In elementary school I had a best friend named Myrth. "It means laughter," she told me. "My big sister's name means beautiful," she added. Her sister's name was Linda. Myrth and Linda lived with their parents on Friends Avenue near the downtown area of our community. I had always wanted Linda and my older sister to become friends too, daydreaming of the tidy arrangement that would make, but they never did.
One day, Myrth came over to my house for the afternoon and we decided to play with our Barbies. We played on the grass in our sunny backyard, dressing the dolls in several outfits and fussing with their hair, leaving our Ken and Midge dolls to fend for themselves. After playing for a while, I suggested that Ken come over to Barbie's house for a sleepover. Myrth covered her mouth in shock. "Ken and Barbie can't sleep together!" she gasped and she leaned in closer. "That's how babies are made," she whispered in my ear.
Thanks to my older siblings, I'd already had some inkling of how babies were made but this was news. I didn't know that it could also happen when a couple slept in the same bed. I was embarrassed at my ignorance and at my inappropriate suggestion, and made Myrth promise that she wouldn't tell anyone. For the next few years, I thought there were two ways babies were made: 1. man and woman having sex, and 2. man and woman sleeping in the same bed.
After that sunny afternoon and all through my "health" classes as I learned about human sexuality, nothing ever disproved Myrth's theory. By the end of my freshman year in high school I was determined to find out the truth. As much as I didn't want to, I knocked on Mom's bedroom door one night and popped the question. "Do two people have to have sex for a woman to get pregnant, or can a woman get pregnant just by sleeping in the same bed with a man?" I wanted to make Mom promise not to tell anyone, like I had made Myrth promise all those years ago, but I felt ignorant and embarrassed, and really just wanted to get out of there.
Mom set me straight and then asked, "Do you have any other questions?"
Hell no! I was thinking to myself as I left, silently closing the door behind me.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Nativity
A friend who has been helping me work on my Spanish skills invited me to assist in giving out food "baskets" at her church last Saturday morning. "They need Spanish speakers," she told me. "You can practice your Spanish."
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
"Will you be there?" I asked her. My Spanish is functional at best.
She laughed. "Yes, I'll be there. If it gets too uncomfortable for you, just let me know. It's no big deal and you don't have to stay if it doesn't work out."
Saturday morning was chilly and damp, but I was glad it wasn't raining. At 8:00 a.m., dressed in warm layers, I met my friend at the enormous, newly renovated, mission style church. I followed her to a squat, narrow building separated from the church by a parking lot. Inside was a room with six long tables, each lined with dozens of cardboard boxes packed with food and toiletries. Taped to the end of each table was a sheet of paper with a large number written on it. Families had signed up earlier in the month, and the boxes were prepared according to the size of each family. People who were receiving the food would show up at their prescribed time, drive through the parking lot and down the alley stopping next to double doors, where their name was checked off a list as a box of food was loaded into their car.
My friend and I were in charge of the cars entering the parking lot. We talked to the drivers, putting yellow half sheets of paper on car windshields and asking them to unlock trunks or back car doors, wherever they wanted the food to be placed. If they didn't have the yellow paper, we asked them to have some form of identification ready. Then we directed them to drive, a few at a time around the corner and down the alley for their box of food.
As it turned out there weren't many Spanish speaking families but still it was fun chatting with people as they drove up in their vehicles. Almost all of the people were friendly and upbeat. Some were picking up boxes for more than one family and many of those cars were packed with adults and kids. The people thanked us and most said, "Merry Christmas" or "God bless you." A half an hour had gone by when my friend pointed to a young couple standing with a blanket covered baby stroller, next to the building. "There you go, Nancy," she said. "Time to practice."
I walked over to them and said, "Hello." They were both not much more than five feet tall. The woman's plain round face was pale and her eyes were round and dark. Strands of her dark hair peeked out from under a blue scarf. She was wearing a yellow and pink flowered polyester dress under a brown sweater and she had on lime green pants. She smiled briefly but was quiet. She rested her hands on the metal bar of the old stroller. The worn fleece blanket covered whatever was inside. The man's broad face was smooth and tan, and he had black hair and small dark eyes. He was wearing jeans and work boots and he kept his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his navy blue Nike hoodie. He smiled a little. "¿Habla español?" he asked in a barely audible voice.
