Amelia Island...Beginning and Ending and Beginning Again

I am here on this island, Amelia they call it. Fernandina Beach, northern Florida, on the coast that lies next to Jacksonville. It is the third day of a 6 day vacation after a long, hard winter, a semester that wouldn't quite end and the death of a much loved pet who refused to close his eyes, even after the angels started singing to him.
Four days ago I was in my office (aka Zach's bedroom)with Little Guy on my lap wrapped tightly in a towel while I tried to carefully input grades for my 244 students on a drop-down menu saying the names I could pronounce outloud and asking Little Guy for approval on each grade I assigned. I want all my students to know that they are "A" people but maybe didn't quite give it that college try to receive an "A" in my class. Maybe they're going the George W. route by aiming for a C, but not everybody wants to be president or deserves to be.
Hmm, not going there.
So we left Buffalo after a 3 PM euthanasia and 7 PM funeral on Friday, our little old cat, (20 to be exact)buried in our backyard behind the shed with our three other cats, the kids in the soccer field behind us never stopping to notice; the laundry basket with our recently "Dead Guy", the shovel, Greg digging the hole deep. An ending, a beginning.
And now I am in the sand, my writing room a gazebo across from our hotel (Amelia Hotel at the Beach) quite lovely with seagrass on what Florida calls a  partly cloudy day which means there are no clouds over the ocean and a few piling up in the distance to the west.I've never been to Amelia Island before and today we are leaving after having done all that we nature-loving tourists love to do.
Woke up before dawn to watch two sunrises...

Went down to the Harbor on the other side of the island for sunset...

 and spent some hours at Fort Clinch State Park where we stopped along the canopy road at Egans Creek, stared across the quiet lowland marsh...

and turned our heads around and a few degrees upward to marvel at the Spanish moss hanging from live oaks (an epiphyte I learned from a sign on another trail).

We walked down a a half mile fishing pier, hiked around Willow Pond, a shady trail that promised alligators but did not deliver (do mudprints count?), stopped at the Visitor Center for the Fort but did not choose to go in because it was sunny and hot in mid-afternoon. Did I mention that we're in Florida? And for the $6 admission price per car, Fort Clinch State Park is more than worth it!
So now we're on to our next destination, St. Augustine, Vilano Beach, getting further away from the grades and students and kitty lying peacefully in the ground. On to more sunrises, sunsets, and whatever lies ahead in the vast unknown of travel.
Hello world. We are here to notice you.

T.V. and Turkey...What Dreams May Come

Last night I dreamt of a turkey sandwich. Not even a sandwich really, but a turkey loaf sitting on a piece of tin foil with a knife held midair waiting to be cut. Did I just personify a turkey loaf? Is this my version of “Hell’s Kitchen” meets “Games of Thrones”? Then a loud noise occurred, waking me up at 8:40. I think it was a garbage truck or a direwolf on steroids. It was then that I realized, I need to upgrade my subconscious, or get out of bed and eat lean meats.

I put on my usual winter stay-at-home outfit; leggings, wool sweater, and white, or let’s say grayish-white, socks. Let’s pretend that my hair flopped every which way on top of my head and tangled into a knot in back is sexy and not brush it. I did brush my teeth while looking in the mirror thinking, Yes, Emma Stone will look exactly like this in the morning… 30 years from now.

If I were going out into the 0 degree, -30 below windchill, I would’ve put on at least one more pair of pants and two more sweaters, my fashion statement being, “I AM WARM!” and don’t care if I look ten pounds heavier by wearing ten extra pounds of clothing on my body in the winter in an effort to not freeze to death. As a courtesy I would also brush my hair then put a hat on so that when I take said hat off, my hair looks exactly like it did before I brushed it…with static. Better to stay in, with coffee.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Florida lately; ocean beaches, white sand, pale blue horizon that stretches out forever. That kind of thing. My first day of teaching classes this semester, I reached into my backpack pocket for a pen and pulled out a seashell instead. It was quite a lovely surprise though I’m sure I put it there myself. It may have been there for as long as four years, as the last time I was on a beach was in Jekyll Island, Georgia on a chilly January morning. Greg was out taking pictures. Or maybe it was the beach in St. Augustine, a distant memory that I choose to rekindle, every time I reach for a pen.

