Giving Thanks

Tonight I am deliberately trying to overhear something interesting, which is why after slowly walking the length of a busy shop-lined street, I've eavesdropped absolutely nothing. The very best glimpses of human nature - heroic, despicable and everything in between - usually find me when I'm not looking.

Why is that so, I wonder? Does something else decide what I'm going to hear and when? Well, fine then, I think to myself in a 12-year-old's voice. I'm taking my ears and going home. On my way to the bus stop, I'm wishing I would have just driven my car and fought the parking on this busy street full of diners and shoppers. I'm tired, it's cold and my patience has left the building.

Tonight, I am The Grinch. Shall I just go with it and try to make a child cry? Lost in my grumpy thoughts, I'm startled by a man's voice as I pass a dry cleaner's on the corner.

"A couple bucks for a meal, miss?" he calls to me. "No," I say instantly. "I don't have any extra tonight, sorry". I lie on two accounts: one, I do have extra and two, I'm not sorry. I work hard for my money and the last thing I want to do is give it to a dirty transient who will turn right around and buy a 40 ouncer and a pack of cigs. That is what I yell to the small voice whispering in my heart that perhaps the man is honest.

His eyes are downcast when I deny him. His hands are clasped in front of dirty tan pants stained with lord knows what. He wears several layers of tops, the outermost a gray sweatshirt with hood and pocket. His beard is wildly unkempt and a faded brown UPS cap covers his head.

Twenty steps later I reach my bus bench. I sit sideways and look back to watch the pan handler do his thing. A handful more people turn their heads to him when he speaks, but continue walking. A woman and teenage boy are next. Both hold shopping bags of treasures. The man hesitates, then speaks when they are almost past. The woman turns around. The boy looks at his mother. She says something to the man and he answers, but stays in his spot.

The woman puts her bags down and goes into her purse as more shoppers walk around them. The boy keeps his eyes on the man. His mother passes some money to her son and he walks to the man to give it. From my bus bench I can see the man smile in thanks. Mother and son are on their way and pass me, her arm around him, both smiling to themselves. Suckers.

The man is off and running to the crosswalk. I spring off my bench and walk briskly after him. I am so certain that he is headed for the liquor store on the corner across the street I am giddy with excitement. We reach the other side and he turns right, away from the booze shop. I am 10 steps behind and feeling more curious than boastful.

He walks purposefully for nearly one block and I consider turning back. And then a cold fall wind gusts an unmistakable aroma: french fries. Up ahead, on the corner of the next block, is a Jack in the Box fast food joint. I stop in my tracks. The man walks across the street. Before he enters the restaurant, he stops at the doors, bows his head and crosses himself in prayer.

The Golden Rule

Tonight I am picking up our dinner at a local smokehouse. I called in the order - two tri tips with mop sauce, barbecue beans and honey cornbread that you just want to be all alone with. The restaurant is on a street packed with all sorts of eateries. It's always a bear to find parking here. All the spaces are metered, either street side or in parking lots, and they're full at dinner time on Friday night.

As I inch into the short intersection with my big car, traffic is so heavy the light turns red before I can complete my left turn. Honks blast at me from behind, in front and the side. The man's face in my rear view mirror is all scrunched up. I leave the kind words he mouths behind as I squeeze between cars and into the parking lot.

As I look for a spot, my shoulders tense. I am already late getting home. I crack the window for fresh air and the sweet aroma from the restaurant's smoker curls in to greet me like an old friend. All this logistical aggravation will melt away with my first bite of tri tip. After 10 minutes of idling in the parking lot, a man walks my way in my rear view. He passes my driver's side and glances over. He is an older gentleman, a little bent with years. He smiles and points to a sedan to my right. Happy day. I'm in.

I back up a bit and flick my blinker on to lay claim. People around here take parking spots very seriously. As the man approaches his car, another vehicle enters the lot from the driveway in front of me and slowly approaches. Here we go, it's on, I say to myself. The jeep shines its lights into my windshield. Very clever, he's a blinder. I'm about to launch my SUV brights at him when he exits the jeep holding something.

Under the glow of the streetlight, his uniform becomes clear. He is a parking control officer. The meters here run until 9 p.m. and a quarter only buys 15 minutes. He quickly walks to the meter blinking a little red light next to the man who's leaving, checks it and goes to the read the car's back license plate. What a shame. Someone's weekend begins with a $50 parking ticket.

The man I'm waiting for closes his car door again. He approaches the parking officer and motions to the meter. The officer shrugs his shoulders. The man nods. He extends his arm and shakes the officer's hand. He walks to the stranger's expired meter, reaches into his pocket and fills it with coins. Spontaneously, I lower my window and shout, "You're awesome!" He waves at me, smiling, and gets back into his car. As he pulls out, I read his license plate frame, "Matthew 7:12".

