Week 10 Theme--distance, framing, alienation

I climbed up off the floor and instantly smelled smoke. One look around the corner and into the kitchen told me that something wasn’t right. Smoke! I ran to the kitchen, coughing and gagging. I frantically waved my hands in front of my face, trying to breath clean air. The room is filled with smoke. The smell is like I have never smelled before. Oh, God, stay in the living room, Mackenzie!

It’s my day to pick up my four-year-old granddaughter, Mackenzie, from the daycare. My mind is filled with things I need to do when we get home. Laundry. Snack for her. Work on my papers for class. Get supper going so it’s ready on time. Sweep the floor—god that floor is dirty. First thing, give her a snack and try to get her to play alone, or let her watch a show so I can get some things done. I turn my laptop on as I head for her snack, and turn the internet on after giving it to her. “Can I watch Fresh Beat Band?”

“Yep, which one?” I find what she wants, and go to sit in front of the laptop. I’m working on the second prompt for this week. I read what I have so far and make a few changes. A look at her shows me that a bomb in the house wouldn’t draw her eyes away from the tv. While she is content on the couch, I start the laundry, edit my paper some more, finish reading the newspaper from this morning, and start pulling things out for our supper. Fresh carrots are a favorite of Mackenzie’s, so I peel and cut them up and add water to the pot, knowing I need to start them early so they will have time to cook. I set the pot on the back burner of my flat top range. I must remember to start them in about ten minutes.

By now Mackenzie’s show is over, and she’s by the toy box with her dolls, puzzles, and make-up. “Gram, will you help me with my puzzle?”

“Just a minute. I have to finish my schoolwork. Then I will.”

I dart to the kitchen and turn on the burner to start the carrots cooking.

I add a little bit more to my prompt, hit save, and close the computer.

“What do you want to do?” I ask her.

“Sit down and I’ll do make-up on you.”

“Okay,” I say as I sit on the floor beside her.

As I sit there, she puts face powder and lipstick on me, and I do the same for her. After about ten minutes, I tell her, “Grammie has to get up now. Her legs hurt.”

I climbed up off the floor and instantly smelled smoke. One look around the corner and into the kitchen told me that something wasn’t right. Smoke! I ran to the kitchen, coughing and gagging. I frantically waved my hands in front of my face, trying to breath clean air. The room is filled with smoke. The smell is like I have never smelled before. Oh, God, stay in the living room, Mackenzie! Something’s smoking on the stove! A potholder! Why was that there? Cough, cough. I grabbed the one corner that hadn’t turned black and threw it into the sink. The water I put on it made it smoke more. A look at the stove, where the carrots were suppose to be cooking, tells me that I turned on the wrong burner in my hurrying, and the pot holder was on top of the one I had turned on. As I coughed and tried to clear my throat of the smell, I yelled to Mackenzie to stay in the living room. I ran to the back door and threw it open, letting in the cold winter air. I then opened up the front door to help circulate the air. The ceiling fans helped to move the smoke in the kitchen, the smoke that was thick and burning in my throat. I continue to cough and clear my throat while keeping Mackenzie in the living room so she isn’t exposed directly to the smoke. With the doors wide open, and fans whirling overhead, I turned up the furnace to ward off the cold, and then turned the correct burner on so the carrots will cook.

Week 9 Theme - Linked vignettes

The sun was shining on the wedding party as people gave congratulations to the happy couple. Andrea and Jason stood on the grass, holding their two month old daughter. Andrea’s cousin commented on the baby’s nice complexion. “She must have skin like her dad’s.” Before leaving for the hall, Andrea’s Aunt Becky approached them to see the little girl. There was the usual “she’s so cute!” and “she’s getting big.” Becky later said to me “something’s not right with her color.”

****

When I walked into my kitchen, they were huddled together, cuddling their baby closely, and crying. “What’s wrong?!” I asked.

“There’s a message on the machine. We have to take her to EMMC right now.”

*****

I pulled my car up the pump, in hopes that someone would take pity on me and pump gas into my car. I pretended to know what I was doing, but the young man noticed my stupidity, and helped me. After thanking him, I asked him how to drive to Boston. He laughed at me, in a nice way. “Straight shot through,” he said. “Going to visit someone?” “No, I’m headed to Mass. General.”

****

He held the back of the johnny together with his hand as he crawled onto the gurney. The orderly covered him with a white sheet. His wife bent over him while they cried and hugged. I squeezed his hand. Tears filled my eyes. “See ya in a while,” he said as the bed was pushed away.

