Soapbox

Some thing just don’t bear too much thinking about.

A week or two ago a couple about my age came to my counter and said they had several things they wanted to have framed. The first were 2 posters, and as I took measurements and discussed designs with them I noticed that the woman seemed distracted and restless in a way that spoke to me of distress. I kind of dialed down my usual chatty nature in response to whatever was upsetting her.

When we came to the third item to be framed she pulled out several pieces of paper and explained that she wanted them in a 3-opening collage frame. As I laid them out to get measurements I saw that they were pages from a program from a memorial service for someone who had died. I asked no questions as I saw the bleak expression in her eyes. Let’s get through this fast, I thought  and let them get on their way. As I began estimating mat widths and entering numbers in the computer the woman suddenly said, "That was my boy!"

I looked up, mouth agape. She was standing rigid, one hand over her mouth as if the words had simply lept out of her of their own volition. I heard her husband say gently, tiredly, "Honey…" as if concerned that she was bothering me with her pain. "Oh, Lord!" was all I could whisper, and suddenly I leaned across the counter. This total stranger and I embraced fiercely and each sobbed on the other’s shoulder, mother to mother.
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So I’ve got this kid…and yeah, she’s a big girl now.

Katie has always liked to sing. Well, it would be unnatural if she didn’t. The day we brought her home from the hospital, her father disappeared with her as I was downstairs with the happy (loud) family that had congregated to welcome her. When I went in search of them I found he had laid her on our bed and was singing for her: "Kathy’s Song" by Paul Simon. Quietly, sweetly, he was wooing his daughter to the sound of his voice and to the love of music, and she was hooked.

When she was in 7th grade she had a solo in the school play. She refused to let me even hear her practice, let alone help her. All those voice lessons I had were of no interest to her. "Go away, Mom!" Of course it turned out she didn’t need my help. After an assortment of children croaked and shrieked their way through their songs, the spotlight at last hit my daughter and she turned to the darkened auditorium and in a clear, sweet treble voice sang her song, beautifully on pitch and audible to the back row. I nearly cried.

In high school she was acepted into the Chorale, which is huge. Huge amount of work and responsibility, a huge support network and a huge opportunity. 2 weeks ago they performed a selection of sacred, gosple and old spiritual music at St. Paul’s AME church and brought the house down…or up, in the case of several gosple songs that had the audience on their feet clapping. My personal favorites were the sacred music. Ted and I met in Ohio University singers performing much the same type of music only on a bigger scale, and I miss it. I didn’t realize how much I miss it until I saw my daughter standing on stage, her voice joining with so many others to form this beautiful sound that reached up to heaven and into the heart. I started to cry, wishing I was part of a group like that again and so very glad that she has the chance to be herself. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.
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She is hiding
just behind the front door,
peeking through the window panel:
pretending she is not watching him go,
pretending her heart is not in her throat
longing to fly out the door
and ride next to him on his journey.

He walks with a jaunty step
and cheerfully tosses his bag into the car,
never thinking to look back.

He crosses the city each day now
to work and to classes
negotiating highways
full of impatient commuters
who do not pause to consider
that his anonymous blue car
holds someone’s precious child.

He is seventeen,
newly independent and confident.
After weeks of being a working man
he puts the car in gear
without a worry on his mind.

But she still stands
just behind the front door
watching him leave
and remembers
letting go of a small hand
to let the child run ahead.

A love song for Ted

Beneath the late September skies the season is turning
The seeds were sewn, the crops have grown, autumn sounds the call.
A world in change surrounds us as the summer light is fading
Geese prepare to travel and a single leaf does fall.

The days are warm and bright but the crickets sing a warning
Of the hoarfrosts of November that will grip the closing year.
The time of green abundance is passing as we witness,
So the reds and golds of autumn are the colors we will wear.

Stand with me beneath the late September skies
Hold my hand as we watch the time go by.
I’ve loved you since spring was fair upon the land;
Be my love ‘til the snows begin to fly.

There is a certain blue sky that you only find in autumn,
An aching, evening beauty that must surely be God’s hand
Reaching down from heaven to gather in His harvest
And bring it safely home again when winter grips the land.

So we’re standing side by side as we watch our season turning
Summer lingers on our shoulders and November’s in our eyes
A golden leaf drifts by- I try to hold it for a moment
But you smile, so I release it to the bright September skies.

Stand with me beneath the late September skies
Hold my hand as we watch the time go by.
I’ve loved you since spring was fair upon the land;
Be my love ‘til the snows begin to fly.

Stand with me beneath the beautiful September skies
Hand in hand we have wandered where life led.
I’ve loved you since the bloom of spring was on the land;
Be my love still, for the best is still ahead.

September Skies MP3

So many people are inside this song- so much happiness and sorrow shared. This is for all of you.

Now the years and the miles are many between us
And the words between us, long gone.
Yet as the years pass I’ve remembered you fondly-
So many good thoughts I have never passed on.

Sweet thoughts of you kept like pennies in my pocket,
So many thank you’s I never got to say
For the ways, large and small, that you touched me and changed me,
Healed my heart or just brightened a lousy day.

So I wrote you this letter and filled it with pennies-
I hope that it reaches you, wherever you may be.
I know they’re not much, but they jingle with the music
Of all the good times you once shared with me.

Thank you for listening to my silly problems,
Thank you for laughing at all my stupid jokes,
For thinking my friendship was something worth having,
For hearing the pain that I never quite spoke.

Memories of you, pennies in my pocket
Ways you made me strong, or made me smile.
It’s time to spend those pennies, say "thank you" for the shoulder,
"Thank you" for the laughter, for loving me a while.

Now these are your pennies; you can put them in your pocket,
You can listen to them jingle or just hide them in a drawer,
Or you can send them back to me~ you know it really doesn’t matter-
These pennies are for you. Every day I make some more.