Slow Down and Stand Up

I don't often go to mass midweek, but something is looming for me and I am one of those Catholics who feel my prayers might get on the express way if I show up in person. I am hop skipping toward the church entrance, arriving five minutes into the service, as usual. My mindset is not quite right for church. On this busy weekday dawn, my head is already filled with reminders and tasks for the office, a place that's further away on a Sunday morning.

Reaching the church doors, I wait behind a few people and wonder why the delayed entry. My impatience becomes a sigh and I peer around the heads in front of me. I glimpse the side of a wheelchair and it's pusher navigating the narrow side entryway and the pews. Great, I think to myself. I always pick the slow line.

After a few moments, we filter in. I hurriedly poke my finger in the holy water vessel and some splashes on my hand. Quickly, I slide into a pew near the back, averting my eyes from the priest who I am certain notes my tardiness. Only one other woman sits nearby, an older lady clutching a rosary with eyes shut in prayer. Most of the parishioners sit in the front pews, mostly elderly women alone. A handful of younger adults are scattered about.

As I kneel to pray, my cell phone vibrates in my bag. I am missing a network breakfast this morning and a wave of annoyance tightens my chest. Before I bow my head, I habitually look at my watch. I hope this mass will not be too lengthy. Perhaps I'll make the second half of the breakfast meeting.

I kneel, I rise, I pray, all with good, albeit, distracted intentions. And now it is communion time. As I wait for my row to be lead, I gather my belongings to exit directly after receiving. Standing there in the church as the sun glints through the stained glass windows, a serenity asserts itself ahead of my daily worries and I pause to feel what I think is divine peace.

When I look again to the front of the communion line, the wheelchair and its pusher are next. An old man sits in the chair as an equally old woman wheels him forward. They reach the priest, who smiles broadly and steps back a bit. The woman walks around to the front of the wheelchair and slowly kneels down. I cannot see what she is doing. She comes around to her husband's left side and slips her arm under his. The man is rising, carefully but purposely rising from the chair. He bobs slightly forward and backward as he leans on his wife, who supports him as the priest places the communion wafer in his mouth.

Only after the man faces the alter and crosses himself does he sit back down in his wheelchair. The two slowly wheel away and back into the front pew. The woman kneels beside her husband's chair and I glance at her as I approach the priest. She prays, hands clasped, eyes closed and smiling gently. Her husband places his hand on her head and bows his own.

I take communion. I pass the exit and continue back to my pew. I kneel. I push the breakfast, the annoyance of getting up earlier and the restless thoughts out of my mind and pray.

Breaking Up

I've returned to the sounds and smells of the hospital. By now I've learned which bells are harmless and which mean a difficult phone call to another family. The air is simultaneously sterile and stagnant. Preoccupied faces taught with worry or vacant with exhaustion pass in elevators and hallways. Races, ethnicities and genders fade away in the hospital. There are only two kinds of people here: the healthy and the sick.

My Dad may come home tonight but after three failed discharge orders, my Mother and I don't count on anything. We are fully immersed in the land of quotas - pee this much, breathe this deep, walk that far and then maybe we'll see, they say. I take a break from my Dad's room and wander down the corridor away from the cardiac unit and toward the women's wing. I begin passing photos of motherly love on the wall, women of all shades and sizes cradling brand new lives in their arms. The odd contrast strikes me - at one end lay those whose hearts are struggling, on the other side tiny hearts beat strongly with the joy of new beginnings.

It's strange how tiring it is to just sit and wait. I come upon a cluster of faded gray arm chairs in a nook and plop down in one. My legs feel like tree trunks. I leave them sticking straight out and close my eyes. When I peel them open again, I see the sign on the adjacent wall, "Neonatal Critical Care Unit. Parental Visits Only." Double doors without handles next to the sign lead into that area. There is a card reader on the wall.

A few moments later, a 30 something man emerges from the doors. His wavy brown hair is flattened on one side, a popular look among we visitors who steal naps in a chair propped against a wall. His brow is furled and he keeps wetting his lips. An ID badge is strung around his neck with the word "Neonatal" clearly visible. He removes a cell phone from his pocket and sits down in a chair in the nook katty corner to mine.

Phone conversations broadcasting the most private medical details are around every corner in the hospital. Modesty and personal boundaries disappear under higher priorities. I want to give the man some privacy, but I am simply too tired to move. I close my eyes and turn away, but his voice fills the empty hallway:

"Hi Mom, it's me."

"I know. I fell asleep."

"No, no. It's alright. We're alright. Don't come."

"Yes, I know you would. But don't. There's nothing you can do here."

His voice cracks slightly

"Mom, it's too far. You stay there with Dad. She's gonna be alright. She's gonna get through this."

"Mom, