It was to be the first Christmas of our adopted daughter Maya. For so many reasons we wanted to make it right. And for one reason we could not do it. But that gets a little ahead of the story. When the one whose name cannot be spoken and I became engaged it was believed that the call up to go to China was at least six months away. It turned out to be one week away. So we rushed to get everything ready for the child who would become part of the family that had not been made yet.
And before I could turn around we were in Nanchang China in line to be registered in the hotel where we would meet our new child and finish the adoption process. I stood at the hotel registry after having discovered that my clothes had not finished the trip across the ocean and would not be here for a few days. The clothes on my back were all I had. The nameless one had prepared everything and had ensured me that I would not have to worry about the cost because she had been saving for this for years. I believed her. Until she turned to me and exclaimed I have messed up and do you have a credit card we can use to pay for the hotel. I began to calculate how much room I had on my card and looked around at the five star hotel the adoption agency had arranged for us to stay at. It was with a wing and a prayer I gave her my card. She did arrange for a money transfer from her credit union the next day. But this was not before I was thinking no clothes and I may have to skip a few meals. And the weather outside was cold. In fact it was so cold that the babies could not make it on time. We had been waiting on pins and needles for their arrival but at last found out they were temporarily delayed because of the ice and snow on the road. After an hour more of waiting we decided we would not skip a meal. So with my fast becoming rubber credit card we went down to the hotel restaurant to eat. I was hungry because we had skipped lunch waiting for the babies and the breakfast buffet provided by the hotel had little vegetarian options. So I ordered and was glad to have some real Chinese food. My first real meal in China. I looked into my beloved eyes for a second before I forked my first bite. The smell was filling my nostrils and the fork was two inches from providing me Nirvana. Then the shouts were heard, “The babies are here. The babies are here.” She jumped up and immediately ran to the room where we were to meet the babies. I looked with melancholy at my meal and knew I would never be able to eat it. I left, choosing baby over food. When we finally received our daughter she looked like a Chinese version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. But we soon found once we took off the many layers of clothing there was a very skinny baby underneath. The thinness surprised us, although we knew she had be living in an orphanage in a rural village. But this put my partner on alert and when the first poo came out she declared it diarrhea and was afraid she was sick. So in the middle of the night she called the nurse. The nurse ever so kind came and observed the poo and looked at new mother and with a big smile in her sweetest late evening Chinese accent said, “Normal baby poo.” In other words nothing to see here move along. The next trauma was our first trip outside the hotel with her. Being new parents we had clothed her, we thought, very well for the cold. But we had not traveled a block from the hotel when The Chinese Grandmother Mafia informed us she was not wrapped in warm enough clothes. And everywhere we went the sight of a baby girl in a country with a one child policy was a rare sight so the Grandmothers always came to see and reprimand. Our poor daughter must have been shaking her head at what incompetent American parents have I received. So the trials and tribulations continued until it was time to fly out of Nanchang to Guangzhou to complete the adoption process. When we finally, on the coldest day this southern boy has ever experienced, arrived at the airport there was a whiteout across China and flights would be delayed. When it was apparent that no flights were leaving soon they offered to put us up in an airport hotel. The hotel they took us to was straight out of a Kafka novel. White tiles floor, walls, ceiling with nothing hanging on the walls. The lights did not come on until we entered the room. No one but our fellow adoptees were in the lobby. One lonely desk with no one behind it. But worse of all: no heat. It was freezing. No concierge or desk staff greeted us but someone who looked like a maintenance worker led us to our room. Long halls of white with white doors which I noticed had no numbers on them. A door was opened and we were led into an igloo with twin beds. They handed us a KFC size bucket of ramen noodles for supper. There was only three thin blankets. We looked around to see how we could make hot water for the ramen noodles but there was no coffeemaker. We tried the water: no hot water. We ate our bucketful of ramen noodles mixed with cold water and one plastic spoon. We ‘ate’. And then my partner and I looked at each other as if to say, this is a little bit more adventurous than we had planned. She got in one bed with the baby with the blankets and I, wearing every stick of clothing I owned, laid in the other bed. We both wondered if we would survive the night. Three hours later they came for us; there was a break in the weather and it was now or ever. Even though we loved our accommodations we chose now. We arrived in Guangzhou to warm weather and the famous White Swan hotel. Our daughter must have been very concerned by now about these parents and their precarious ways. But Guangzhou was a refuge from the cold and barren city we had come. We finally received the papers from China and our government that made Maya a part of our family. That night we ate at a vegetarian restaurant. I had the best mushroom dish I have ever consumed. We were the only people there and the staff, mesmerized by the baby girl, watched us eat every bite. The next day we flew back to the United States. The way the law is written, the adopted children did not officially become US citizens until they passed through the customs gate. Maya, who had been the perfect child, suddenly at the gate began to shriek and struggle with us like she had never done before. It was as if she knew Trump would one day become president and she wanted no part of that. Or maybe she was scared to be left in the hands of these very iffy “parents.” We dragged her across the line and she became an American citizen. Weeks later it was Christmas time in the city. We were determined that Maya enjoy this holiday, so that she could know while China may have centuries of customs we have Santa Malls. We worked hard to make Christmas day be magic. The day came and two parents were stricken with what we would later refer to as Maya’s Malicious Maladies. These were viruses she brought home from daycare and which quickly brought physical ruin to her parents. But never before or after had both of us been struck with a MMM at the same time. We languished in bed moaning and groaning and visited our porcelain collection throughout the night on Christmas Eve. So at some point the barely walking new child on the block made her way into our bedroom to inform us it was Christmas Day. She poked me with her index finger on the cheek, as if to say, if you are alive it is Christmas Day. You know that day you have been making such a fuss about. Let me see some of your American cheer. I rolled out of bed to check the porcelain collection. She followed watching me carefully. She decided this particular Christmas tradition would not be one she would follow. A weak cry came from the area of the Christmas tree. Let’s open Christmas presents, said the pallid voice trying to show Christmas cheer. So Maya and I went toward the faint voice. She arrived hours before I did. I did not sit but laid before the Christmas tree and the one whose name cannot be spoken said I have to go back to bed. Maya looked at us both. These incompetent parents have strange ways of expressing Christmas joy as we heard a retching in the background. I told her to open her Christmas presents, then fell asleep. Minutes later I awoke to find her playing with her new gifts. My partner entered the room and flopped on the floor with a comforter wrapped around her. I left to sleep for an hour. This was the morning. Maya playing with her toys, us sleeping or head deep in our porcelain collection. It was way past lunch time. We had had no breakfast and the fancy meal we had told Maya that always occurs on Christmas day was non-existent. I looked at my partner and said, “We have to feed the child. There is frozen pizza in the freezer.” I trudged to the kitchen and made Maya Christmas dinner: frozen pizza. My partner and I had no desire to eat, so we only looked at this happy and contented child as she ate. We were lucky I thought as I traveled to the porcelain collection. The pizza smell had been too strong for my constitution. Years later on reflection of that first Christmas with our oldest daughter something must have transpired that day inside of her. She developed into the most competent and capable person. She must have figured if these are my parents I have to raise my game very high just to survive. She also insists that she puts up the Christmas tree and decorations, wraps the presents and generally likes to take charge of Christmas. I guess she is unsure if these incompetent parents can ever pull off a Christmas. Merry Christmas to Al! Which is my way of saying while your Christmas may not be perfect, may it be good.
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Christmas always started with the gathering of family and friends. We came from our various homes to my parents. We no longer were those more than you can handle three sons. Okay we were still hard to take as grown men. But we gathered from our various places. We would once again unite and become one as we once were.
The food was busy being prepared and if you were not careful you would find yourself peeling potatoes or snapping beans. The children were being spoiled by a grandfather with his game of Oreo checkers. Where you played with Oreos and when you jumped and captured an Oreo you got to eat it. Never before have our children shown such concentration as they played a game of checkers. Games of cards would begin. Discussions of theology and politics would begin. Sometimes the conversations about politics would become as heated as the game playing. We would read ‘The Night Before Christmas’ on the night before Christmas followed by the opening of one present. But on Christmas morning before the first present could be opened we all sat around the living room and the youngest child who could read would open the family Bible. They would read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. It was a solemn occasion followed by the joy of presents. One present at a time would be open. And then the obligatory hug was exchanged between the giver and receiver and the process repeated again and again. The grandparents would have many presents not necessarily to spoil us but to receive the hugs from the children. Even the macho grown men were obligated to hug each other and say thank-you. It was a love feast. Afterwards it would have looked as though some thief had ransacked the house looking for diamonds as the wrappers and boxes were all over the place. It was abundance of presents but also of joy. One year one brother received a movie camera and from then on would film every transaction. He would even want us to watch it later that day. I never did. I said I had already lived it “this morning” I would say. A few hours later we would have a meal fit for the gods themselves. Others would join us throughout the day. My parents would always have presents for them too. But before the feast we all gathered and circled the feast and held hands and usually the oldest would pray. Occasionally they would insist one of the two ministers pray. It was with dread when it was grandmother’s time to pray. We listened as grandmother prayed and prayed and prayed. Jesus was more than thanked for the food and the good years we were all having and would have. The smells of the food wafting into our noses and the would cause the grandchildren to shuffle their feet but we all endured and were never more thankful to Jesus than when we heard those words In Jesus Name. Although once or twice I think to show us who was in control grandma would continue even after those words. But whenever she ended it was as after the National Anthem at a sporting event an almost joyous shouts of not let’s play ball but let’s eat. Plates were never large enough. Tables were never big enough. Pants were never large enough. The praise of the food would resound in my mothers’ and others ears for the fine dishes they had prepared. It would show the Greek Gods what a bacchanalia should look like. We were grateful and yet never completely realized these were moments we would never be able to create later. It was the magic of good things and family shared with each other and the world about us. But like all shows it must come to an end. Divorces, deaths, distances, drugs, drama, all would take its toll on these moments. We each have our family gatherings on Christmas now. Our memories now float in the clouds of unknowing. But somewhere deep inside of us live those moments of jubilation of an unclouded day. It is in the quiet of the night in the dark, I find myself looking into the stars of the heavens and am reassured that those Christmases can never be taken away. They exist in the eternal stardust of time. It is then I can smile in the dark and know life has good. The book club has existed for over twenty years. People have come and gone. Divorces, marriages, adoptions, new homes, children leaving for college, new pets, and other major life events have occurred. But always there have been the books. We are a real book club, which means we actually discuss the book. We have had lawyers, librarians, professors, teachers, and me. I am allowed to stay because of nepotism. The one whose name shall not be said out loud started the group and thus I get a pass.
When we first started we were all on our best behavior. The homes were spotless, the hors d’oeurves were homemade, many and good, books were always read by everyone, and we were on our best behaviors. Now homes are hit a lick for cleaning, we have Oreos, we occasionally are rude and the book is not always read by everyone. In fact we almost proudly announce that we did not read the book because our lives have been out of control. It is as if we are saying “Give me some sympathy here.” We have grown comfortable with each other. We each over time have developed our roles. I try to be the rebel without a cause, but do you know how hard it is to rebel against a book club? I will always struggle to find new and more profound meaning which leaves my fellow book clubbers often looking at me with that ‘are you for real look’. But thank God for nepotism. But others have their roles too. We have the eccentric animal lover whose heart is as wide as the Grand Canyon. Who always reads the book and more importantly brings the Oreos. We have an archivist who can tell us every book we have read and when we read it. He also is the one most likely to ask how your life is going. We have our expert who has a PHD in English. We have the one who can always make references to other books and once or twice has entertained us with his piano playing. They are also most likely to nod off for a moment. We have the grand maker of good things to eat, who reminds us that she does not like books filled with violence. In the beginning we had our book club hussies who had more than one book club to which they belonged. But in the end those were fleeting dalliances that could not stand the trials of time. Or they are still meeting them on the side in a southside hotel. One couple’s first meeting was when we were reading a book about dwarfs which was filled with unusual sex and violence and was a poor translation from French. Yet somehow they came back. There