This once was a sculpture on Navy Pier, believe it or not. As I took this picture, a person walked by but looked down to the bottom of the cage rather than at the figure on the swing.
I wonder why ? What does this picture mean to you ? What feelings or thoughts does it evoke from you ?
Frank

The Restless Beast

The house is suddenly silent. After the flurry of I’m-gonna-miss-the bus racing, I’m sitting in silence. It’s not completely silent as the fish tank bubbles in the other room. The cats are playing “horses in the house” again. Their rampaging through the house like Clydesdales is stifling the quietness. I know once they have finished their reign of terror on sparkle balls and each other, it will be all day napping for them, and the din of solitude, which I both love and hate, will be upon me.

My identity, my life, for the past 16 years has been of a mother. I was thrust into this career unwillingly many years ago. I once had a career, I really did. I had a life. That’s what everyone else calls it. I never thought this life would be mine when I was young and idealistic. Roaming the college campus, I always dreamed that I would someday play the part of an executive or have some exciting career. I hoped to marry and have children, but my CAREER would be the focus. I wanted to be successful. I wanted the big house. I wanted it all. Never in my co-ed days would I think that I would spend my days doing doll hair and loving it.

Most times things don’t work out the way you plan them. It didn’t for me, but I don’t have any regrets. I was the product of a bad economy those years ago, and we decided that it would be best for me just to continue staying home with the children, if it was at all possible. It was a decision that would change me forever. I never thought the career for me would be stay-at-home mom--and that I would love it so.

I raised two nice kids in those sixteen years, and I continue to do so. I spent many days in the backyard sandbox and sitting on the swing set. We played Hot Wheels, Barbie, Hi-Ho Cherry-O, and listened to Raffi. I was the master creator of Play-doh animals, architect of Lego restaurants with drive-thrus, and beautician extraordinaire for the American Girls. I made up games to break my boredom. Character bowling was fun. We would collect every McDonaldland toy, set them up in 10 pin formation, and hurl the ball down the hall. Big hit with the kids. They loved it when Winnie the Pooh would go flying!

We didn’t watch much TV then, I always found the kids cranky after too much staring. We would take hour long walks around the block to count barking dogs or squirrels. We would pack lunches and go to the zoo for the day. Summertime was hanging out in the wading pool and winter was building igloos with the snow block maker until I couldn’t straighten my back. We put towels on the floor and played with kitchen utensils in a tub of water. We had play group on Tuesdays with the neighbor kids. I loved Barbie and her hip clothes. I hated Candy Land and the park.

It wasn’t all Donna Reed, mind you. I remember the days of changing clothes three times before 9:00 a.m., and it wasn’t just the kids’. I resented having to give other people’s children attention at the local pool while they sat in the chair with a magazine. I didn’t want to push children on the swings at the park. I was sick of making lunch. If I could make it through January, February, and March, I could make it through anything. Damn, Barbie, and those long, skinny legs. If one more parent tells me how they don’t have to be Room Mom because I “love it” so much…………………….

I reminisce fondly on those years. I love being a mom. I hate that my career is ending. It is ending. Slowly. And I don’t know what to do. They still need me, but not until 3:30 or so. I don’t want them to need me so completely now, as they did when they were younger. There is something weird in that. No, I am the mother bird who raises her young to watch them leave. That is my job. I want them to be young adults and to make their own way in the world. I don’t want them to live with me forever. I want them to go out and experience life they way that they should. But I will miss them.

I search for who I am now. I don’t like this silence of not being needed. I’m not sure of when my job is over completely. When can I go get a “real” job? When do they not need me anymore? What is my identity now? Even the working moms struggle with who I am—“So, what are you doing these days?”Is there anything more pathetic than a stay-at-home mom with no kids at home?

I am confident that my course will present itself when needed. I will wake up one day and know that I won’t have to drive somebody somewhere and then I will have to find something else to fill the day. Frilly part-time jobs will have to go on the wayside and some other adventure will arise. Until then, I wait to be needed.

