Adeline

Here is this week's writing assignment. A departure from Laverne for now. Adeline is a character I've been wanting to write about for a while and she fit perfectly with what we were asked to do this week.

Incense filled the sanctuary with its smoke and smell, leaving a haze as it dissipated into the rafters. Adeline took a deep breath and closed her eyes as the pipe organ pumped out generic classical music. She sat in the middle of the church, at the very end of a pew by the center aisle. It was a neutral spot. She could be invisible there. She was far enough back so as not to be family, not a close friend. She could be a coworker or an old college roommate. Close enough, though, that she could see the family, could see the deceased’s wife and children, could hear their sobs. With her eyes still closed Adeline rubbed her thumb back and forth over the embossed letters of the bulletin’s front page. Peter George. The name meant nothing to her. The picture on the back of the bulletin was of a face she’d never seen. But just as she soaked in the smell of the incense and the sound of the organ Adeline soaked in the grieving widow’s sobs, the wracking shoulders of her two daughters.

~

Which, of course, was why she was now sitting in a circle, on one of the 2 dozen cold, metal folding chairs that are the trademark of all church basements, listening to the Emotions Anonymous facilitator, Rachel, invite anyone who wished to share about their week. People shifted in their chairs and avoided making eye contact with Rachel. Adeline stared at the dull and scuffed linoleum that stretched out around her feet in seemingly endless monotony. The fluorescent lights that sat in giant rectangles in the low ceiling flickered occasionally. She wasn’t convinced she belonged in these meetings and was determined not to volunteer to speak. She sipped her coffee, trying not to make a face. It was lukewarm and tasteless.

After an older woman told a story about fighting with her son, tears leaking out of her eyes, Rachel turned to the rest of the group. Adeline was still captivated by the woman’s pain when Rachel said her name, “Adeline?” She blinked, her mouth suddenly dry. Hoping she’d heard wrong Adeline slowly looked at Rachel.

“Would you like to share this evening?” Rachel’s cheery, overly understanding smile encouraged her.

Adeline cleared her throat, “Ok,” she agreed miserably, “I hadn’t been to a funeral in over a month. I went to one this week.” It was a slip, a falling off the wagon of sorts.

~

The priest stood, somber in his robes, and the congregation stood with him. There was a hurried rustling of pages as people turned to the right song, racing the organ to get there in time. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound… floated up to the very top of the room, mingling with the smoke from the incense. Adeline held the hymnal, open to a random page, close against her stomach as she watched. All around her were signs of grief and loss. The congregation was a sea of black mourning uniforms, flecked every now and then with the white of a handkerchief. Occasionally a sob would escape from Peter’s wife that rose above the sound of the organ and the people singing. A thin woman with grey hair reached over and put her arms around the widow, Margaret the bulletin called her, holding her close. Adeline watched as Margaret sank into the other woman’s arms. Briefly she closed her eyes and imagined that it was she the woman was hugging and for a moment, just a moment, Adeline felt like she might cry. She chased it, leaned into it, tried to summon the tears. But no, she couldn’t quite reach them. Instead, she opened her eyes and watched other people’s sorrow.

Dreaming of Dollywood - a memory

This week our assignment was to write a memory, the goal being to write as an older, perhaps wiser, narrator looking back. I'm not sure that I've captured Laverne's voice in the following. I think it will need some tweaking. I'm also not sure that this will be a part of whatever this becomes, if it becomes anything, but it was good to get to know Laverne a little bit better anyway.

That night Bernie and I crawled into to bed in the camper, both of us high as kites. Never in my life did I dream I’d do anything like this with Bernie. Never really thought I’d do any drugs myself, matter of fact.

After we settled down I took a deep, calming breath and said something to Bernie I shoulda said a long time ago, “You got a good kid, Bern.”

There was enough light coming through the slits in the blinds that I could see her eyes. Bernie didn’t say anything but she looked straight back at me. It was like she was scared to admit that she knew.

