Routine is Good

My lonely walk along the tracks makes me think.  All in front of me is magic light of dawn and when I turn the grainery is black against the coming light.  Today my cramps inside are as painful as before children.  I wonder why my womb is squeezing itself so tight, wringing itself out of all the nurishing fluids.  The sky starts to bleed a bit too, but then all the colors become fully bright.  Even the scraggly tree looks beautiful in its death, bridging the pond.  Its every naked finger juts out into a strong antlered tangle.  I remember seeing antler chandeliers in old castles in Europe.  I want to go back there some day and roam.  But then I remember that I have children and the very thought of bolstering them through even one afternoon of sightseeing and culture that "is good for them!" exhausts me.  I'm saddened by the fact that my children are swallowing this lie that they need movies and mass produced toys and candy in order to be happy.  They've lost some of their original curiosity for the natural and the wild after they see bits of television and other kid media on You tube.  "Can I go on the computer now?" seems to be Donovan's most frequent question.  Last night Weston threw a terrible fit when our family "movie night" got postponed while we connected with some troubled students who courageously came to our door to talk.  I think the main problem with Weston was he was over tired, but we tried explaining to him the importance of being flexible and of listening to others when they're upset, and that movies are special at the right time.  It was 10:00 before he calmed down enough to come to bed.

It's getting so I'm afraid to take them into a store with me.  They've come to believe they deserve something just for them every time.  When we were down in Lethbridge, I stole into The Bay for one hour to Christmas shop before I head into rehearsals next week.  Sure enough, when Dave and the boys joined me, they first had to go up and down the escalator three times until a saleslady asked them to stop, and then Weston connected to a bright blue suitcase that he couldn't leave without.  He wedged himself into a full body embrace with the $140.00 carry- on and swore the only way he would get up off the floor is if we PROMISED to get it for him for Christmas.  No amount of reasoning would deter him.  Not even the most common sense tactics like. "Weston, we already own suitcases." Or, "If we bought you this expensive item, I'm not sure we would get you much else for Christmas... maybe some socks."  Nothing worked.  He had his own reasons, and they were pretty good.  "This is a luggage just for me."  Well, it was beautiful, for luggage.  The brightness and the compactness with all the little pockets did look fun, and now I see what he really wanted was something to call his own.  Not something handed down or chosen for him, but something he connected with and could use for his own purposes that belonged to no one else.  He nearly persuaded me in the end with his glassy green sad eyes and quivering bottom lip, but Dave held firm.  Besides, it was time for lunch.  

Suffice it to say we had a rough ride in the car trying to find this German restaurant which ended up being closed and the whole time traveling we had to endure whining and crying from both the boys about how severely they were being mistreated by not being taken to MacDonald's.  "They know what kids like there, Dad." "They have French fries with ketchup there, Dad."  "They have a play park there, Dad."  "We're not going to no stupid boring German restaurant!"  We did finally find it and it had closed two hours earlier.  Dave was crushed.  His mouth has been watering for Kaizespatzle ever since the Bodensee with Heiffeweissen in Meersburg 12 years ago.  Well we compromised for a near by Tim Hortons.  Nothing original in that.  We all ate a bow of soup though, and that was a nice surprise.  Of course the boys probably would have eaten styrofoam at that point because it was almost four in the afternoon.  All this shows me that routine is good.  I know we need a change and vacation every now and then, but when it comes to bed times, eating times and play times, routine is good.

Little Skunks and Long Blond-Haired Men

-I went back to the dead skunk today beside the highway.  It doesn't stink.  In fact it looks so lonely and pitiful; humble and gorgeous.  It's stark black and white coloring make for quite the target amidst all the autumnal shades.  

I mutter under my breath, "Poor little guy.  Musta been hit" --when suddenly a charcoal car goes goes racing buy: so loud, so fast.  I know this car, and the look of the driver.  This same car races through our town twice a day.  I hate it.  He takes the center of the highway so as not to brush too close to me, but he is going SOOOO fast, I stiffen with fear and have a sharp intake of breath.  I am tingling with adrenalin.  This is the same car I have given the "arms lowering" gesture to on the stretch of highway behind my house while walking beside my wavering four year old on his bike.

I have this sad thought that some day someone will die from this man speeding through our town.  I think it might be me.  Yesterday it may have been little Stinky here.  

This man is unusual because he has long blond hair.  At least this is unusual for me.  Most men I know with long hair are brunette.  Now isn't that funny that we never say "brunette" for a man? Ha...  Well that puts me in mind of another long haired blond man I saw long ago on a street near the University of Oregon campus when I lived at the McKenzie Study Center...

There was a very atypical man who walked the streets at that time (and I mean atypical even for Eugene.)  For one, as I have already mentioned, he had long blond hair.  But his long blond hair was not a sandy or honey brown like you might imagine, his was white white blond.  No, he didn't dye it and no, it wasn't a wig... this man was an albino.  This man was an albino who wasn't wearing sunglasses out in the broad daylight, so you could see his icy blue eyes.  He looked me up and down and I tried to hurry past him, but I could feel he was zeroing in to speak.

"Nice dress!"  He said emphatically. 

        "...Thank... you, " I mumbled and went on my way troubled.

You see, not only was this man an albino with long wispy white blond hair, he was ALSO wearing a dress!  Now I pretty much know how to respond to a man who is a stranger saying "nice dress"; it means, "you look attractive", and so I politely thank him and go on my way, hoping he's not checking me out from behind as well as I hurry home.  (I know this may sound trite in print, but bear with me.)  I also know how to respond to a stranger who is a woman who says, "Nice dress!" which means: "you look so nice, and ....I WANT that dress".  I usually say "well, thank you" and move on my way either thinking feeling bad for her or wondering  why I even wore a dress that day.

But how should I have responded to this man?  He didn't really fit into any of my previous experiences.  Was he saying I looked attractive, or did he just WANT my dress? -(Again, I can't help wondering how politically incorrect this all sounds, but it was such an unusual encounter.-- One from which I had no reference, only intuition, and my guts told me to keep on walking because I was not ready to genuinely listen to this needy individual who already had a way of saying things very loudly.)

As I passed he said, "Don't you love wearing a dress on a day like today?"  Well he got me there.  There is nothing like wearing a dress on a bright breezy day and feeling your skirts ruffle about your legs in the wind.  That is something not even men in kilts quite get.  --I muffled a brief yes, and walked on.  

        I know now I missed the chance to be a courageous soul to another soul.  So what if I HAD just stopped and talked about how lovely dresses are on a day that's bright and breezy. --?  Weeks later I saw a letter he had posted on the green room board at the Universtiy Theatre.  "Hello, I am the albino walking around campus.  Lately I've been enjoying the freedom of wearing a dress..."  It went on for about four pages.  Here was the guy, again, reaching out to be heard, and I remembered how I had been too afraid.  My little stab of fear has been something I've learned to trust, but I still wonder: whatever happened to that guy?  Humm... maybe the long-haired blond man speeding through town has something that he feels can only be expressed by ruffling my "skirts" each time as he breezes past.