The ruckus of the two beasts has subsided into sunshine-laden naps and I finally have quiet to reflect. I think of my children and family and realize that I am successful. They’re great kids. They make me laugh and I’m glad that I had those years with them. I’m not sure what having it all is, but I do know that I have a lot—only in a small house.

Retire: to go to Bed

     When they ask me if  I'm enjoying retirement, they want to her that I love it, that I don't miss work and have never been busier.  I hesitate with my answer.  I like it as much as I have ever liked my life.

     Sometimes I miss the getting ready rush, the short shower, quick comb, hurried lip-sticking of my mouth in the mirror;  the instant comradery of strangers at the gas pump: nice day, gonna rain, never can tell;  the big hello from the front desk, thank God you're here, looks like a tough day;  noon lunch in the lounge where we trade our simple household stories, show family photos and share a loud laugh;  the feel-good ride home, made all the lights, what's for supper, the rescue of the weekend, the certainty of Monday morning's routine again.

     

     Now, where's the rush?

     What is really worth doing today?

     Why get out of bed at all?                                                                                                                

Would anyone notice if the newspaper lay all day in the driveway, unread, never unrolled?  If flower bed weeds crawled rampant, dust left streaks on the piano, food molded in the frig?

     I would like to be missed, sought after, paid again for a job I thought no one else could do.  I met my replacement: pretty, barely out of high school, bright smile, lovely hair, no gray.  She was quick to catch on.  "Nothing to it," she chirped.  "I think I'm ready to take over.  Enjoy your retirement," she gushed as I pushed out the office door, into the world of appearing to be busy, useful, calendar full, the hard work just beginning.

                                      

Taking Down the Fiesta Ware

      The call came last night.  It was the Salvation Army lady.  Did I have anything discarded that was useful to give them?  I said yes and hung up the phone.  In the guest bedroom on a closet shelf rested for several years my treasured Fiesta Ware.  I was using it daily ever since my mother had handed it down to me.  It was her one purchase during the "war years" that had survived and needed to be preserved and protected, if only for its endurance.  But my son-in-law had cautioned me after a meal at my house that this was too valuable to keep using day to day.  I really should set it aside and use something else.  So I had wrapped the pieces in tissue to please him.

     Now I asked my daughter, she who lives in a Mies Van der Rhoe high-rise, if she would like the set someday.  "Well, I do have the Eva Zeisel collection," she said.  "I'm not sure we'd have the room."  I thought about their furnishings: the Eames chairs, the Macintosh table, the 1930s lamps.  Even Frank Lloyd Wright didn't make the cut.  I knew my Fiesta Ware couldn't expect to either.

     Just to remind myself of its value, I pulled the cardboard box down from the shelf and peered into it  Red, blue, green, yellow and aqua were the basic colors.  The set wasn't complete due to various mishaps over the years, but I slid the pieces out one by one, carefully turning them around to examine them.  The blue gravy boat was a favorite, along with the green round salt and pepper shakers.  I remembered them on my mother's table in the small bungalow house in Indiana.  She was especially proud of the red plate because they had stopped making red during the war.  I even had an old Polaroid photo of my parents sitting at the metal-edged table in the kitchen with the plates spread around, waiting for company.  The surface of each plate was marred with years of fork scraping but I liked that.  It was proof of their usefulness.  They had been faithful; they had served; they had survived.

      I couldn't part with them yet.  I made a note to myself to call the Salvation Army lady.  They would have to wait a few years for the donation. 

Summer Kill

     His mistress had killed before.  In fact, she had done the deed yesterday,  not just once, but several times.  The victims wore yellow and black stripes, veritable jail inmates.  She had set out a trap for them; "Attractant included, scientific formulation" it read.  But it was two years old and they hadn't taken the bait.   These guys were smart.  Better to wait inside for them, his mistress thought.  How did they make their way through the windows to cling to the screens?  She was sure she had cranked them shut and yet, here they were--buzzing across like tiny hoodlums on motorcycles.

     Her cat stared blankly at them.  What were they? Playmates?  Something to eat?  He didn't like how they hovered above his head and wouldn't meet him face to face.  He tried to bat one down with his paw but it only flew straight up to the ceiling as if to say, "OK, super-cat, reach me now!"  He lost interest and slunk back to his favorite warm spot on top of the VCR.  

      Let the big human deal with them.  He didn't like moving objects anymore.  Rather, he fancied neatly cut squares of salmon dinner waiting in his bowl twice a day.  No stalking, no pouncing, no flying feathers or squealing bunny sounds.  Just inert, orange blobs in the same spot in the kitchen day after day.   Life was simple; life was good.  He buried his nose in the crook of his paw and purred.  Then, wham!  Down came the fly swatter on the window pane above him.  He jumped off the VCR ledge in search of a quiet corner.  How about behind the bookcase?  No bees.  No swatter.  Perfect.  Nothing could reach him here.  He was safe, snuggled into a warm ball of fur, even his mistress with her weapon poised to kill couldn't come close.  Life was good again.  Prrrrrrr. 

A Sign of the Times

I found this sign in Downtown Frankfort. What could this mean ? Is it a sign of the End Times ?
What do you think ? I would like to know?

Small f, Big F

In the back of my address book, I keep small scraps of paper. Written or pictured on these scraps are things that meant something to me at one time—cute pictures, quotes that have personal meaning, small articles from the newspaper that comfort, intrigue, or otherwise inspire me in some fashion. I go through them sometimes, and it always amazes me how they still pertain and I can’t let them go. It’s kind of my Tomb of Tutankhamen that little address book. When I die, someone will go through my bounty at the back of the book, and hopefully, it will lend insight on the person I truly was and what had been going through my heart and mind all of those years.

One of the articles I have saved is one on friendship. It was relevant all those many years ago when I first cut it out, and it still is. I guess my theory on friends and friendship hasn’t changed, and my theory was also shared by at least one person. When pressed for thoughts on friendship, I turn to this article and reflect. I cannot take credit for the theory; I only adopt it as my own, and apply my own requirements. The theory of friendship is explained by capitalization--there are your friends (small f) and then there are your Friends (big F).

Small f friends are those that you see at the PTA meeting or the grocery store. These are neighbors you just wave to as you drive down the street, the moms and dads that you spend a whole baseball season sitting next to, but don’t get together with much for dinner. The girl doing sit-ups next to you at exercise class, the older lady at Weight Watchers, the one person you can actually tolerate at work, and the other car-pool moms--all qualify for a small f. They know you better than the mailman, but not much—they can name your children, know who your husband is, and might even know that you like lemon drop martinis, but they haven’t quite made the jump to Big F. You smile and say “great” when they superficially ask how you are today, they don’t press when you’ve said you had a bad day or that your mother is driving you crazy, and they never call to just chat. These people are more than acquaintances, but they aren’t truly a Friend friend--you know, like a big F.

Big F friends are the treasured, hard-core, been-through-it-all friends. These are usually long term and you can’t imagine life without them. These are much better than family, as they aren’t required to love you—they just do. These friends are the ones who patiently listen to your millionth complaint about your “saintly” husband, who agree your mom is nuts, and remember your birthday even when you don’t want to. They can say you look like crap in that top, or say that you are hot in your new swimsuit, in spite of your bumpy thighs. They know your parents and siblings, and you know theirs. They send presents for your new baby when they’ve just suffered a miscarriage. They will sit for hours watching the ball game with you, because, they like baseball too. They can get mad at you, but still come back for your friendship in the end. These are the hold-your-hair-while-you-get-sick kind of friends. They know your ugliness, but love you just the same.

It’s lovely to have a lot of friends and I cannot imagine everyday life without their presence. They are the warm sunshine on a yucky day. But it is the Big F friends that I’ll take, no matter how few there are.