“I mean it, that son of yours is something special. You should stop trying to make him someone different and start loving him for who he is.”

Bernie rolled onto her back, away from me and stared up at the ceiling. For a long time both of us were quiet.

“Do you remember the night I met George?” Bernie asked me, breaking the silence.

Of course I did, only I don’t remember it as the night she met George. I remember it as the night our cousin Tammie got me drunk on bourbon. I remember it as the night Howie and I slept together for the first time. It’s funny how the same night leaves different impressions on people. Mother and Daddy were visiting our grandparents in Pittsburgh and left Tammie in charge. Tammie was 19 and studying to be a stenographer at the local college. Bernie was sweet and innocent at 17. I, on the other hand, was already smoking regularly and drinking whisky sours after school at Tammie’s at 16. We were different as night and day.

After our parent’s car disappeared behind a hill on the long stretch of highway by our house Tammie turned to us, a glint in her eye that could only mean one thing; she had a plan. A thrill went through me at the sight of her expression. I lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. Bernie’s breath came out in a disapproving huff. In that moment there was nothing that irritated me more than Bernie’s huffs. Poor girl was always so good and always trying to make me good too. Problem was, I just never quite felt like being good. It’s like that part of my DNA was missing. At the time, I would have blamed Tammie for corrupting me, but I know that’s not true. We just are who we are, I can’t help it anymore than Bernie can, anymore than Simon and Spencer can.

One thing Tammie could do better than anyone else was throw a party together at the last minute. She rang into the operator and before long half the people under 25 in our town knew to be at our farm that night. The three of us spent the afternoon clearing out the barn. Tammie had it in her head that if we had the party in the barn we would be less likely to get caught. Reluctantly Bernie helped. What got into her that day, I’ll never know, but by the time we were done and everything was ready she seemed almost excited.

I stood in front of the vanity in my room, admiring my reflection. I wore Howie’s letterman jacket over a blue and white polka-dot dress of Tammie’s. She’d even curled my hair and put some of her dark red lipstick on me. I hardly recognized myself. It was one of the only times in my life I felt like a lady, and one of the only times I actually liked it. I imagined the look on Howie’s face when he saw me and blushed a little.

The crowd gathered in the barn. Cars, bikes and motorcycles lined the street and our yard. Music and laughter filtered into the night through open barn windows. People stood in circles or sat on bales of hay. A haze of smoke filled the air. It was warm and inviting. I couldn’t help but grin as Bernie took her first sip of bourbon and spit it out, choking. A group of boys walked into the barn at that moment, among them was George. I know only because Bernie told me later. At the time I was distracted by Howie’s arm around my waist and his breath on my ear as he whispered that we should go up to the barn loft. The mixed smells of cigarettes and dry hay still take me back in time to that night.

It felt dangerous and daring. Below us people were dancing and talking, oblivious to the two of us sneaking the latter up so that no one could follow. Howie led me to a bale of hay and we sat down next to each other. Our nerves were electric between us. Even with the open windows and the hole in the floor letting light and sound into the loft, when Howie leaned in to kiss me he was all that existed for me. My heart beat fast and my breath came shallow. I've seen movies with fireworks and cheering crowds. This wasn’t anything like that. This was quiet and still, like the lake at night or wheat in the breeze.

After, he held me in his arms and told me he loved me. He gave me his class ring as a promise ring. We giggled at what we had done, at our secret, at our boldness. When the barn had emptied of all but a few people we snuck back down, concealing smiles, afraid we’d reveal to the whole world our most intimate moment. Howie kissed me good night and left. I let Tammie fill me with bourbon. I was probably irritating the hell out of her with my giddy energy and the only way to shut me up was to make me drink more. So much more I got sick and swore the stuff off. To this day I won't touch it.

After getting sick I crawled into bed with Bernie. We curled up facing each other much like that night in the trailer. I was only half awake as she murmured she’d met a cute boy at the party. Too tired and drunk and distracted by my own night to care much.

Of course I remember that night. 

