Getting My Attention
Posted on: February 29, 2012
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About six years and many blogs ago, I came to an odd realization. Whenever a profound and timely bit of universal wisdom came my way that I was particularly “supposed to” hear, a funny thing would happen. The song Tin Man, by the group America, would begin to play.
Whether it was from the radio, the TV, even coming from another car while waiting at a light – hearing that melody was a clear message to really PAY ATTENTION to whatever I was thinking or talking about at that moment. The strangest time was last fall. While sitting in the parking lot at the restaurant Stella Blues, I stopped to tell my friend about a decision I’d just made. She listened for a minute and said, “Oh, that’s gotta be the right thing because the guitar player is singing your Tin Man song!” Sure enough… I tuned in to the faint sounds coming from the restaurant just in time to hear “…smoke glass stain bright color…” Damn.
That brings us up to earlier this evening. Something had been troubling me all day. You know, how it goes around and around in your mind? Finally, one clear, strong thought rose above the rest. Is that it, I wondered. Is that the answer? At that moment [Click here now and then come back and finish reading this] my car began to slowly fill with the familiar acoustic guitar intro. Yep. Confirmation. I’m on the right track. Thanks!
I totally accept this as tongue-in-cheek universal guidance. I’m only posting this because I have a feeling this truth might be something a few others might need to hear at this exact moment.
What was I thinking when the song came on? Just this:
“Do not accept less than you deserve.”
Aloha…
Marti
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In May of 2005, I created my first blog and loved the experience. I found witty & thoughtful goofball friends who knew their way around a keyboard. We read each others’ stuff, commented, re-commented, re-re-commented and generally had a grand old time. It was a semi-anonymous experience, as my ‘fellow bloggers’ were from all over the globe, so we were not a part of each others everyday life. This left room for a certain openness that felt comfy. Unfortunately, it was also on an adult-oriented website (long story), so my efforts to get the people who ARE part of my life to come read my blog didn’t go over very well.
Well, life moved forward and we wandered away from that site, looking for something a little more mainstream and palatable to others in our worlds. To this day you can find traces of my blogging journey – from blogspot to my LiveJournal blog to the really cool WritersCafe, which managed to lose -yes LOSE- everything I posted. One of my favorite blogging experiences was on a site called Six Sentences. The catch was, each post is supposed to be exactly six sentences. Not five, not ten, but six. Way harder than it sounds and it’s a GREAT exercise for writers. My page is here and I hope I wander back some day.
A couple of years ago, I decided to create my own wordpress site, so MartiWrites was born. Originally intended to be a showcase where I park stuff that I considered “good” writing, it never really developed a personality and now is a little stuffy and not much fun.
These days, the omnipresence of Facebook, the fact that 50% of everyone I’ve ever known is there and my innate laziness makes it easy to just toss up semi-mindless soundbites, get good interaction and just forget about blogging altogether. However I recently found a wonderful group of Social Media experts/afficianados who know how to coalesce all these online apps and ops into something directed and purposeful. (Well, okay, maybe the purpose is to play, but that’s fine). Through them I joined a Maui Bloggers Group and if I don’t post something at least monthly, I’ll get kicked out. So here I am.
The blog site that I’m putting together right now is called Achieving Our Dreams, and it’s my first blog to actually have a purpose beyond the fact that I like to hear myself talk. Over the past year I’ve developed a three part workshop called “Manifest Your Dreams” which deals with the idea of manifestation; from both the pragmatic to borderline spiritual perspectives. One thing we’ve learned is that many of us need some outside motivation to keep us focused, some sort of accountability, something in our brain that says “wow, tomorrow someone’s gonna ask me if I did what I said I was gonna do, so I better do it.” [see Maui Bloggers Group comment above] Thus the blog. It’s not completed yet, but the point will be to supply those who are interested with a sort of gentle carrot/stick support. I like the focus.
But back to the point …
The online persona identity dilemma. Where should I blog? Everywhere? Do I keep them all or dump all but one? When I read some of my posts on blogspot, a site I hadn’t visited in three years before today, I was reminded of what I first loved about blogging. I wasn’t trying to “BE” a writer. I was simply having a conversation with anyone or everyone who might be interested in joining in. Sort of the poor man’s Dave Barry. That’s what I miss and that’s what I want to get back to.