This is part of my “make a plan” to not be in Buffalo next winter and I know everyone in the Northeast is trying to come up with the same plan. Fondling a seashell seems like a good start. I’ve also watched all four seasons of “Game of Thrones” in an effort to plot my escape from guarding the wall next year. My life is exactly like “Game of Thrones” without the stabbings, beheadings, or lust for power. It’s just like me in my kitchen trying to open a can of soup last night, only the soup is a, a … dead animal and the stove is a, a…what? Okay, I guess it’s not really that much like my life. I don’t even have a brother to commit incest with or wise dwarf to tell me what to do. Ah well, back to the harsh reality of indoor heating and plumbing, a car instead of a horse, a T.V. that tells you over and over how damn cold it is outside and offers programming that distracts and dismembers and asks you to be a member if you watch PBS. Do I sound exactly like Daenrys Targaryen? I thought so.

CHOOSE YOUR FREEDOM!

I also have a paycheck that allows me to save up and actually do something next winter. That’s where the Internet comes in. So many hours to look on Craigslist and VRBO at the endless possibilities of where I’ll wind up.  I’m thinking something sleepy, maybe an Island. They have such lovely names; Anastasia, Amelia, Gasparilla, Santa Rosa, turkey sandwich. I must be dreaming again.

And where will you all be going? Listen to the seashell. It will tell you where to go.

The Shadows of Streetlamps

I am not a fan of winter. I’ve probably made this clear in other blog posts, but I think it bears repeating. Every winter morning I wake up in Buffalo to a snow covered lawn that resembles a graveyard of tree limbs, I ask myself, why am I still here? And when I get off a plane from some warm place in mid-January, (say California, or Austin, Texas recently) I’m stunned and saddened by the knowledge that I have once again failed to figure out how to make a living, just for a few months, in a place that doesn’t force me to go out when the temperature dips below freezing. Way, way, below. Like 2 the other morning.

But aside from the weather, I am feeling pretty fortunate to be turning 58 and starting a new job doing something I love as an Artist in Residence at Women and Children’s Hospital. I am employed by the Arts in Healthcare Program sponsored through UB’s Center for the Arts which means I get to spend a few hours a week engaging patient-artists and their families in the creative process. By patient-artists, I mean anyone who’s willing and feels up to doing something that engages the imagination and that includes a lot of people. I’ve worked in arts education for years, but never in a hospital and I must admit I wondered at first if this was the right place for me to be working.

In all likelihood, you and almost everyone else, hate being in hospitals. Visiting one meant that someone was ill, or you were ill and in crisis and needed to enter an institution that would take away all your rights, expose you to life-threatening super-viruses and not let you leave until you’d wracked up a bill so big that it would swallow your entire life savings, your house, your car, and any stray cans of soup you had stored in the basement for emergencies. But that’s not how I feel anymore. Being in a hospital to serve others is an absolute privilege and as soon as I walk through those doors, frozen or not, I want to be able to let go of any hateful thoughts about the weather or other baggage that may be sticking to my boots or lining my coat pockets so I can give to those I’m working with, who may be feeling a lot of anxiety about where they are and what’s happening in their lives, my absolute best. Relaxed and comfortable me, which after a 45 minute drive through ugly, annoying city traffic is not always easy.

Yes, I hate winter and I hate my ride to the hospital which includes driving on the expressway in heavy traffic, piles of lumpy snow black with exhaust, cars caked with salt so thick you can barely guess their color, and motorists in every direction making decisions I don’t quite understand. Stopping, starting, pulling in front of me, speeding around me, making me feel like a befuddled and very old person who shouldn’t be driving herself anywhere.

So I decided I would try and find things along the way that were…how do I say this? Beautiful. Yes, I think that describes it. And it all came together quite naturally when I approached the Deerfield Street overpass and saw on this ugly morning the shadow of streetlamps across the concrete above me, their curved silhouettes mirroring the arch of the bridge both unassuming and elegant. It made me want to pause and take a picture or at least write it down but I was speeding along and just needed to remember. Then I saw the billboard that I’d noticed many times before. The one for United Men’s Store which shows large headshots of two black men smiling, one in a fedora and the other in a newsboy cap with the caption above them, “Number 1 in Hats.” I smiled too, thinking, I really like that sign!” Then when I exited the Kensington and went on to Delaware Ave, I noticed the word, “kiss” in the Kissling LLC sign, the shape of a heart on the Cardiology Building and bam, I was there at the hospital, filled with positive images, and feeling quite lucky to have seen these things along the way.

