Soapbox

For Byron, and all the other damp people in my life.

Got a lot of desert making up my days,
Too much of my heart is parched and dry
Got a lot of empty in the midnight ways
Not too many reasons, way too many why’s.
Oh, sometimes I get so damn crazy
And my wheels keep on spinning in space
It seems to be that’s when you come to me
Just like an image of Grace.

In that place that exists between love and fear
Where we must meet each new day
Like a burden lifted, like a sorrow broken
The pain can be washed away.
Just knowing that you’re thinking of me
Is a balm when my spirit is dry
And your love in my life is rain in the desert
And gives me new reasons to try.

Rain in the desert, thunder on the mesa,
Life-bringing water for a thirsty, bitter land
Your song in my heart is rain in the desert
Bringing flowers to morning again….
It’s morning again.

The answer then, is hopelessly simple,
Salvation is never hard to find.
It’s only as far as the sound of your voice
Or the touch of your hand on mine.
 Just the way  you smile when you see me
Is the treasure of being your friend.
The tear that you cry is like rain in the desert
And something green’s growing again.

Rain in the desert, storms on the mountain
Cool water flowing where there once was only sand.
Your love in my life is rain in the desert
Bringing flowers to morning again….
It’s morning again

In those moments when your trust is broken
And all the answers fade like the dawn
When you find you’re stranded on rocks and barren sand
And it feels like your faith is almost gone.
When there’s nothing but love to hold onto,
Let this be the moment when
You reach for my hand- let me rain in your desert
And maybe hope will blossom again.

Rain in the desert, thunder on the mesa
Life-giving water for a thirsty, bitter land.
You’re here in my heart- let me rain in the desert
And maybe love will flower again…

Oh, it’s morning again

No school today: snow day.

I remember when snow days used to be so fun! They were pretty few and far between back in the day, when it rarely snowed much in Athens. but once in a while the alarm would go off and I could tell, just from the quality of the light filtering in the window and the hushed sound of passing cars that there was snow on the ground. And on really, really special days, when all the planets were in aligment, the radio would be inn the middle of announcing school closings as it came on, and I wouldn’t even have to get out of bed! I would just roll over and pull the covers higher and smile all the way back to sleep.
I do recall one winter, probably 75 or 76, when we had a pretty heavy snow. They were building the new bypass into Athens, and hundreds of yards of on and off-ramps were built and paved…and not yet opened. Barb Salyer and I dragged our sleds all the way to the highway and spent the day sledding those ramps like they were olympic luge runs. It was excellent! When I got home, I thought I had frostbite in my toes, but it was worth it! That was a snow-day to remember!

But snow days were almost as much fun when the kids were little. I was one of those fortunate mothers who didn’t hear the school closings and think "Crap! Now what am I going to do with the kids?" Mine was the house where people brought their kids. I was also one of those oddball parents who felt sad when summer ended and my best friends, my children, were away from home all day. So a snow day was a treat for both of us. Sleep in late, pancakes for breakfast, and now what, guys? Build a snow fort in the front yard? Grab the sleds and head to Sharon Woods park? Or just take the dogs for a romp? We had some wonderful times on snow days, because they were special: an unexpected gift of time together.

I am also one of those weird people (are you sensing a theme here?) who likes to shovel snow. Well, up to a point, of course. I"m sure if I lived in Buffalo N.Y. I wouldn’t be nearly as fond of it.  When it snows all day and I have to shovel repeatedly, I am a happy, if tired, person. One day last year we had a good hard snow, followed by rain. When I went out to shovel, the snow cracked lose in great jagged chunks in front of the shovel. As I stooped to lift one out of the way, it struck me how interesting it looked…

People were slowing down and stopping to take pictures of my yard by late afternoon, because it was filled with snow sculptures, entitled things like "The White Queen" and "Snowhenge" and "Nude Descending a Staircase". My daughter, no longer as entranced with snow as when she was younger, stood at the window eating cookies and watched my labors… and shook her head.

But come on! You’ve got to have fun on a snow day!

When you have children, if you expect them to turn out like little versions of you… you’re doomed to be sorely disappointed, my friend.

You can share with them your love of auto mechanics, but don’t expect them to have any affinity for a wrench. By all means, tell them how scouting enriched your life and gave you self-confidence, but be prepared for their utter indifference to tying knots and lashing together a lean-to. You can hope to pass on your love of books, or the joy of bowling, and even your personal faith… but you can’t expect them to necessarily take up the mantle.

Kids are their own people- sometimes ruthlessly so. Whether it’s from sheer defiance or because, when their own chromosome square-dance took place they didn’t get matched up with the right gene, children often choose to head in a very different direction than their parents. If you try too hard to steer them, they may just end up farther away. If you let them make their own choices and are patient, you may find that, in time, they begin to circle back around towards their roots and find a happy middle ground.

Such is the way, of course, with my children. Oh, I tried my best to raise them right, but it was hit-or-miss. They share most of my basic values, like honesty and giving to others less fortunate, but in one vital way that is dear to my heart, I was wildly unsucessful.

They don’t like my music.

You can’t say I didn’t try. From birth, I surrounded them with the folks songs and old Irish maiming ballads of my own youth. Instead of "The Wheels on the Bus" I taught them "Peace Train". Instead of Sharon, Lois and Bram, I gave them Peter, Paul and Mary. And, of course, the Beatles. Always the Beatles!

Stephen soaked it all up- every kind of music I exposed him to: bluegrass, gospel, motown, folk and swing- he listened to it, and learned it… and now has AC/DC and Led Zepplin on his MP3. The little boy who sat on my knee singing Gordon Lightfoot now prefers Ozzy Osbourne. Still, he sits quietly and listens to whatever I am playing, and occasionally I will see a glimmer. A  few weeks after a trip to Athens when I played for him  Dan Fogleberg’s "The Innocent Age" he was playing the piano and I recognized the tune to "Ghosts".

Katie actually edits what she lets me hear of her musical taste. Some of the pop music she listens to I really like, but I know she is also into hip-hop and even rap. She keeps that on her iPod, and to herself. She is just sure I will hate it. Well, perhaps I might. To each his own, I know. But it’s more what she’s not into that wounds me.

For Christmas, I asked for and received a copy of Dylan’s classic "Blonde on Blonde" on CD. Delighted, I opened it up and put it on while I was in the kitchen preparing Christmas dinner. Katie was at the sink, washing her hands. she cocked her head and listened for a minute, and then raised her eyebrows.

"Man! And you say my music sucks!" she commented, and tossed me the dishtowel.
"Hey!  Some of it does!" I countered, wounded and scandalized.
"Yeah, but I keep it to myself" she said as she went upstairs to put on Freak Boys Down or Arrested Garbage Supply, or whomever she listens to this week.

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a smart-alec child!