Now WHERE I’m gonna do that – THAT’S the next question. Stay tuned, lol…
“Hey, did you guys see this thing for POW bracelets?” Cathy came bounding into 14D with a mail order flyer. “We should order some.”
It was November of 1972 and I was a college freshman at an expensive but academically mediocre all-girl junior college in Miami, Florida. I took the paper from her and began to read aloud. “Over a thousand American soldiers have been held as Prisoners of War in North Vietnam. Our goal is to make sure this stays in our awareness until each soldier is returned to us. Please order a POW/MIA bracelet and pledge to wear it until your soldier comes home.” I checked the cost – only $2.50 for the standard bracelet and $3.50 for the copper one – which, even by 1972 standards, was really cheap. The idea appealed to me instantly. “Yeah, let’s do it!”
So on that day, several young women from Bauder Fashion College marched up Flagler Street to the post office, got our money orders for $2.50 each, slapped our 8 cent postage stamps on the envelopes and ordered our bracelets from the address on the somewhat amateurish but passionately produced flyer.
Several weeks passed before I received the small lumpy manila envelop in the mail. In it was a bumper sticker : POW/MIA: I WANT THEM ACCOUNTED FOR!, a multi folded sheet of white paper with program information, and a silver plated cuff type bangle bracelet with an engraved rank, name and date. The point was to clamp the bracelet onto our wrists, and keep it there until the person whose name was on the bracelet came home. I studied the inscription:
8 – 1 – 1968
Wow, my guy (as we thereafter referred to ‘our’ soldier) had been missing since I was in eighth grade and less than a month after Bobby Kennedy died. Bummer, I thought. My fantasy of celebrating his homecoming by triumphantly removing the bracelet lost a little steam. Nevertheless, a deal is a deal. “Okay, E. James, here we go.” I put the bracelet on my right wrist, squeezing the ends together.
And there he stayed. I only took it off once – to emcee a beauty pageant- because the designer thought it “ruined the lines of my silhouette.” All evening James flashed into my mind and I vowed to never take it off again. And I didn’t. Through my college years…through graduation…through my return to Ohio and job interviews, job placement and through my wild and crazy early 20s social life. Day or night, professional or partying…when I slept, showered or even while “doing the deed” the bracelet never left my arm. Until one night in 1977…
I was in a Columbus area night club with friends. A man with whom I had an intense to-the-depths-of-our-souls type of relationship, and hadn’t seen in months, walked into the club. I saw him, gasped and the bracelet broke off my arm into two pieces. No kidding; it really happened just like that. I placed both pieces in a secure pocket in my purse and turned my attention to the situation at hand. The next morning I was scheduled to make a quick visit to the warehouse of the clothing chain for which I worked and while I was counting Jones of New York jackets, someone slipped into the break room through an open window and stole my handbag. Money, license, keys – replacing all that was inconvenient, but what could never be replaced was E. James Broms.
I’ve often wondered about the cosmic implication of those events and the only thing I can come up with was that it’s not about a strip of metal and it’s sure as heck not about me. It’s about one soul honoring another. It’s about a man who put himself in harms way – either by choice or by draft – rolled the dice and lost. Honoring such a person transcends politics or our opinions about war, specific or in general. Could I have done what he did? Nope. I simply do not have that type of mindset. But I sure appreciate those who do.
The last contact anyone had with James was while he was piloting an A4C Skyhawk over the Gulf of Tonkin. He was flying the fourth position in a four plane airstrike, and his last transmission was “Puffs all around me.” That’s war, I suppose. He was 24 at the time.
In the mid 80s I was able to visit his name on a traveling replica of the Vietnam War Memorial. When I finally visited DC in 2004, I couldn’t wait to visit panel 50W of the memorial and etch/rub his name as a keepsake. Unfortunately, the wall was being renovated and I was unable to view that portion. “It’s not about a strip of metal, it’s not about me” echoed through my thoughts.