It’s not hard to find beauty once I’m in the hospital and see the gorgeous faces of the children I work with and the nurses and other healthcare providers who are absolutely radiant in their roles as caregivers. I’ve never had the pleasure of cooperating with such lovely women (mostly) who share a common goal with the other artists and me of making the children receiving various treatments as comfortable as they possibly can be under the circumstances. And in the artists’ case, we also get to make them feel creative and empowered because they can choose to make something; a story, poem, painting, whatever, that screams loudly and clearly of their individuality beyond their label of illness.

I hate that I can’t make all the children well, or make the winter go away, or even better, fly over the city on a mythical dragon that breathes down warmth and eradicates disease. But at 58 there are still some things that I am very capable of doing and as long as that’s the case, I will drive to wherever I need to be, noticing the subtle and profound beauty that if I choose to see it, is always there to transport me.

When Writing is Impossible…or How to Dress for Oprah

Greg, who does not know how to dress for Oprah

            It’s a New Year. It’s been awhile and I must admit this is my second attempt at writing a blog post since the New Year began. My first one had a similar title but a different ending, as in no ending. The middle was also different but I haven’t written the middle or end of this yet, so how would I know? So let me get down to business and tell you some other lies.

            Writing is hard. If anyone tells you that it’s not, tell them they’re an idiot and then sit down and write a 600 word essay about why you just called them that. And then publish it somewhere and pat yourself on the back, gently, knowing you’ve done some excellent writing that day.

            Damn! The wind is blowing. Now that’s the truth. It’s 8 degrees here in Buffalo and I’m getting ready to leave for California tomorrow morning. It’s the only appropriate thing to do when the weather starts behaving badly. That’s how I’m seeing it, like a naughty child that needs to be abandoned. I’ll come back in ten days when that kid has learned to mind its manners. Mid-January…that will be so much better.

            I know I’m lucky to be able to leave at all and what I’m going to be doing is really cool which is going to see my son, Zach, speak at Claremont Lincoln University in an evening called, “Uncomfortable Conversations,” a January Summit which has to do with Communication about sensitive subjects, like religion, disability, any kind of diversity.

 Zach will be interviewing Rainn Wilson, Rainn will be interviewing Zach, and if you don’t know who Rainn is, think about that goofy guy with the glasses on “The Office,” or Arthur, on “Six Feet Under.” That guy. He also has a show called “Metaphysical Milkshake” on the network he founded called “Soul Pancake” where Zach hosted “Have a Little Faith,” an Interfaith show, so it all makes sense.

The evening requires “cocktail attire” which I don’t think applies to the pajama pants and fuzzy sweater I’m rocking right now. In fact, nothing much in my closet really falls into that category. My work as an adjunct, substitute teacher, and now, hospital worker, does not really allow for me to dress-up much and I hate going shopping but I did buy this one dress a couple years ago. At my favorite couture boutique aka consignment store. I know that grosses some people out but I love wearing second-hand clothes! They have so much more character than stuff you can buy new and this dress is a Liz Claiborne which I could never afford. I didn’t know where I would wear it but I got it just in case an occasion like this arose.

It’s very Stevie Nicks and I’d love to say I put in a huge bid on E-Bay for it and it was an actual dress that she wore during her Fleetwood Mac days, but…I can’t even tell you the price. It’s too cheap (like 6 cents) and Zach would be mortified. I’m counting on Zach not to read my blog because he usually doesn’t but if you know Zach…shh, keep it under wraps, at least until Saturday.

I bought new clothes when I knew, or at least suspected, I’d be meeting Oprah. It was at the end of Zach’s filming of “Your Own Show” when I received a call from a producer saying they were flying me out to California for the finale. I hadn’t spoken to Zach in a few weeks because it was a reality show and part of the deal was to have no contact with family members. After I asked the obvious, is he a finalist, the very next question was, what do I wear? The response was pretty vague and I couldn’t ask anyone for help because I had to keep the fact that I was going a secret, another oddity about attending reality show finales.