****

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when I am blue. You never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” The song keeps playing in my head as I listen to the washing machine agitate. Tears come with the song, every time. I stare out at the city spreading as far as I can see from ten stories up. Trees are bare. Things look so gloomy, just like I feel. After the laundry is done, I headed back to the PICU.

****

“What do you hope for Jordyn?” the reporter asked me.

“I hope that someday she’ll walk, and that her hearing and vision will be okay.”

The child on the floor couldn’t sit up yet, so she lay there looking at the toy beside her. “I hope she’ll learn to talk. Be normal.” My voice cracked with sadness. I didn’t look at the camera that was taping me.

“Why are you staying with her?” she asked.

“Because her father had to be rushed back to Boston.”

****

The teachers stood in the classroom doors and watched, as did I. Jordyn was wobbling down the hallway, unassisted, with her aide right beside her, ready to catch her if she faltered. Her steps were not smooth and graceful, but she was doing it. “She’s doing so good!” “She’s made such progress!” they exclaimed. I just stood and watched her, and let the tears flow.

Week 8 Theme ---- vignette

We got three feet inside the door and stopped, now the last in a very long line. The four year old with us wants to know why we stopped. We have to wait our turn, we tell her, like at a restaurant. It’s hard to hold back my tears as I think of why all these people are here. Minutes later we reach the welcome table and hand over our donation. I scribble a quick note in the well-wishes book. I hope to see the little girl, but the note says doctors advised against her being here tonight.

Inside, the room is full of family and friends. I see a woman I know who has gotten her hair back after her treatments – a woman I know who is losing hers because of her treatments – and people who just want to help. A walk to the back of the hall unknowingly leads me in the direction of the little girls mother. She talks with those who have come here tonight. My arms want to hug her, give her encouragement regarding this whole ordeal, but I know my tears will come and I will look like a fool. I know what’s ahead for her child, her entire family. I pray the ending results are not the same. I walk past her. I can’t speak to her right now.

People purchase tickets and write their names on them, hoping to be a winner. The D.J. asks people who have eaten to please give up their seats so others can eat. The child’s grandfather takes the mike and speaks to the crowd. He thanks everyone for coming, and praises the support of our small town and surrounding communities. As he speaks of his grandchild, his voice quivers, he wipes his eyes. I wipe my eyes. The crowd claps politely when he finishes.

Jordyn and her family are here. They’re here to support this family. Eleven years ago this same community supported them.

People eat, talk, and show their support. When we leave, the room is still full, and people are still lined up just inside the door.

Week 7 Theme - Character

He’s the only boy out of six children. There’s only eleven months between us (no, we weren’t Catholic) so we’re close to each other. He’s easy going, and likes to have fun. His small nieces and nephews call him Uncle Clifford the Teaser. He can take a sober faced kid and tease them so badly they have to laugh. When my daughter was little he would tickle her ‘til she had tears in her eyes – good tears. My granddaughter, who is four, runs and hides from him when she sees him coming. She knows he’ll tease and tickle her. It’s just the way he is with little kids.

He’s had reason in his life not to be so jovial. He’s a cancer survivor. The word cancer is enough to make someone less than happy. He went through the chemo, the hair lose bit, the stays in the hospital. Maybe that’s why he looks at life like he does. “Enjoy it. Laugh and have fun. It could be worse.”

He called me the other night, quite unexpectedly. I didn’t really have time to talk to him. He started with, “I had a colonoscopy today.” “Okay” I responded. Like I want to hear about this. “The doctor said it didn’t look good,” he said.

Here I must say that I take everything seriously. My chest heaved. I sat on the bed to listen. I thought to myself, Shit . I don’t want to hear this. I can’t lose another family member. I wasn’t sure what to say. Knowing Clifford, him being a wise guy, I slowly asked, “What do you mean?” He chuckled. I had the feeling I’d been had. Cautiously I asked, “Inside or out?” Another chuckle. I am such an easy target. “Outside,” he said. “He said he’d never seen an ass that looked as bad as mine.” He’s laughing hard now. “You bastard. You ass hole.” I’m not laughing. He still is. I’m still fuming, trying to find the humor in this. I’ll get him, I say to myself. I started to cry like I was really upset, thinking he had bad news. I made him feel like a smuck for playing that shitty joke. He quickly got serious and apologized, several times, for upsetting me.