If James is still alive, he turned 68 earlier this month. I know it isn’t likely. But when my thoughts shuffle past the “stuff” of bracelets and walls and self congratulatory ego, I know what’s important. The spirit, the essence of who this young man was is definitely rattling around the cosmos somewhere. And to that spirit I say, “Mahalo, James. And Godspeed.”
LTJG E. James Broms MIA.8/1/1968
UPDATE: If you’re reading this for the first time, you MUST read the conversation that transpired because of this post. Just click on “comments.”
Living in Unprecedented Times
Posted on: May 2, 2011
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I’m pretty sure this is just going to be marginally edited, non-premeditated writing – the purpose of which isn’t so much to tell you my opinions than it is for me to figure out what they are.
When I saw that bin Laden had been killed, my first reaction was surprise. Followed by a sense of relief. Followed by something a little more disturbing and confused. Watching people celebrate didn’t feel quite right for some reason. And it’s not that I’m sorry he’s dead – I’m not sorry at all. His existence encouraged unbelievable pain and suffering in this world so goodbye already. Then what was so unsettling? I spent a few minutes trying to understand what wasn’t setting right with me.
From the perspective of tangible human drama, it was easy to see what was off for me – This is not 1945 and al-qaeda are not the Nazis. They don’t march in goose stepping perfect rows, all regimented and proud. They are intentionally opaquely ferreted away in oblique configurations we refer to as cells. And now they have a martyr. So now what? Am I waiting for that other shoe to drop? Hmmm…so the biggest part of my confused reaction was fear.
Another part of my reaction springs from not being a particularly vengeful person. I’ve never been an “eye for an eye” type, unless that second eye could actually give vision to the one who lost the first. I’m more from the “the best revenge is a life well lived” ilk. Watching the revelers – who certainly had a right to celebrate the elimination of a man who had wreaked such havoc on us – made me realize that celebrating the death of our enemies is a pretty close dance, y’know?
The undertone of my reaction was quite sombre, probably brought on by wondering how those who were the most directly affected by 9/11 were feeling tonight and remembering the anger, hate and hurt that has grown since then – on all sides, directed towards so many.
Yet at the same time, I was deeply appreciative and respectful of the military elite that executed their mission with surgical precision and accuracy. I truly wish we lived in a time where humanity had evolved beyond the need for wars, but clearly we haven’t. So I understand the need for our military, I applaud you and thank you. Honestly and truly.
And then there’s the writer in me … WHAT a story. I mean, really. I love examples of tricky jobs done well and like so many others, am rabidly curious about the details.
Odd mix of emotions, for sure. But about that uneasiness, where is it coming from?
I zeroed in on the ‘what happens next’ part. If succumbing to worrying about the future or exacting further revenge are not the answers, then what is?
And that, I believe, is where it gets personal and your answer could be quite different from mine. Here’s mine:
For the past few years I’ve been following a spiritual path that teaches (in highly simplified terms) that there are only two things: love and fear. Love, in this context, comes from a higher, divine source and at least a glimmer of it – and often much more – can be found within all. Fear is everything else. No matter what thought, emotion or action I can imagine, I believe it springs from one of those two place. So for me, what I now know – of which I was unclear when beginning this post – is that my job is to sidestep the fear, and focus on that glimmer of divine love – to believe it resides in all places, to believe only it is real, and to have the confidence in our collective ability to bring it forth.
Whew. Glad I got that settled.
What’s your take on it all? What are your thoughts about how we can steer this crazy “the worlds are shifting” kind of time in the right direction?
Yes, those were the feelings and thoughts simmering and bubbling within me as I learned about the death of Osama bin Laden…
Vinyl Thoughts
Posted on: April 19, 2011
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Dear Music Fans Under Forty,
You are lucky to exist in a time which offers such convenient access to music. I mean that – it’s wonderful. Even though navigating the world of ripping, iTunes and all things mpg is to me what changing the clock on a VCR was to my parents, I love having digital music at my fingertips. In fact, the wonder of it extends beyond music. Listening to my textbook downloaded onto an iPod, plugged into my car radio system is pretty amazing. And don’t even get me started on the video aspect. Instantly watching my Netflix queue over my flatscreen TV? Wow. Marti’s version of the future is here!
