

But one day recently, she decided it sure would be a blessing to have a nice new mailbox at her front door. It was getting harder each year to walk down the back steps to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. If it were at her front door, she wouldn’t even have to maneuver steps or, for that matter, even step outside. And that mailbox at the end of the drive was barely standing anymore anyway.

So she paid her “man” (the man who has served as her faithful handyman for years – he is a few years older than she is now) to buy a new mailbox, put it up and remove the old one.

She had discussed what she was doing with both mailmen and they all agreed that the walking carrier would just drop her mail in her new box just as he had done for her neighbors since his first day on the job.

It seemed easy…sensible….efficient.

Until she heard a knock on her door. Both mailmen proceeded to tell her that their bosses weren’t allowing the change. They had tried and tried, telling them again and again that it was fine with them, but they had profusely said “no”, as if they had been asked a question. It seemed that there were numerous city and rural post office regulations involving walking vs. driving, pay scales and unions.

Miss Hazel got contact information and started what would turn out to be an intense 48-hour ordeal. During this time, the rural carrier continued to deliver her mail, but because the mailbox was torn down, he had to park his truck and walk to Miss Hazel’s porch and “illegally” drop it in the mailbox at her front door. He didn’t like doing this, because he knew he could get into trouble.

“Listen, dahhhlin, if ANYONE finds out about this and gives you any trouble, you just tell them to come see me, Hazel Simmons.”

She started with phone calls to their bosses. She patiently explained the circumstances to each, but neither gave her the correct answer. Next, she called the postmasters of the county and the city offices who told her they couldn’t make the change she requested. She called the USPS Consumer Affairs office in Memphis and stayed on “hold” until she eventually got the Vice President’s voice mail. She left a message and, some time later, received a phone call telling her that there was nothing that could be done. She would need to replace the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

So, the next morning, Miss Hazel called her Congressman, 9th term Representative John Tanner. The following day, she had her mail delivered to the new mailbox at her front door by the suitable walking postal carrier. The rural carrier drove right past her stop, but not without smiling at her house and thinking about the woman inside.

“Isn’t it a shame the lengths we have to go through nowadays to get anything done,” Congressman Tanner had told her.

“Why, yes it is. But, I’ve been around for a while, I’m an educated woman, and I’ll be damned if I’d ever let a bureaucrat take from me what I know is rightfully mine.”

“Yes, ma’am, I agree completely. I wish more people like you would get involved and fight so diligently for their rights.”

“Well, thank you again. If you ever need anything, you just let me know. You know my address here in Brownsville. I’m almost certain that I voted for you at least once or twice.”

“Well, Ms. Simmons, I certainly do appreciate that. And you let me know if you have any more problems. In fact, let me give you my cell phone number. That way, you can contact me anytime.”

It seems Miss Hazel just can’t help being a preferred customer.