Dreaming of Dollywood II

“Simon, put that away!” Jane swatted at Simon’s hand.

“Stop being such a prude, Jane!” Simon pulled away from her and proceeded to lay out an array of objects on the picnic table, “Mama’s asleep, anyway.”

“What in the Sam Hill have you got there?” I squirmed in my seat. I could guess what my nephew was getting ready to do.

Simon looked at me with a world of impatience and exasperation. There was some mischief in his eyes as well. “You said you’d always wanted to try it,” he shrugged.

Spencer laughed.

“You callin’ my bluff?” I asked. I ain’t never backed down from a challenge and I could hardly do so now with my nephew. Pride was at stake.

By way of response he handed me a little, thin white roll. I took it. I’m not ashamed to admit my heart was racing. I felt like a school girl all over again, sneaking cigarettes from Daddy’s desk. Simon’s lighter flared to life and I leaned forward to catch it. I inhaled long and deep. And then. Then I started coughing like my lungs were trying to jump outta my body.

Simon, Jane and Spencer all laughed.

I glared at them while Jane took the joint, glanced toward the trailer where Bernie was sleeping, then took hit, slow and cool, like she’d done it a thousand times. She probably had.

When it came back to me Spencer said, “Take a smaller hit and just let it sit for a minute, then let it out real slow.”

By the time I handed it back to Jane my head was swimming. Not in a bad way, it just felt light. Lighter than my body, which had suddenly become heavy as bricks.

“She’s baked already” Jane laughed.

“Am not,” I tried to snap, only instead I laughed when smoke came out of my mouth as I said the words. Good god, everything was funnier than it should have been.

Simon crept into the camper and came back with a bottle of wine and four plastic cups. He moved like a dancer, prancing from person to person, pouring us wine.

“You sure are faggy, aren’t you?” I asked as he poured my glass.

“You sure are bitchy, aren’t you?” he asked without missing a beat.

I cracked up at that. We all laughed loud and hard for a long time.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I finally said, wiping tears from my eyes.

“Does it bother you?” Spencer asked, “I mean, really, does it bother you that your nephew’s queer?”

A minute ago everything seemed so funny. Now my brain felt thick, my tongue felt like it had become cotton. Simon and Spencer both looked at me, seriously, Simon with a little fear in his eyes. I stared back at them for a long time, figuring out what to say and how to get it out of my foggy head.

Finally I shook my head, “No, not really. We always knew you were who you were. When you were little you insisted on wearing pink and always wanted to go to Jane’s dance classes. Nearly drove your mother crazy. Your dad was steadier, less afraid of what it meant. I guess I just didn’t know what it really meant. Your mom was sad and angry, your dad was cool and quiet. Never seemed like my business.”

Spencer nodded.

“You love to torment Mama about it, though,” Simon said quietly. Jane reached over and squeezed his hand.

I grunted a laugh, “Yeah, well, it was always easy to get under your mama's skin. Guess I liked not being the only one she prayed and fretted over. Whenever she scolded me for not going to church or smoking I’d remind her about her son and that would shut her up.”

“You think I’m the one who’s easy to get under her skin but you’re just the same, Laverne.”

All of us jumped. Spencer spilled his wine and Jane dropped the joint. There was Bernie, in her flannel nightgown and hair curlers, standing on the camper steps.

Jane let out a last puff of smoke, “Hi Mama,” she said, laughing.

Bernie looked at us stunned, as we all started laughing. Things got funny again for a minute. Then Bernie did something none of us expected. She came down from those steps, reached for the joint on the ground, and took a giant puff. She took two giant puffs and sat down on the bench next to Jane. “What?” she asked when we wouldn’t stop staring, our mouths hanging wide open and our eyes fit to pop out of our heads. That got us all laughing again, even Bernie.

Dreaming of Dollywood

This week our assignment was to write as an "unreliable narrator" the way Adam Haslett does in Notes to My Biographer. This is a very rough draft; definitely a work in progress. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it! (And in case you're curious, I did in fact join seniorepeoplemeet.com to make sure the questions were accurate)

The way I see it people got two main problems. First, they think all women should be married, and second, they’re idiots. That’s how I got into this whole mess. My niece surprised me by signing me up on seniorpeoplemeet.com and things just spiraled out of control. The little witch thought it was time for me to “start dating again.” What does she know?  Howie died twelve years ago and I’ve been just fine on my own thank you very much. Besides, all the old men in Winona Lake ever want to do is play shuffleboard or Euchre. Sure, I love a good Euchre game but playing with half-deaf, half-blind ninnies takes all the fun out of it.

For twelve years I’ve been managing the farm and the sawmill, renting some of the land to the neighbor boys and letting my nephews help out at the mill. Even Jane, the one who got me in all this trouble, helps out with payroll. She sees how good things are, how smoothly everything is running. She ought to have known better.

“Laverne, you have got to be careful!” Bernie shouted up at me.  Bernie worries too much for her own good. She grew up to be a church lady just like Mother. I know it just kills her that I ain’t been to church since her grandson’s baptism.  She prays for my soul just as much as she prays for her queer son’s soul. She’s always at those revival meetings down at the rec center, begging and pleading with the Lord that Simon and I will find our ways back to “the flock.”

I looked down my nose at her from the driver’s seat of the RV, “I’ve got two canisters of mace in my bag and I’m about to go pick up Elvis and Dolly. We’ll be fine. I’m not a nancy like that son of yours, I can take care of myself” I threw the RV into reverse and backed out of the lot.

Bernie’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened as I drove away. I lit a cigarette and laughed, the wind blowing on my face harder and harder the faster I drove. There’s nothing like country roads, the way they roll and curve. I pressed on the gas as I went up a particularly high hill and my rear actually left my seat as I went over.  The middle of the RV landed with a crash, though, and the damned thing skidded and veered out of control. I slammed the brakes just in time to stop from completely landing in a ditch.

After the car settled I shook my head. I’d banged into the steering wheel pretty bad. I looked up through the windshield into a field full of cows, eating grass and looking at me like I was crazy. They were cocky sonsofbitches and I glared right back at them until I felt my thigh sting and smelled something burning. My cigarette had fallen out of my mouth and burned a hole in my pants. Cursing, I stuck it back in my mouth and patted my pants and leg, trying to rub the pain out. Stupid RV. Stupid cows. Stupid hills. Stupid online dating site and the old men on it.

I sat back in my seat, after calling Bernie’s husband, George, and thought about those online profiles. Jane filled mine out for me and she was a bit mushy for my taste.

• A little bit about me: I like the outdoors. I’ve played in Bid Euchre tournaments and am looking for a new partner! My collies, Elvis and Dolly, keep good company but things can get lonely on my farm.
• What I’m looking for: A man who’s not afraid to hold his own and voice his opinion. Someone who will take long walks with me through the woods on my land. I’d like someone to make me laugh and cook me dinner sometimes.
• I’d just like to add: I’ve been widowed for 12 years. I loved my husband very much. We had 30 good years together and while I miss him, I’m ready to move on. I own a farm and a sawmill so you need to be able to work along side a strong, capable woman.

Bah! It didn’t sound like me at all! I’ve never said anything so flowery in my life! I would never have filled one of those profiles out for myself but if I did it would have sounded something like this:

• A little bit about me: I work hard. I love Dolly Parton and have traveled all over the US to see her concerts. I don’t have much use for God and spiritual mumbo-jumbo but Elvis Presley’s Gospel music is enough to make me believe in angels.
• What I’m looking for: A hard worker. Someone to smoke and drink a glass or two of whiskey with when the day is done. A straight talker.
• I’d just like to add: I’ve no need for a man who can’t take care of himself. I wasn’t put on this earth to cook and clean for another person.

When I told Jane what I thought it should say she shook her head like she pitied me or something and wouldn’t let me change a thing, wouldn’t even give me the password to log on. Instead, she went through all my mail and sent me the ones she thought were worth looking at. You would not have believed the jokers she started showing me. For a while I thought I’d prove her wrong and she’d let it be. But no, Bernie and her daughter both have the persistent gene and she kept right at it. Eventually it was me that gave in and agreed to e-mail a man named Miles back. I didn’t do it because I was interested in him; I did it to shut her up.

Problem was, he kept e-mailing me back. Turns out we both have a passion for Dolly Parton and Elvis Presley. We figured out that we’ve been to at least 5 of the same Dolly concerts; we even sat in the same section at one of them. Crazy as it sounds we started hitting it off. By the time I landed in the ditch it had been five months of e-mailing and talking on the phone. That man could make me laugh ‘til I thought my side would burst. I never got tired of talking to him. We told each other stupid stuff, like what our days were like and not so stupid stuff like our families and our first marriages.

And so I found myself in an RV George rented to me at a discounted rate, on my way to meet Miles in Dollywood. I’d been avoiding it on principle. Dollywood was for the fans who followed Dolly because she was famous. I had not use for it. But Miles loves Dollywood and wanted to share it with me. I put off replying when he first asked me to meet him there. He thought I was avoiding him because I was scared to meet in person. That had no part of it. I’m a grown-ass woman and have nothing to fear from a silly, sweet older man like Miles.

“I’m going with you and that’s the end of it, Laverne,” Bernie insisted, hands on her hips. “Simon and I will go. We’ll stay out of your way once we’re there but you can’t drive all the way to Tennessee by yourself, you just can’t.”

“I can and I will, Bernie,” We both had a stubborn streak and this was a fight to end all fights.

“You better listen to her, Laverne,” George sat at the kitchen table with his coffee. He didn’t look up from the paper he was reading. “She’s got her heels dug in deep this time.”

It was no use. Before I knew it, Bernie and Simon were packed and loaded into the RV. I sighed and threw my hands in the air. This complicated everything but there was no changing Bernie’s mind. I turned around to get in the driver’s seat and just like that, Jane was standing there in front of me, the biggest grin split her face like a clown.

“And just what do you want?” I demanded.

She held her hand out all innocent like, “The keys, please. I’ll drive for the first leg.”

I tried to peer into a rear window but couldn’t see anything. I’ll say this for George’s guys, they tint a window real good.

“Oh no, no, no,” I just shook my head.

“Aunt Laverne, can you put your cigarette out, please? You’re giving me a splitting headache,” Jane asked as she pulled onto the highway ramp.

“You go on and rest in the back and I’ll drive,” I grumbled. I knew I was acting the fool but I was so mad I could spit.

“Laverne, don’t you know second-hand smoke is just as dangerous as first-hand? You could give us all cancer just by smoking with us in the same car.”

“Serve you right,” was all I said. I rolled down my window and hung my hand outside, pulling it in to take a drag every so often.

I'm not a stalker, I swear

I signed up for a 10 week writing course and tonight was my first class. I was a bit nervous but mostly just excited. The focus of the class is "persona narrator" and we will be asked to "put on" different narrator's voices each week. For our first exercise we were asked to write a letter to our hero, using the voice from Amy Gerstler's poem A Fan Letter. We were given half an hour to complete the assignment. While many of the other students in the class chewed on their pens or pencils trying to decide who to write to I got started before the instructor was done giving all of her directions. It took me no time to decide who to write to. One of my goals in taking this class is to get more comfortable sharing my writing. So, here is my very silly, short letter to my own "literary hero."

Dear Anne, 

May I call you Anne? We haven't yet met but I feel as if I know you already. Anne hardly feels sufficient. Sweet Anne. Wise Anne. Funny Anne. 

Since I was a young girl I have fancied myself a writer. My imagination was always alive with colors and shapes, stories longing to burst out of me. 

In college I read your book. It changed my life. I have read it innumerable times since. I think of my thighs as my "aunties". I imagine the journey of my faith as leaps from one Lilly Pad to another. I pray "Thank you, thank you, thank you" and "Help me, help me, help me," in urgent whispers. 

I must confess that I moved to the Bay Area in anticipation of meeting you. I picture myself strolling on the hill behind your house and suddenly, there you and your dog come bounding over the horizon on one of your daily walks. This is how I imagine we will meet and become friends. 

I know if we did meet we would be fast friends, kindred spirits. Do you feel the same loneliness I do? I am sure our friendship could fill the gaps in our lives, it could complete us, you and I. 

I look forward to your prompt reply.

Your future Bosom Buddy,
Sara

They will know we are Christians by our love?

Tomorrow at All Souls we are going to sing a song called They will know we are Christians by our Love. In our weekly staff meeting this past Wednesday we wondered if this song was self-congratulatory or aspirational. All too quickly we agreed it was aspirational. Not because we aren’t always very loving but because “some” Christians aren’t known for being very loving. What was meant was “those other” Christians aren’t very loving. I left wondering if we were singing a song for ourselves to aspire to or for others to aspire to. Since Wednesday I have continued to think about what it means to truly love others and what I have been painfully reminded of is that I fall short of loving all too often. This song has always been challenging for me, whenever I have sung it (sang it?) I have asked myself if they really will know that I am a Christian because I love. Today, I believe the answer is no. That doesn’t mean that someday it won’t be YES! but right now I know that love is not the first thing people see when they look at me.

I am often impatient and quick to snap. I get impatient with ignorance and self-righteousness (um…hello! pot calling the kettle black much?). I get impatient with people who are too needy, who need too much attention or affirmation (as if I get to decide what “too much” is for anybody!). I get impatient with people who are impatient, who don’t listen to others well, who think they have all the right answers.

I am eager and ready to judge people who believe and do differently than I believe and do. It is all too easy to say that people who voted for “that other guy” are uneducated and selfish. I have to pause and remember that almost exactly half of the country voted for the candidate that I did not vote for. Either this means that yes, half the country are idiots or, perhaps (gasp!) that there is another, legitimate way to think about politics and economics. How can we have open, constructive, respectful conversation to bridge the deep divides in this country if the automatic assumption is that those who voted differently than I did are incapable of self-reflection or complex thought? This goes for other Christians as well. It is easy for me here in Berkeley to feel like I am loving my neighbor because my neighbor thinks and acts and believes like me. There are Christians, though, who believe profoundly different things than I do about God and Jesus, about forgiveness and grace, about Scripture and tradition and prayer. Are they simply hateful and close-minded? How do I love them and enter into thoughtful, humble and loving dialogue with them?

I do not want people to know that I am a Christian by my preaching and proselytizing. Neither do I want people to know that I am a Christian by my lofty theology and progressive ideology. If I want to be known as a Christian by my love I must become more loving. At the summer camp I grew up going to one of my favorite campfire songs went like this: 

Love, love, love, love, Christians this is your call

love your neighbor as yourself for God loves all.

God loves ALL. Not some. Not those like me. Not the rich, the white, the liberal or the conservative. God loves all. And so we are called to love all as well. It is a huge, radical and scary expectation but it is one that I believe is central to living out the Christian faith. The full lyrics to They will know we are Christians by our Love are below. What does it really mean to be one in the Spirit? Are you working to restore all unity? Are you guarding each person's dignity? I invite you to comment below or to think about it on your own or to discuss within your own communities: How can you begin to love more? To love better? To love all?

They will know we are Christians by our Love

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord

And we pray that all unity may one day be restored

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

They will know we are Christians by our love

We will work with each other, we will work side by side

We will work with each other, we will work side by side

And we'll guard each one's dignity and save each one's pride

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

They will know we are Christians by our love

By our love, by our love

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

They will know we are Christians by our love

We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand

We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand

And together we'll spread the news that God is in our land

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

They will know we are Christians by our love

By our love, by our love

And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love

They will know we are Christians by our love