Triumphs in Adventure or When Sympathy Goes Out the Door

My friend and coworker Z  had a heart of gold.  Her grandparents raised her, so her attitudes and sensibilities were that of a generation before, which made her seem naïve and somewhat sheltered in the way she looked at things.  This made her all the more endearing.

One afternoon she spotted an elderly man sitting on the curb in front of the bank.  He sat there for a while then would walk up and down the street begging, but eventually would sit down again. As she watched him all day, she kept commenting on him. When he moved out of sight, she would look for him out the windows.  She wanted to offer him a seat in the lobby.  The manager said no.  Z became more and more agitated wondering what would become of this poor man. 

She kept saying, “We have to do something.  Can we call someone?  Maybe he’s lost.  Poor thing, he needs someone.”  Her concern started to become an obsession.  The other women in the office would comfort her or assure her that he looked in good shape and seemed content.  Besides they told her, he was begging, so he would probably get some money soon and then leave to get food or drink.

Being the sweet and caring person that she is, Z couldn’t watch the poor man outside and just sit by and do nothing.  “He reminds me of my grandfather, poor thing.  Maybe he is thirsty, he’s been out there so long.”  So Z took him water, twice.  Soon she decided he needed something to eat, so she took her lunch out to him.  He thanked her for her kindness.  Z felt better, but wanted to do more.  She asked if anyone else wanted to give up his or her lunch.  No takers or more accurately, no givers.  She went out a fourth time to ask if there was someone she could call for him, a relative or friend.  No, he told her sadly, he had no one in the world.  This just broke her heart. 

Soon she became upset, crying over the old guy’s plight.  Finally she called the police to come to his aid, to maybe take him to a shelter.  Before they came she ran out to give the man five dollars.  Z was beside herself with grief and sympathy.

When I worked downtown for a few years, beggars stopped me three or four times a day so my need to help grew less and less.  One day my husband witnessed a man in a wheelchair begging and the next instant, hail a cab, jump out of the chair to catch up to the car, and threw the wheelchair in the trunk.  To watch Z’s concern and generosity reminded me how callous I had become.

The police pulled up and talked to the old man as though they knew him and took him away.  The police officers returned to the branch to find out if there had been any problems with the old guy.  Z, full of concern, ran up to the officers hoping for information and when she returned she was livid. 

Apparently the old guy does this on a regular basis.  It’s an “adventure trip” for him.  He leaves the half way house or shelter and decides to walk in a new direction to see how far he can get, the farther the better, gathering points.  Then he waits for someone sympathetic to help him.  If he can get food and drink, he gets extra points.  If he can get a beer, even better.  He times how long it takes for the police to be called, more points.  When the police take him back, his friends are waiting for him on the porch cheering.  “He gets out of the car with his arms triumphantly in the air.  And the other guys greet him like he’s a conquering hero returning in his regal chariot.”

Z’s anger and humiliation was as intense as her worry and sympathy had been a few minutes before.  She went on and on about what a fool she had been.  “I gave him MY lunch. I gave him money. He played me.” We tried telling her it didn’t matter.  She did what she felt was right and that was the most important thing.  She was being true to herself and that she should feel proud of that.  But that did not console her.  She finally declared, “I will never help anyone ever again.” Maybe one day she can find the humor in it all. 

Small Pleasures

Reading Chris's entry about her son's letter and love of writing, reminded me of my son's passion for writing stories and drawing. I wrote the following about seven years ago. My god, has it been that long ago. It seems like yesterday.

Small Pleasures

I have learned to take pleasure in the small things, to really see them. As I hurriedly moved from room to room putting away the daily clutter, I stopped all of the sudden and didn't move.

I came up and you were on the computer writing your story as you sometimes do. Something caused me to pause and notice a few things about the scene before me.

Perhaps it was the lighting, the way the ambient glow of light from the computer landed on your face.  I noticed how beautiful you looked.

Or was it the driven pounding on the keyboard keys, that decisive, percussive hit when you are on a roll. The fast and furious pace stopped me too.

Or was it the intensity in your eyes, the need to get all you had to say out before you lost it, looking satisfied with the results. 

Or was it that you looked so grown up, just turning 14 just two days earlier and sporting a slight mustache.  How mature you looked.

Or was it the pleasurable thought that I was looking at a budding artist, a writer at work.

Or was it all those things that made me stop in my tracks.

I decided to pause and sit in my chair trying to be inconspicuous. I sat in the dark, positioning my head as to not alert you to my viewing.  I pretended I was tired and glanced at you, but not to spy, but to take in an image I wanted to remember.

All these things made me pause.  I wanted to emblazon that image in my mind forever.

My son is at home, writing, and is content.

Fortress of No

When I asked my husband for a favor, his response was,

“You know I can only say yes to you.  What ever you want, it is yes. Men will always say yes to a woman.  Yes, yes, yes to everything.”

True. But sometimes getting all those yeses makes me nervous.  That constant barrage of yes, yes, yes, coming in from all directions, makes me what to build a sanctuary, hiding from the yeses, until the sanctuary becomes a castle fortress, fending off the yeses with cannonballs of no, no, no.  Soon the yeses become overwhelming and “the rabbit trying to escape the trap” mentality takes over.

Now, my no, no, no become over zealous in their attempt to squelch the yeses before they even begin. Then as the years go by, the yeses no longer come at me from all directions, but just one most loving direction. Soon even his yeses become but a trickle.  Yikes! What am I doing?   My prince charming, my knight in shining armor is waiting.  Drop the drawbridge, open the gates, and let the trumpets sound. Yes, Yes, Yes.

Splish Splash

Middle Aged Woman, MAW to you, has presented me with the Splash Award. 

If she didn't have it already awarded for her blog Unmitigated, she would definitely been on the top of my list. Splash Award is given to alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive and inspiring blogs. 

When you receive this award, you should firstly put the logo on your blog or post. 

Then nominate up to 9 blogs, which allure, amuse, bewitch, impress or inspire you too. 

Link your nominees within your post and. 

Let them know that they’ve been splashed by commenting on their blog.

Finally don't forget to link to the person from whom you received your Splash Award.

My nominees are:

The Bloggess

The UnMom

Us and Them

Csquaredplus3

I'm such a blog toddler, that my list is a short one for now. Plus MAW had the Unmitigated gall to have one of my choices on her list.  I'm positive that my list will grow longer as I discover new blogs that allure, amuse and inspire me.

Also Queen Maker keeps rolling by saying things like, "Are you still on that computer? Who are you reading now? How much time are you spending doing that?"

So I'm keeping it on the down low for now.  It’s just that it is such great Distracting Minutia that it blows my mind. 

The Shine In Your Eyes

Another thing I miss more than anything at times is the look I used to get from Beloved when he was a little boy.   Do you know it?   It’s the look that reflects pure happiness and unconditional love on my child’s face when I enter a room.  It’s a look that thrills me as soon as I see it.   It was immediate and electric, “Yes, Mom is home! Joy, Joy, Joy.  Please pick me up and love me.”

I’ve come to learn that the look will begin to fade, just slightly.   As your children grow older, it may not be as instantaneous or as powerful as it once was.   Some parents tend to greet their children with a barrage of questions and instructions.  “How was school?  How much homework do you have?  Wash your hands.  Where’s your lunchbox?”  And if a parent becomes too critical or demanding, the shine can be extinguished altogether.  Maybe you won’t see it again until years later, maybe a whole generation later, when a child lovingly calls you grandpa or grandma.

Time can rob you of the shine.  Lovers know the shine.  But as time goes on the shine fades. Couples in love that once showed the thrill in their eyes when their love walked into a room, have now become complacent, apathetic, or indifferent due to the stresses of life. 

Queen Maker coming home one evening said, “There it is, that look.  The look I love.  I’ve really missed that look.”  I realized that over the years, the look had turned into, “Oh hi, you’re home.”  No big deal.  Or during my cranky years (not sure I'm out of the woods yet) when I'm sure my look was anything but welcoming. 