But you know what I miss?
Records.
Yeah, those big, clunky, breakable, unwieldy things we had to deal with in order to hear music. It’s not so much about the sound – although records are like film cameras, distinctly different from digital. What I really miss about records is the overall experience.
Sitting on the living room floor, shuffling through albums. Reading the liner notes. Opening the double LPs and following along with the lyrics. Spontaneously inspired mixes. Rediscovering dusty jacketed tunes that we hadn’t listened to in way too long. All resulting in a wonderful little impromptu concert – with friends or not – getting joyfully lost in a little magic carpet ride to another world.
Wait. That last phrase? Perhaps I went too far. Perhaps that dealt with what altered state I may have been in while listening. Never mind.
It’s still possible to do all these things, I know. All I have to do is Google “A Day in the Life lyrics” and there they are. I can go to YouTube and find pretty much any song imaginable. In fact, doing exactly that is what inspired this post. I have to smile when I see a friend posting a string of songs to Facebook because I know. I know.
The pinnacle of my record collecting days was in the mid 80’s and I probably had about 300 – 400 LPs. They were alphabetized, and the Beatles and Eric Claption were tied for the largest section. Of course that many records pretty much took up all the floor or shelf space in a large room, so chalk one up for the digital world. After carting Eric and Joni and Jackson and Miles and Ella and everyone else from Napa and Los Angeles to Kona and Hana, I finally gave away my record collection. It was like giving away a beloved pet because the landlord said no. Ed – a fellow vinyl worshipper – promised to love them, keep them safe and play them often. And it was done.
That was nearly twenty years ago and as I said – I do love new gadgets and digital technology. But sometimes I miss the interactive-ness of playing with records. And I can’t even imagine what flat, smooth surface “kids these days” use for rolling a joint. But I digress…
Point is – I am very happy to have experienced that little vestigial piece of life.
Drawn
Posted on: April 27, 2009
There is a wonderful site called “Six Sentences” where the challenge is to tell a story in exactly six sentences. Very challenging and a good writing exercise. I did this one last last year:
He paced the length of the stage, ebony hair falling in tendrils around his shoulders, forest green Calcutta tunic matching the intensity and color of his eyes as he pitched the secrets of healing and salvation.
“Do you think this guy’s for real?” the boy next to her whispered in a voice that’s never really low enough and always an unwanted interruption.
Ignoring the question, she tried to focus on the man’s practical explanation of chakras but was drawn instead to the bearing of this enigmatic, self-proclaimed healer – gently intelligent yet unnervingly masculine – and so very handsome.
“He probably does this just to hook up with women,” her cynical young row mate snickered.
Pretending those thoughts had never occurred to her, she tossed the boy an “of course not” scowl and returned her attention to the speaker.
Seeing that he was looking directly at her, she quickly her lowered head, afraid that the flush of her cheeks would reveal she was totally and irrevocably smitten.
Love, Susan
Posted on: April 10, 2009
While rummaging through the estate sale booth – my favorite stop at the Lahaina Swap Meet/Craft Fair – a familiar item caught my eye. The silver artist’s palette charm on the crowded table was exactly like the twin charms that Debbie Frantz’s mom bought us for Christmas in 1962, along with our brand new bracelets. It was the year we joyfully shared the same second grade home room, lived for all things Barbie, and saw ourselves as immensely talented artists-to-be. With names from the opposite end of the alphabet, sharing a home room would only happen one more time in our twelve years together. I wondered about the reasons and recipient behind the charm in front of me.
I reached for the sterling chain bracelet in order to further investigate.
Unlike my own bracelet now crowded with mementos that span more than half a lifetime, this one held only six items. In addition to the artist palette, there was a graduation owl with a pearl body, a flat mortarboard charm, a typewriter, an engraved disk and a slice of sterling birthday cake. The mortarboard announced 1971 – only a year before the inscription on my own graduation charm. The disk was inscribed with a name and date on one side:
Sandra – July 26, 1968, with a simple inscription on the back:
Love, Susan.
If she graduated in 1971, what was the significance of 1968? The end of middle school? An important birthday? What could it be?
Sensing that folks were not-so-patiently waiting for me to move on, I checked the price of the bracelet. Thirty-five dollars. Not practical. Returning the bracelet to its black velvet cubby, I stepped aside to dig through the section of art deco earrings.
But thoughts of the bracelet returned. How might a personal keepsake end up on a swap meet table? Is the owner deceased? Or did it get lost in the rush of early twenties wanderlust, like the bracelet that Jim gave me in the summer of seventy-eight, his last night as Freedom’s lead singer? And if she’s still alive, does Sandra think of her bracelet and long to hold it once again in hopes of reactivating the juju from a magic of her youth?
Or perhaps it’s just meaningless pieces of metal for which her interest ended in 1971; Owl and the gang tossed aside, never to be considered again.
Returning home later that afternoon, I dropped my handbag on the sofa and went immediately to the small wooden jewelry box on top of my bedroom dresser. Opening a tiny drawer, I saw it right away – my own charm bracelet that began forty-seven years ago and continues to – though very occasionally – chronicle random bits of my life.
Exhaling an unexplanable degree of relief, I examined the nearly forgotten piece of jewelry. The state outlines, the phone, the shiny OZ, even the Betty Crocker Homemaker Award (the most “Wrong Call” accolade of Senior Awards Day, I sheepishly admit) and yes…the artist palette. All safe and securely attached to the sturdy silver chain.
I smiled as I held the most recent addition up to the waning sunlight. I designed three of them that year – one for me and one for each of my Debbies – tiny containers filled with bits of slag, the meaning of which could only be understood by those who grew up in steel mill country. Carefully returning it to its place of honor next to the gold Hawaiian bracelets inscribed with the names of my son and step sons, I gently touched the jewelry box – itself a high school graduation present – and left the room.
Thirty-five dollars is nothing to be taken lightly this year, particularly for something that I would never use, wear or display. Had I bought that bracelet, it would have gone straight into that bottom drawer, with my own unworn treasures of the past. Not a practical purchase at all.
Nevertheless…
If I return to the Craft Fair next week and if I have an extra thirty five bucks and if it’s still there, I will probably buy it.
I feel like I owe it to Sandra and Susan.
Jack
Posted on: March 30, 2009
“See, this is where they made the incision.”
Emma tried to avoid direct eye contact with the bloated white belly proudly thrust into her line of vision.
“Uh yeah, I see. You can put your shirt down before a customer comes in, okay, Jack?”
Not really hearing her, he continued his story of recent surgical adventures. A burly middle-aged man with a booming voice, Jack seemed more like a bright child in the middle of show and tell. Shirt still bunched mid-chest, his belly flopped and his graying pony tail swayed, both in sync with his animated story telling.
Emma had been acquainted with Jack for years, starting from her early days in this small town. She didn’t know him well, but knew he was both eccentric and exceedingly intelligent. This combination of traits led to a specific conversational pattern between them. It would start off with Emma being totally, exhilaratingly engaged in debate. But somewhere in the middle of the discussion she would invariably find herself lost while Jack continued down his unique synaptic path. Be it that he outmatched her either in wit or in strangeness, the relevance of the chat would trail off permanently at that point. He and his former wife moved away and Emma hadn’t really heard about him since.
Now here he stood – as colorfully mismatched as ever, patriotically decal-ed cane waving to punctuate each unsolicited opinion. But something was different about Jack now. In the old days, his eccentricities could be shrugged off as a living example of Thoreau’s different drummer essay. But the man in front of her today seemed unable to spend more than a few moments in the commonly agreed upon sense of reality shared by average and regular humans.
“Oh, isn’t this just the cutest little thang?” Emma’s thoughts were interrupted by a small flock of tour bus escapees trying to squeeze into the small gift shop. Before she could greet them, Jack sprang into action.
“YOU WON’T FIND PALM TREE SALT AND PEPPER SHAKERS ANYWHERE ELSE ON THIS ISLAND! GET THESE AND YOU WON’T BE SORRY, UNCLE JACK PROMISES YOU THAT!” His voice boomed and echoed throughout the tiny space. Emma held her breath for a timeless instant until the three 60something ladies dissolved into a group giggle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she allowed the repartee to continue for a minute or so, until she sensed that Jack was getting too intense and saw the ladies almost backing away in response.
“Jack.” Emma said quietly, trying to get his attention. He turned towards her. “Sit down,” as she pointed to the chair in front of her cash register.
“Wait, I’ll get this sale for –“
“Sit down.” Her voice still low, it nevertheless carried a mom tone that meant do it NOW.
Looking rather dejected, he sat. Emma left her station to deal with the customers, mentally debating what she was going to do with Jack after the ladies left. She was within her rights to eject him from the store and wasn’t cowed by the stack of expensive merchandise he was intending to buy. Emma had no qualms about laying things on the proverbial line. But still…his loneliness was palpable.
When the store cleared, he began his lament, “All I was trying to do was — ” but she cut him off before he could finish.
“Okay, here’s the deal. You’re welcome to stay and chat. But these are the conditions. One – stop playing clerk. That’s my job, not yours. Two – you have a voice made for the stage but you don’t realize how loud it is. When I give you the sign, it means speak softly. Three – well, I’ll let you know when I think of number three. Understand?”
Like a puppy recently scolded but knowing that his human was still his human, Jack tried to look contrite. “Yes. I get it.”
For the next few moments they sat there in silence, Emma doing paperwork, Jack looking around the shop, each smiling inwardly.
The afternoon progressed without major incident. Occasional conspiracy rants were interwoven with the proud showing of grandkid pictures, with no mention of various ex-wives or where he’d been during the past decade. Visitors wandered in and out of the shop. Jack kept a watchful eye on Emma, waiting for a sign that would indicate the acceptability level of his behavior.
During a quiet moment, Emma contemplated the pile of merchandise Jack had accrued. A combination of practical and frivolous, the items now figured into several hundred dollars. Putting this together with recent tales of Jack’s extravagant three-week stay at the local luxury hotel, Emma couldn’t resist asking what the whole town had been wondering.
“So what’s the deal? You win the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes or something?”
“Yeah, something like that.” The rueful laugh told her it was anything but.
And then a few minutes later:
“Can you believe they send me all kinds of money every month now?”
“Who?”
“Who else? Big Brother.”
Emma thought about this for a moment. Assessing his age and remembering that several of her Vietnam Vet neighbors had recently “retired” early from their jobs, she began to get a clearer idea of what was going on with Jack. She offered only a feeble “Uh, better late than never?” which was met with a derisive snort. She didn’t know what to say, but was silently thankful that her usual selfishness seemed to be on break today. His new thoracic scar was nothing compared to the ones responsible for this recent windfall.
“So how’s Sadie these days?” His youngest daughter was a classmate of Emma’s stepson, so this was good common ground. They laughed and chatted and her exasperation with his Jackness was tempered by knowing that there was only an hour left of this.
Finally it was time to close the shop. She gave him one last chance to curtail his shopping craziness.
“Okay, if you want this stuff I’ve got to ring it up now. But if not, let’s put it back.”
“No, no! I really want it!”
Emma went through the stack, ringing up some of the items and tossing others aside while muttering, “nope, I’m not selling you a sequined evening bag,” folding/bagging as she went. Finally she hit the total key and $285 popped up, which was probably the all time highest sale the small shop would ever have – and it was time to pay up.
Jack dumped a wallet full of credit cards onto the counter. “Pick one” he instructed. Emma selected a colorful VISA.
“Sorry. It’s declined.”
Jack handed her a red, white and blue MASTERCARD.
Declined.
“I just don’t pay attention to what gets paid when.”
About the time Emma began to wonder if this was just a game, the local Hawaiian Bank VISA with the sandy blue waves was promptly accepted.
He helped her sweep and close the shop. As she was leaving, Emma noticed the bouquet of fresh flowers on the counter and remembered the shop would be closed tomorrow and that the flowers wouldn’t make it until Monday. Rather than deal with tossing them away now or making the Monday person do it, Emma turned to Jack, “Would you like to take these flowers back to your room?”
“Really? I can pay for them.”
“Oh no, I don’t mean buy them, I just thought you might want them and –“ She started to explain that it would save her the trouble of dumping them, but stopped when she saw the look on his face.