was also the other French translated book that we all read for a week and as one body decided none of us were going to finish it. It was a little beyond, beneath, behind, and disgusting for us. We later learned much to our chagrin it was considered a French classic. Those French and their silly little books. We even read one book about a Dangerous Husband whose wife killed him because he was annoying. This made the men very uneasy and they slept with one eye open for the next few weeks. The choosing of the book to read is a simple but brutal process. The host presents three books as suggestions. We have an unwritten and sometimes broken rule that we cannot read a book that someone in the group has already read. Sometimes this rule can leave us with only one ‘choice’. So the little white lies begin. I read the book while I was young and in a coma and had a vocabulary of twenty words I do not remember a thing about it. But the archivist will shake his head and proclaim a rule is a rule. And the rest nod their heads in agreement. At least that is the way it happens most of the time. We always in choosing a book need to know the important information of how many pages and how big is the print. This can be the sole decider on occasion. Then comes the voting coalitions. As these are formed wives will betray husbands, friends will deny friends and then the vote will be taken. A gnashing of teeth for those who now realize they have to read a book they spoke so strongly against settles in. After the book is chosen, the date is set. In the old days everyone broke out their paper daily planners but today except for one the smart phones come out. The dates are set only to be reset when someone returns home and remembers they will not be in town that day. Then the reading begins. There are shared emails that express love for the book, hate for the book, or oh shit I need to start reading. In a bow to modernity one member listens to the book on the way to work. Maybe one day we will become the book on tape club. We have our traditions. Every holiday season we have a White Elephant book swap. Tipping Velvet a Victorian porn novel will make an appearance. No one wants it and everyone denies reading it, but somehow the pages have become frayed through the years. For some reason the holiday celebration is always at our house. One book club member said that makes sense since we host on a rotating basis. But my deductive skills have been refined through the fires of book club discussions: that only works if we met on a regular schedule. Maybe it is because when we met for Christmas at someone else’s house they entertained us with the house across the street catching fire. While this gave us all an adrenaline rush it is not something you want to repeat. So it is at our house this year. The years have passed. The books keep getting read. And once again it is the holiday season. We need to buy books for the White Elephant book swap and I need to pull Tipping Velvet off my night stand next to the bed. I notice it is even more frayed than last year. Elijah and I could have been the best of friends if we had not been interested in the same woman. They had lived together for several years before I arrived on the scene and he could not help but think of me as an interloper. He was not pleased when he realized he now had to share her and her bed with me. The only place he could find to sleep comfortably with us was between my legs. So every night he took his Basenji self and walked in a circle, laid down with his snout three or four inches away from my genitals. This may have worked but whenever I moved during the night he would become upset at my disturbing his sleep and growl menacingly at my privates. He thought he was there to insure the purity of his woman. I will never forget one of the first mornings after I moved in: we had our first disagreement. I woke and was walking to the bathroom urgently and there he stood between me and the bathroom. His woman was in the bathroom doing her morning grooming and he felt a need to protect her. He gave that low guttural growl that said if you try to pass I will inflict injury. I was in need of a bathroom and barely awake and I look at this threatening self and thought I will drop kick you if you do not move. I called out to his woman and said in my sweetest voice, “If you do not bring him to heel. I will.” Seeing the dilemma she instantly started cooing all over him to calm him down and told me to go to the bathroom. Elijah was proud and came from a pure bred stock and thought the world needed to heel to him. When he stood with his head regally erect no one could resist him. So I knew why my woman loved him so much. But he was one of those aggressive ones who, when he encountered others, he instantly had to snarl. He would never bark at people. That was not in his toolkit. But he would always approach others with teeth baring to show he was the alpha dog among the group. In other words he did not play well with others. I have never seen anyone have to mark their territory as much as he did. He was determined to leave no one any space to operate. Now it may seem we did not get along, but the truth is we had some very good times together. He was a yodeler and loved to sing with you. He could do it for hours on end or at least for as long as you were interested in singing with him. We used to take walks together and we would usually end up running in reckless abandon at top speed until one of us would, from pure exhaustion, have to pull up. He seemed to like these walks/runs because our woman always kept him on a short lease and with her, he was always pulling the other way. He wanted to be in charge and cut loose but she was always holding him back. Elijah, as I have stated, was beautiful and could sing like no other. But he was not the brightest. After several nights of enduring his snarls at my genitals we agreed that he would no longer be our bedmate. This had to hurt his male pride but he had to see this day coming. He compromised by claiming the chair right next to the door to the bedroom. This was a wee bit uncomfortable as we knew he was listening to everything we did but the woman thought it was cute that he wanted to be as close to her as possible. Why do I say he was not the brightest? Every night he would claim the chair and the other (Basenji) lady of the house would come and stomp her feet at him playfully; he would chase her around the dining room table and would look chagrined when, after circling said dining room table, he found she had claimed his chair. He never caught on. This ritual happened every night until he was too sick to climb into the chair. I was to go on a sabbatical for three months. Elijah would have our woman to himself. This would make him happy I know. Especially now that he was older and was unable to walk much and was receiving daily shots to keep him alive. Our woman was a great caretaker of Elijah whom she loved so much. She cradled him in her arms every day and at night before she slept. Every time I called her she would be almost in tears when she talked about Elijah. I would later find blankets on the floor where our woman slept beside him in his bed on the floor. Two days before my sabbatical I awoke with a shot. I did not know why but every bone in my body said it is time to go home. My rational self argued that you still have this and that to do, you cannot go home yet. But ‘irrationality’ took over; I packed and without stopping I drove straight home. When I entered the house you could feel the grief. I found my woman with Elijah in her arms. He had died in the night about the same time I had awaken with a shot. She had called the vet hospital and they were coming for the body and she was spending her last moments with Elijah. I sat down beside her and placed my arm around her and she cried. My irrationality had been right; I needed to come home. Elijah and I had always been rivals for our woman’s affection. Yet I still grieved him. We would never run together again. We would never sing together. He would never growl at me again. I find myself surprised that I miss him as much as I do. But when you think about it we shared a love for the same woman and that will always keep us bound together. As far back as I could remember I have always had trees as friends. They have always been a steady force in my life. The first tree I befriended was actually two trees. They were pine trees which had their surfaced roots intermingled in the five yards that separated them. They lived in front of my house in Laurel Bay, South Carolina. My dad’s career as a Marine was in full blossom, which meant, in those days, that we were poor. But these two trees occupied my time. I would balance myself on the roots and make the treacherous path across them from one tree to the other tree. I would repeat this pattern for hours, it seemed to never get old. I would also use those roots to play war with my toy soldiers. I created fortresses and mountains out of those roots and the battles I waged were epic in scope. In the summer the trees provided some shade to make the southern heat bearable. Whenever I was bored or felt a need to be away from the rest of the family more often than not I would be visiting these trees. For a period of three years we were inseparable.
But as most military families know, moving was a way of life. We moved away and in an age before cell phones and Facebook we always lost touch with friends after the move. Years later I was on a literal trip down memory lane with my parents and we drove by the old military housing and there stood the same trees. They somehow looked smaller now but flashes of the past where I had gone to them for comfort or play momentarily took me to a self I barely knew anymore. Christopher Robin had left for school many years ago and the old trees were now only a distant etching in my soul. Because my first relationship with a tree had gone so well that it came as no surprise I would make friends with another tree at another home. It was a large maple tree that stood proudly in the front yard. Everyone wanted to be friends with it. People who visited us would comment on how beautiful she was. But she was my friend and I resented anyone trying to distract her from me. Almost every day I would climb as high as I could to try to gain perspective on my quickly developing life. From the aerial view it gave me life made more sense. In the spring she dressed in huge leaves of green and in the fall her colors of red and brown dazzled any eye. I admired her. I remember a day when I was angry at the world so I climbed higher than I had ever been in the tree. My father was away at war and we had not heard from him in weeks. I could tell my mother was scared. He had never let so much time occur between communications. He was lost to us. Once I stopped climbing I became scared because I could not see how I would ever get down. This once familiar world made no sense and was full of feelings and hurt I was not aware were possible. It would be a week later that we finally heard from him. He had been wounded but was safe now. But for now I cried and wallowed in my pain and anger in the arms of that tree. The cool breeze found in the tree limbs began to salve the wounds the world had inflicted. I stayed for hours and then realized it was time to return to the ground. At first I was impressed at the heights I had climbed. Anger can carry you a long way from your home and pain. But though I may have liked to, I could not live in anger, it consumed too much energy. So I left the heights my friend had shared with me and returned to the ground. Many years later after the death of my father I drove by the tree. It stood proud. I felt a pain in my heart that we were no longer together. But to see it there large and strong as it ever was, gave me comfort. Even with the death of my stalwart father there were strong limbs of love and care that held me together. I could be the strong man he was because I had once climbed a tree to its highest point and could see the world around me for what appeared to my young eyes miles and miles. Part of the diversity of life is that three people can live through the same event and because of it be touched by the event in three varied ways. One of the horror stories of my youth was also one of the saddest and most empowering.
My brother had brought a ‘friend’ home who had, in a dispute, hit him. My father happened to be watching from the window and was appalled at how the friend was bullying my brother. He opened the sliding doors to the back of the house and demanded my brother hit him back. The friend was terrified at the demeanor of my father and said he was sorry and offered to leave. My father barked at the friend to stay right there and not leave. He commanded my brother to hit him. My brother refused to hit him. Later years he would claim a pacifist streak led him not to hit the boy back but at some point it became about resisting my father. My father yelled at the other boy to hit him until he hit him back. The boy uncomfortably struck my brother a couple of times and my brother refused to retaliate. I had been watching from the back of the room and saw this was out of hand. I walked up to my father and told him let the friend go home. He glared at me. He was not himself. He was not there. There was a strong urgency to his voice. At the time I did not know what it was. Reflections in later life and listening to him talk about his life as a soldier and especially as a Marine Drill Sergeant, have made me know he was having some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder episode. He had once said, in another calmer place, a normal person had to be trained to kill. Killing was not a natural instinct. So his job was to train people to kill naturally. It was his responsibility to make sure his recruit would not hesitate to kill in battle. It was the soldier who hesitated that went home in a body bag. He also told of horror stories of young good men who froze during the middle of battle. How he had to command them to move to shoot to fight or they would die. He was not always successful. He looked me in the eye and said no human being should have that put upon them. To tell someone they must kill, even desire to kill, so that they may live. I am convinced he was in battle that day and his son was refusing to fight. It became a matter of life and death for him to make his son fight back. I pled with my brother to hit him once to get it over with. He would see this as my great betrayal—siding with my father in an insane situation. But I did not know what to do but I knew if he would swing once I could will this to a conclusion. I was also scared. I could tell if he did not swing, the place my father was in would not bring this to a good conclusion. I do not know how long this went on; it seemed like hours. My father commanding the friend to hit my brother again and my brother refusing. He would not give in to this crazy mean son of a bitch. My mom came in and yelled for my father to stop this nonsense. She told the friend to go home right now. The boy more than willingly ran home. My father was still crazed; he walked out to where my brother was still on his knees and snatched him off the ground and carried him in the air. I had never seen him move that fast or violently before. My mother said for my father to stop it. He brushed by her. I had never seen him ignore my mother like that. He took my brother into a room and threw him on the bed. My mother was yelling for him to stop. He shut the door on her. I could tell he was hitting my brother now. He was demanding my brother hit him. Fight back he kept saying. I do not know what came over me but I entered the room. My father was in full pitch battle. I was scared. I yelled at him to stop. He did not. I do not know what happened next. But somehow I had pulled him off my brother and he was lying on his back on the bed. I was holding his arms with my hands telling him to stop. I suddenly saw his eyes return. You could see he was trying to understand what was going on. And then you saw the truth come to him. I saw a look of horror and shame come into those eyes. He had never done anything like this before. He was a rough mean son of a bitch but it was always controlled meanness. I let go of his arms he got up and looked at my devastated brother. He left the room. My mother came in to check on us and said she was sorry. When she saw there was no major physical damage, she left and went to my father. I am not sure but that night I think I heard him crying in their room and my mother telling him he had to get help. My brother was angry at me. He carried that anger in the back of his head for many years. He never looked at my father the same way again. He loved him but he was angry and hurt. No one deserved to be treated like that. I remembered my father after he had been wounded in Vietnam had convalesced in Guam. Although his recovery from his wounds was to take only a month at the most, he stayed for two and half months. He explained to me once at Guam he had met so many young men who were not ready to be in normal society. He had stayed to help them adjust. This was probably partly true. But one wonders if one of the men who did not need to return to society yet was him. This experience was remembered as a nightmare and a great injustice by my brother. My father held its shame in his heart even many years later. Yet for me it had been cathartic. I had met my father’s rage and had literally been able to control it. I no longer feared him or was bothered by the tough Marine Drill Sergeant’s training he had raised me with. The incident shaped the three of us in totally different ways. And though we each lived it, we each carry its burden with us in ways that none of us would recognize these many years later. I sit. I sit every morning I can make it out of bed. I sit on the beach to watch the sunrise. It is what I do. It is the grand event of my day. This one event takes all my energy. But I do it well. I sit in oneness with the breaking waves. I have time and time again crashed with the force of the sea onto this planet we call Earth. But after each crash I return to the depths of the sea to re-gather and start again. This sitting is my sustenance. That is why I sit as an immoveable object of solid quiet. I am older now. The mind is not as active. The crashing has eroded much of the youth I once was. I had dreams but they are no longer possible or they were achieved. I often do