So I took a trip to Kohl’s (they were the sponsors of the show) and bought myself a casual knit skirt and close fitting purple blouse. Conservative, not too flashy. Where I went wrong was with the shoes and not because they had ten inch heels and I can barely walk in sneakers, but because they were new and hurt my feet. So when I walk out on stage, it looks a little like I also might be in need of a wheelchair. If you want to see my big moment on T.V., here’s the link: http://www.oprah.com/own-your-own-show/And-The-Winner-of-Your-OWN-Show-IsIf you watched you can see my hair looks great (and it never does) because hair and make-up people actually made me look okay. I doubt they’ll be around this Friday.

But I know this Friday night, just like that day when I met Oprah, I don’t really have to worry about what I’m wearing or how my hair looks because all eyes will be on Zach and Rainn. And because they have good fashion sense, they’ll both look fantastic!

Gone Girl Not the Movie

*Grandpa Hodge (James) and me at Niagara Falls

I’m sitting in Santora’s restaurant by the UB North campus and it’s all TV screens and loudness at 7:30 on a Saturday. Greg and I have landed here after a failed attempt to see “Gone Girl” at the Maple Ridge movie complex. We didn’t get busted for the bags of popcorn we tried to smuggle in under our coats, but instead were told that the only seats available together would be in the front row, which at $12.50 a pop, what would be the point? Do we really have to buy seats online in advance for $3 more to watch a movie in the theatre these days? Of course, this one has swanky reclining seats, but still. No wonder we wait until they come out on DVD or stream them on Netflix.

            So here we are at Santora’s feeling a little grumpy amidst the beer and chicken wings when the room empties out a little and we see this magnificent couple enter and sit down a few tables away from us. They are so stunning that I literally cannot look away, as if Kate and William have just arrived in a motorcade with paparazzi snapping pictures behind them. Here in our midst is a little blonde girl about six wearing a sparkly headband and sparkly sweater to match. Her movements are graceful and light, her presence both grounded and ethereal. She smiles sweetly at her companion, a man in his seventies with tousled grey hair and glasses, who smiles back leaning in to speak to her softly. It’s an intimate encounter that we strangers bear witness to, so much love radiating between this lovely pair. And yet it feels familiar and somewhat personal. Am I really seeing strangers here or visitors from my past and future selves? Is this little blondie a perplexing vision of a gone girl who used to be…me?

I have been lucky enough to know all my grandparents and as I’ve written about before, my maternal grandfather was a big fan of my sister and me, bowing to our every whim. He took us on “dates” like the one I’m witnessing, hung on our every word and delighted in our smallest achievements. My paternal grandfather lived in South Carolina so we didn’t get to see him as much, but when we did it was the same kind of love fest. He would do crazy southern things, like let us sit on his lap and drive his car, and give us gifts of dyed baby chicks at Easter. In my mind he was as tall as Abraham Lincoln and I loved when he carried me around so I could see things from up high like he did.

My grandmothers were equally indulgent in their own ways. Gammy would sit on her porch doing paint by numbers with us then take us out for lunch and order us kiddie cocktails so we could follow in her footsteps as alcoholics. Grandma Hodge would make pajamas and beds for our dolls to match our own. She would spend her last pennies to buy us candy and when we got older, drive around Sumter like a maniac pointing out and honking her horn at all the cute guys she’d picked out for us.

We all love our children unconditionally, but with the added burden of making them into responsible, loving human beings which requires guidance that sometimes feels like judgment. Grandparents don’t have to do that. They are free to love recklessly, indeed spoil us, when all they expect and long for in return is our presence to receive their unbridled affection and adoration. We are their futures and we hold so much hope for them.

When I visited the Spiritualist Community, Lilydale, a few years ago with my friend, Tim, we sat outside where practicing mediums chose people from the group assembled to give them their messages from beyond. I was chosen twice. Both times they were from an older gentleman named James (my paternal grandfather) offering vague assurances and guidance about important life decisions I was dealing with at that time. While not a complete skeptic, I am leery of the idea that my southern grandfather, who died when I was still a child, would be hanging around in New York state waiting for me to show up at Lilydale this first time and make contact. But I was deeply touched by the thought that though over fifty years had passed since we were together on Earth that there was still some connection. That somehow Grandpa Hodge had managed to continue seeing me as I grew into an adult and made himself known so he could offer his advice…twice.

The holidays are hard for a lot people because so many have passed on to whatever or wherever your beliefs make sense of what happens after death. I am uncertain of what this is but what I know right now is that distance, time, and even death don’t separate us from those with whom we are deeply connected. The love continues and we are never gone to each other.

***

*Photo sent by Aunt Peggy. Thank you!

Waiting out the Solstice

         November and December are the darkest months in Buffalo. The leaves are gone, the sky is deep grey and just like everywhere else in the Western Hemisphere, the days keep getting shorter and shorter. If it wasn’t for things like work and needing to eat, I probably wouldn’t bother getting out of bed. But here I am, suffering until the solstice, wondering how on Earth I will get through these next three weeks without sinking into a deep and miserable depression.

         One of the ways I've gotten around this is by scheduling all my preventative care medical appointments which forces me to get out of the house and interact with people who are being paid to show concern for my well-being. There’s so many things on me that are falling apart or need checking; my eyes, my boobs, my thyroid, my teeth, all showing the wear and tear of aging. Now that’s something to get excited about.

         My dental hygienist is so young and adorable and tells me with such sweetness that if I don’t start flossing more regularly my teeth will likely fall out of my head. Then she compliments my smile and apologizes for scaring me. It’s the perfect love/scare, guilt/redemption relationship. When I tell her that she makes my dental experience a little less terrible, she says I should write an online review for the office, but maybe not use the words terrible or torture when I describe my visit. They are very aggressive about soliciting these reviews but who actually finds dentistry the least bit pleasant? I walk out with a new toothbrush, a tiny bottle of mouthwash, equally tiny box of floss and the slightest hope that my next periodontal exam will yield 2’s and 3’s, not 4’s like this last one.

                    I also joined a gym. Yeah, I did that, which only shows exactly how unstable I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve joined gyms before. It didn’t work out or let’s say more accurately, I didn’t work out. I mean, I did for awhile but then I’d have a headache or be too tired and then I’d just stop going, like it never even happened. My commitment was over but of course, I kept paying and paying until finally they let me out of the contract.

           But this time it only cost $10 and the membership lasts until December 31^st  unless they can get me to sign up for longer and then it will cost considerably more. But I’ll have to go to the gym for them to convince me of how worthwhile it is and I have no intention of going. I know I should be getting in shape or losing weight, getting some cardio…whatever. Aren’t we all supposed to be obsessed with that? And I heard exercise helps with depression, if you actually do it. Endorphin release, it’s supposed to be great!

             And everyone loves a bargain. What else can you get for $10 these days? Nothing! Which is exactly what I’ll get unless I get off my moderately fat butt and use the equipment at the gym that I paid for with my $10.
            Maybe I should have bought a sandwich. I enjoy sandwiches but they do make you fat. But at least you have something to show from having eaten them. An actual encounter, unlike the gym that sits a few blocks away and is calling my name. Or not calling my name. Maybe I should just put on headphones.

                 It’s eleven A.M. The slick black branches outside my window sway eerily sending tiny drops to the driveway. The wind shivers splashes into puddles. It’s a monochromatic scene, except for the grass no longer draped in snow. The rain pours down harder tilting slightly to the left. Stillness and movement in perfect alignment.

         Inside the candles flicker. The furnace roars from the basement. I stretch out my legs, unfurl my fingers from my fist, rest my chin on my wrist. The dark days will be over soon. The dark days will be over.

Three Decades of Fun with Zach

The dashing, young Zach Anner

My son, Zach, is turning thirty today and that’s a pretty significant number. One of the ones where you sit back and assess where you’ve gotten to thus far, how your accomplishments match up to the rest of the world’s and where you still need to go. No pressure, just evaluate and judge yourself and figure out how you’re going to improve on things for the next thirty or so years.