The more I think about it, the funnier it gets, and I’m sure the next time my siblings and I are all together we’ll laugh about it. I realize that this is just how Clifford is. That’s his way. He finds the humor in things, and hopes others will too. He has a good time and wants others to too. He’s a very likable person, he has a big heart, and I love him, but sometimes he’s such a pain in the ass.

Week 6 Theme - place

(Names have been changed)

My sneakers squeak with each step as I walked down the hall. They’re still wet from the dusting of snow last night. The lights are on in the room. As I enter I see that some mail did not leave the night before. Some didn’t get put in its proper slots either. They’re reminded repeatedly to take their papers home, but they still forget. I catch some throwing their papers away. “Your parents would like to see those.” “They just throw them away.”

Eddie’s nametag is falling off. Luckily, that’s all that’s falling off. The mailboxes are just cardboard, and have been in this same place for years, just below the chart with names and bus numbers on it, right beside the door.

I sneak a quick look in the mirror to the right, and with two steps more I make sure the large, old Macs are turned on. Most days they sit idle unless I use one to check my email. The room is quiet, and the computers produce a low hum. Earphones sit waiting to be used by the little ones. The blue table in the front of the room is covered with chairs and book boxes. Pencils sit waiting in the plastic cup to be borrowed, half of which have been chewed and/or are missing erasers. These are the ones they should keep, not just borrow. I cross the room and open the curtains, throw up the shades. No sun yet, but by one o’clock the shades will be drawn again, to keep the sun from the eyes of children. Mittens hang with clothespins from the rope hung along the heater to dry them after playing in the snow at recess. They were told to take them home. Sometimes it’s like being a mother to fourteen kids. They don’t listen.

The large desk in the corner holds a water bottle and laptop. She’s here, but not here in the room. I notice the chairs at the 14 desks haven’t been put down. I do it for the kids. Blue chairs, green chairs, plastic chairs, wooden chairs, tall chairs, short chairs. All kinds of chairs to fit all kinds of kids. How many of them will be out today? I think a lot of them come each day because they’re made to. (Ex: Little Johnny says he threw up before coming to school. Why didn’t you stay home? Mom said to go to school. Thanks mom. I’d love to catch his germs! Idiot! ) From working here I’ve seen that some of these kids do not have great lives at home. I personally think some come to school to get positive attention, support, and a sense of worth from their teachers. I weave my way through the maze of desks, picking up stray pencils and crayons. My collection grows every day.

The second blue table in the room, tucked in the corner by the reading books, holds extra materials I use during the day. The math facts that Mary practices with me sit in the baggie. The container of fake money waits for her to count. I’d like to think I’m making a difference with her, giving her the extra support she needs to learn her facts, to recognize and count money. I like giving her extra attention, extra help. She ask to work with me, and that makes me feel good. She tries so hard for me.

The double door to the next classroom is open, but the teacher isn’t sitting at her desk. I go back to the bookshelves by my table. These shelves hold books for beginning readers all the way to readers who can read and understand hard chapter books. Today I look to find a book that is challenging for my group, but also one that will hold their attention. I think back to the Sally, Dick and Jane books from my early school years. None of those books in this bookshelf.

The ten foot long bookcase at the front of the room extends from the wall to the middle of the room like an arm. It’s loaded with “sharing” books. Children borrow as they wish. Some days it resembles the playroom of a nursery school. Books lain on top, books on the floor. It’s times like these that the room occupants get a lesson in cleaning up their messes. Since children read at different levels, they each have their own book box that contains books they have mastered. These boxes sit on top of the bookcase, along with containers of crayons, glue sticks, scissors and markers. Most of the colorful markers are missing. They’re probably in someone’s desk.

The paper is coming off the backside of the bookcase because kids lean against it and rip it. It’s purpose there was to make it look better but now it looks like crap. Another reminder of kids in the room. Reminder to me… replace the paper later today.

Every classroom has a chalkboard, and this one, at the front of the room, is older than dirt. It’s green and covers three fourths of the front wall. I use the white chalk to write the date and today’s special. Today is Wednesday and it’s music day with Mr. West. The students have new recorders and he’s teaching them to play them. They’re trying hard. (Note to self…leave the room at music time!) A box of puffs tissues sit near the chalkboard. Not for nose blowing, but for wiping the board clean. Much better than the old time eraser. Puffs makes the board look like it has just been washed. Someone must be getting rich for thinking of this. It isn’t me.

A quick scan of the room tells me that the room is ready for the day to begin. Everything is in place, and I’m ready. The bell rings. My day begins.