In our school, we developed long term relationships with our students, some lasting between seven to thirteen years.  After class, a parent asked why our students stayed for so long.  Trying to come up with an explanation, I realized that we treated our students as though they were dear long lost friends each time they walked in the door.  Our eyes truly shine with delight and hugs of greeting are a norm around here.

We both concluded that adults rarely experience the thrill of experiencing shining eyes of love, acceptance, and welcome turned in their direction anymore.  Children grow up and daily life becomes mundane.  Marriages may be in peril, if the spouse finds the shine in someone else’s eyes.   Adults don’t even know they miss it, until they recognize the “instant joy” once again.   It was a look that was lost and it saddened me to think that this was the case for many people.

I realized that as human beings we want eyes to light up when we come into a room.  The shine has to say, “You’re here. Joy, joy, joy.”  People want, or more accurately, need for someone’s eyes to shine, happy, throwing out open hands in friendship or an enthusiastic embrace of unconditional love.  I crave it and feel joy when I see it.  Queen Maker no longer has to “miss that look” because he sees it every time he walks in the door.  Such a simple act to keep a relationship alive and fresh, deepening bonds of friendship and love.  My advice is to show all those you meet or love, the shine in your eyes and see what happens.  

Will he live to be one hundred?

Check out the Raisin Chronicles for Fiction Friday.  I missed out on her latest offering, but I can't help myself.  Here is my story to Friday's prompt.

If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget this birthday party. Hearing that he never had a stripper, the guys in the family decided to cross this one off his bucket list.  It was kind of mild which he appreciated, but she still managed to get his palms sweaty and his heart palpitating. The paramedics were called.

The guys feeling guilty asked for his forgiveness. He gave them a huge smile as they loaded him into the ambulance. The woody he hadn’t experienced in two decades was totally worth it. It was the best 99^th Birthday ever!  

Random Minutia

Check out Un mom.

I had to limit my viewing of the Stephen Corbert show. His narcissism is glorious. I kept getting smile-gasms.  If he keeps this up, I might fall for him.  

In order for me to watch a television program, I need to see real people. I can’t take it when every character in the episode looks like a model. It saddens me.

Speaking of model types. I don’t care for guys that are pretty boys. They don’t send me.  Give me a face with character. My gauge is if the guy were to masquerade as a woman, he would be the ugliest woman in the room. That’s my kind of guy. Oh wait, except for Johnny Depp. I always liked him, only because he plays such weird characters. Good looks and being a little askew, hot!

Speaking of characters, I loved the way he played the pirate, Jack Sparrow.  I used to tell my son when he was a little boy that I was a pirate once.  I would go around saying, “Aaaaargh, matey!”  I would tell him stories about the high seas, then look him square in the eye and ask, “Do you beeelieeevvvve me, Beloved?”  He decided he didn’t. So throughout his life, whenever I brought up my pirate days, he would sigh, roll his eyes, and tell me how he hated when I did that.

Speaking about rolling his eyes and sighing heavily, he used to do that when I told him I numbered all of his toys.  He used to come and ask me, “Mom, do you know where this toy is or that toy?”  Why do kids ask us that question? I’ll tell you why, because we truly know where everything is.  I was just so amazed that he would think that I would know where he left his Ninja Turtle or the broken piece of tubing that belonged to his space ship. Maybe its because his dad does it everyday too.  So one day I started telling him, “Oh yes. I numbered all your toys.  Let me see.  Um, that toy is number 237. No, No, it’s 239.  Toy number 239 is under your bed, near the back on the left side. “  Amazingly most of the time I would be correct because I am a very observant mother and wife. That’s suppose to be my job isn’t it.  Keep track of all of their belongings.  So after a while, whenever I would respond, “Oh, that’s toy number 1674,” he would sigh and say, “Never mind.”

Speaking of never mind, I never mind when people drive crazy.  I just keep an eye out for the zanies and realize that it might be my job to help keep them safe because it keeps me safe too. I see them coming, anxiously driving, or mindless driving, or stupid driving, or aggressively driving or old driving, so I make room. I make accommodations for their driving by slowing down, or speeding up, or cutting off access, or convoy with them until they disappear.  No thanks needed.

But thanks are extended to Jim Spyro of Speaking in Caps for setting me straight on the random path.