I’m the mom, not the judge, so if all Zach had done and was going to do is sit and smile and laugh his infectious laugh, I’d be really fine with that, as long as it met his standards for happiness and fulfillment. But the person I gave birth to had plans and dreams and has already accomplished quite a bit for a person his age, or any age, for that matter, so let's go back to the beginning and retrace our steps.

It all started on a cool November 17^th evening in 1984 when I was home with my 19 month old son, Aarau, and started to feel a little back pain. I was seven months pregnant with an unknown alien in my womb who decided it would be fun to come out and get this party started two months early. The alien would later be known as “Zach,” and when he was unceremoniously plopped on my belly after three hours of hard labor, (I know, only three, but it hurt!) he lifted his little head and looked around, surveying the doors and windows, plotting his next move after realizing his escape to this cold, light-drenched world had only landed him a few feet from his previous surroundings. This was his first attempt to get away from me. It did not work.

 He was put in a box. I think they called it an incubator, an especially small prison for babies planning to crawl out of the hospital when no one’s looking and have underdeveloped lungs because of their premature births. Weighing in at a whopping 3 pounds, 7 ounces, Zach needed to be maintained in an artificial womb after abandoning the real one, where he could get fat and develop like he would’ve if he’d done the right thing and been born a little later. Now he had a heart monitor, tubes and needles sticking everywhere and little bruises from blood oxygen tests. I wasn’t allowed to hold him or feed him, breast milk had to be pumped and frozen, then thawed and delivered through a feeding tube so he wouldn’t lose calories by suckling. A rough beginning by any standards.

After five weeks in the Intensive Care Nursery, he came home with a heart monitor just in time for Christmas, weighing a little under five pounds. He was about the size of a very skinny football and his brother immediately took to him, referring to his heart monitor as “Zachy’s T.V.” and turning it off. So that was his first accomplishment, surviving his premature birth and making it home after a long hospital stay where he could live a normal life with his family.

Not so normal. His first year was filled with failures to meet every developmental milestone imaginable. He also screamed and cried inconsolably for hours on end which I later learned was an indication of neurological damage, (no Internet in ’84) but he had such a charming personality when he wasn’t crying and such apparent language abilities (I think he was putting sentences together by the time he was one) that we were able to live in comfortable denial that everything was okay and he was just “catching up” until he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy at fourteen months.

Fast forward to 29 years later.

A lot has happened since that diagnosis. I think Zach’s first sentence was “I want to be independent” and he’s done a lot to make that happen. He attended college in Buffalo until he escaped to The Disney College Program for a semester in Orlando, first time away from home, broken wheelchairs, hurricanes, every bad and good thing imaginable. He then went to Austin, Texas, knowing absolutely no one, and attended film school where he met friends who produced comedy shows and webseries with him. He then posted his famous audition video and went on a reality show (Your Own Show) and won his own show from Oprah (Rollin’ with Zach). When that show was canceled, he immediately hosted another show (Riding Shotgun) where he traveled across the country using suggestions and meeting people from the Reddit community along the way. He then moved to Los Angeles for a year where he filmed with Soul Pancake (Have a Little Faith) and his own youtube series, (Workout Wednesdays). And along the way he made more friends, had great adventures, and inspired people to lead better lives.

I’ve had the privilege of watching Zach address hundreds of people in cities throughout the country where he makes them laugh and makes them think. He doesn’t have to say much about what having a disability is like because his advocacy is his life. He shows through his humor that using a wheelchair and not being able to walk is not a big thing for him. It’s just one of the many things that can be a struggle and has very little to do with who he is as a person. But I don’t have to tell you about that because he’s writing his own book which will be published next year (If at Birth You Don't Succeed...) and you can see it for yourself when you watch his youtube videos.

He’s doing what we all want to do, using his life to inspire others, changing perceptions through example, and living his dreams by having meaningful work. And building great relationships, being creative and doing what he loves to do most, making people laugh.

Zach is turning thirty today and I won’t be at his birthday party because he’ll be in Austin with friends (and his brother) at The Alamo Draft House screening the long-awaited completion of their mockumentary webseries, "The Wingmen." His girlfriend will be baking him a cake. There’s a lot to celebrate.

Happy Birthday, Zach! I hope I get to stick around to see what the next 30 years hold for you. I can’t wait to see what you do next!