not recognize myself anymore. But there is still a me I can find in the corners of my mind. Inside my mind’s eye I stand tall as the white sand dune that will never erode away. I sit. At this time of my life, I need the breaking of the new dawn and not the setting of the sun. There is always darkness after the last explosion of color at the sunset. Some say that darkness reveals who you are best. But I say darkness is the place of betrayal. The Betrayals that I have committed to myself and against others lay in a murky corner. Darkness brings the betrayals that lovers, friend, and family have committed against me. In the darkness you only see the shadows of yourself and others. But the dawn brings light to all the things that were covered during the night. The dawn reveals life as it really was and had been. So I sit before the dawn waiting for the revelation of the day. Some say they want to die in their sleep. They want death to catch them unawares. But I want to be awake so that I am aware of death’s coming. This was the key to life to know that your death is coming. So you live with your eyes wide open. The sun is just beneath the horizon. It was letting its presence be known with the array of colors it cast upon the sky. When it finally comes up it blinds me. I cannot look at it too long. It hurts my eyes. The truth of life is here in this moment and I cannot look squarely into it. That is why I sit here under this beach umbrella. This is me. I sit. I shall not be moved. I hear from a distance, voices breaking into my consciousness crashing all my illusions. I look around and it is my wife and children asking me to stand and start again this day. They want breakfast. They are chatting up a storm. We are on vacation. I must have been daydreaming. I look at my watch it is five minutes from the last time I looked. I smile I do not sit. I am constantly on the move. Maybe one day in the distant future I will sit but not now. It was our first date. I was already sick of the dating world. I hated dating what in sexist vernacular would be called my young thing. I was not dating her because I sought a young thing but because she was there. I knew the relationship was over on our third date when she was wondering if she should go back to college and asked if I had watched some soap opera. I felt old and on a more enlightened plain at the same time.
But this was different. She was of legal age. I knew this might lead to a great relationship. But she came from money and while I did not come from a lack of money my family was not fluent in money. My mother was sharp as a whip and my father had a world of experience but they were not educated beyond high school. We in a sense were from two different worlds. I will never forget the first time I was in her apartment. Being a curator, the paintings were all covered with sheets to prevent the Savannah blazing sun from fading them. Okay that was new to me but I could live with it. It was then I noticed the sheets on all the furniture more peculiar but hey quirky is good. I walked into the second room which was filled with boxed books. I smiled and said are you going somewhere? She said she was so busy writing her PHD dissertation and that she had not had time to unpack her books. She had lived in the house for over a year. But all that was the least of my worries: the only book that was out of the boxes was an Amy Vanderbilt book on etiquette. I saw my ship sinking fast. I am polite but not full of etiquette. But I gathered the courage and asked her out. We did not speak of soap operas or was she obsessed with herself. We went to a Thai restaurant and a play. Afterwards we stopped at coffee shop in a basement. We closed down the place. It was magic. Now I am a romantic guy and I was feeling good about this thing we had. You know our first date. I asked her out for the next week; she said no. I spent Valentine’s Day alone. She went to the symphony with someone else. I wondered if our time had come and gone, and I had not realized it. Ever persistent our second date was a meal at my place and a comedy club and back to my place for dessert. It was then I made the tactical error. I sent her flowers the next day. Which scared the hell out of her. I was moving too fast. Little did she know I was only moving. My other dates, I dated and forgot about it. But with her I dwelled on the date. The flowers were meant as an appreciation. She saw it as a threat to her singleness. She became sick for two weeks. I began to believe it was over. I mean two weekends in a row and she was sick. People do get sick of me but not quite so fast. But she did have a PhD; maybe she could see the sickness coming faster than other people could. But with a weakened immune system she finally relented. On the third date and it was obvious that it was happening. Ten months later I mentioned the m word. She freaked. I asked again a month later and she freaked again. So I said I will not bring it up again but when it was time she would have to do the asking. A month later we were in an Italian wedding when she popped the question. I said yes and then she told me I had to propose to her sometime. So two weeks later I proposed to her in the most romantic way that a non-profit employee could afford. My good friend Robert, as chauffeur, delivered her to a fine restaurant and I popped the question and then we spent the weekend at the Redneck Rivera (Tybee Island). There had only been one holdback I had now. She was adopting a baby girl from China. I thought, that is something I can do, but I would like to have some time for an engagement before we had a baby. I was not for a shotgun wedding. She assured me it was at least six months and more likely a year before the call would come telling her to go to China. How time flies: the next week she received the call. A month and a half later we would be leaving to China and ten months later we would get married. I had to do the honorable thing; we were with child and living in sin. So you see in the end I was not the one moving too fast. But maybe after seventeen years of marriage this month the timing was just right. |
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