“I’d love to have them.” His voice was quiet with a slight waver. “Thank you. Thank you, Emma. You don’t know how much that means to me.”
The sincerity of his words, combined with knowing how flippantly the offer was made cut straight to her heart. “Sure, no problem. You enjoy them, okay?”
By now they were leaving the shop, Emma locking the door behind them. She smiled and waved goodbye as she walked towards her car.
“Emma?”
She turned. “Yeah, Jack?”
“Thanks. Thank you for everything. I mean it.”
Not sure what exactly she was being thanked for, Emma replied simply, “You’re welcome, Jack.”
Watching him clumsily stuff his purchases and precious floral cargo into his rental car, she murmured “please take care of him” to no one in particular. Swallowing past a tightness in her throat, Emma could feel a sadness rising. She hurried to her own car, hoping to beat the deluge.
February Twenty-Fifth
Posted on: March 29, 2009
This was a writing exercise for ‘Six Sentences” where the posts are supposed to be exactly, well, six sentences. It’s wayyy harder than it sounds, and leads to some very creative punctuation:
The worst trouble I’d ever gotten into were the times she thought evil had befallen her only daughter.
The first time I remember was the afternoon I called out to her, through Dad’s winter coat and my snowsuit, to let her know I’d locked myself in the closet and needed her to rescue me and no, I was NOT lying at the bottom of the basement stairs with a broken neck.
Then there was the time, while taking huge steps through the fresh mud with my red rubber boots and brand new socks, the left boot got stuck in the ooze and I yelled for help because I knew if the perfectly clean white sock came into the house covered with wet brown dirt, there would be hell to pay. And no, I was NOT about to be swallowed up by quick mud (in the middle of Ohio).
By adulthood our roles reversed, as evidenced by the time an ostrich got loose from the petting zoo and barreled down the Fort Steuben Mall towards us and she dealt with it by using me – her only offspring and light of her life (allegedly) as a shield, for cryin’ out loud.
She would have been eighty-three today.
Colorado, 1977
Watching him preside over the tiny car rental outlet, all five feet, five inches of perfect posture and immaculate aloha business attire, I thought back to the first time I was able to claim the word manager. For me it was “I’m Marti, the Assistant Advertising Manager for Madison’s,” emphasis on ADVERTISING and MADISON’S, as the field and the classy women’s clothing chain were the important parts of my introduction/announcement. It was the first time a job and its title really meant something to me.
JT, the Branch Manager had a day that industry folks refer to as getting snowed. It was Boat Day in Kahului – when the cruise ship docks and central Maui is flooded with several thousand folks with ocean fever – and impulse car rentals are common. On this day the “boat people” descended upon the small lot like a swarm of photo snapping locusts. By noon the rows of parking stalls were nearly empty, but the waiting room was full.
Nevertheless, JT, the Branch Manager didn’t waver. He stuck by the troops, greeting, registering, apologizing for delays, always in that voice slightly louder than necessary, as though the Regional Manager was spying on him from behind the silk ficus tree over by the soda machine.
“So to summarize, you elect NOT to take the totally inclusive, just walk away with a new rental insurance that would prevent you from being totally liable for any damage done to the car whatsoever?” As the exhausted customer glared at him in silence, JT the Branch Manager regrouped, offered a chipper “All right, then!” and finished the transaction.
I finally got the keys to my hastily washed white Hyundai and as I left, he thanked me and shook my hand, as he did with everyone else. “If you have any questions, please feel free to call me. I’m JT and I’m -–“
We finished the sentence together: “…the Branch Manager.”
Instantly contrite for being such a smart ass, I was relieved that he missed my sarcasm completely. He smiled broadly, “Yes, I am.”
Pulling away from the now quiet lot, I wondered where JT will be a year from now. Will he still be front and center? Or will be hiding in the back office, surfing the web and avoiding the customers that he now nearly body slams with Guest Contact 101?
Turning on my left blinker, I waited for an opening onto the Hana Highway. Easing into traffic, I headed home hoping the more seasoned JT of the future manages to keep his spark.
Is There Life After Retirement? 