"Un poco," I said. They stood very still as they responded to my questions with either, "sí" or "no". In my elementary Spanish I asked if they were there to get a box of food and wanted to know if they had their yellow paper, pointing to the sample I had pinned to my day-glo orange safety vest. No, they didn't have the yellow paper but yes, they had identification. They didn't have a car. I pointed to the side of the building and showed them where they could stand on the sidewalk to join the line of vehicles in the alley waiting to get food.
As my friend and I continued to greet people and talk to each other I kept glancing at the young family as they inched along the sidewalk next to the cars in the alley, keeping their place in line. I wondered how long they had lived in the area and how they had found out about the food boxes. I wondered if they'd had to walk very far that morning. I wondered about the child who must be sleeping in the stroller. The church provided one service in Spanish each Sunday so I thought maybe they attended each week. I felt good that there were places like this where families could get some help and I was glad I was there to be a small part of it.
More cars arrived and we were kept busy talking to drivers, asking for yellow papers and directing them to the line that curved around the building. Eventually I noticed the young couple slowly pushing the stroller back through the parking lot toward the street. They didn't have a box of food with them. "What happened?" I asked my friend.
"They hadn't signed up. Their name wasn't on the list."
"Oh no," I said.
"There might be some food left over when we're finished at noon," my friend said. "Maybe they'll come back."
I watched the couple walk through the parking lot to the sidewalk. They stopped and the man sat down on the small stone wall that edged the lawn of the church. The woman stood facing him, her back straight with her hands on stroller, showing her round sillouette. For the next twenty minutes or so I kept an eye on the young family. They stayed there at the end of the driveway; the man sitting and the woman standing, with the stroller between them. Maybe they were waiting to see if there would be extra food. Eventually I saw the man stand up and follow the woman as she pushed the stroller off of the grass and onto the sidewalk. I watched them walk together along the sidewalk until my view was blocked by the huge church. "There they go," I said to my friend.
"Maybe they'll come back," she said.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Robin's Loom
Several years ago, I went to my first Renaissance Faire and there, amongst the jugglers, turkey legs, and beer booths, was a weaver. I was immediately smitten and at that moment I knew that I was a weaver without a loom.
A short time later Jill called. Her sister-in-law had passed away suddenly. "I have Robin's loom and I'm trying to get rid of it," she said. The loom was beautiful, dusty, and mysterious. It was a tangle of wood and wires, and had turquoise and lavender lengths of yarn attached to it, woven into a small rectangle. It was what Robin had been working on before she passed away.
I was still convinced that I was a weaver at heart, but the loom was large and intimidating. I didn't know where to begin, so I didn't. My loom sat collecting dust day after day, month after month, year after year. I admit there were times I thought about selling the loom and giving my sister the money. Many other times, I forgot about it completely.
Seven years after receiving the loom, I was at a winery that was hosting an event for local artists. I began chatting to one of the vendors and I mentioned my loom. She pointed to the booth next to hers. "You should talk to Linda. She's a weaver and I think she gives lessons."
I talked to Linda, then went home and checked the Internet, and found several weavers in the area. My husband helped me clean out the garage and we lugged the loom from our storage unit to the newly emptied space. A weaver came to the house and gave me the basics. Now the loom is less mysterious and I've begun to work on Robin's long ago project.
A short time later Jill called. Her sister-in-law had passed away suddenly. "I have Robin's loom and I'm trying to get rid of it," she said. The loom was beautiful, dusty, and mysterious. It was a tangle of wood and wires, and had turquoise and lavender lengths of yarn attached to it, woven into a small rectangle. It was what Robin had been working on before she passed away.
I was still convinced that I was a weaver at heart, but the loom was large and intimidating. I didn't know where to begin, so I didn't. My loom sat collecting dust day after day, month after month, year after year. I admit there were times I thought about selling the loom and giving my sister the money. Many other times, I forgot about it completely.
Seven years after receiving the loom, I was at a winery that was hosting an event for local artists. I began chatting to one of the vendors and I mentioned my loom. She pointed to the booth next to hers. "You should talk to Linda. She's a weaver and I think she gives lessons."
I talked to Linda, then went home and checked the Internet, and found several weavers in the area. My husband helped me clean out the garage and we lugged the loom from our storage unit to the newly emptied space. A weaver came to the house and gave me the basics. Now the loom is less mysterious and I've begun to work on Robin's long ago project.
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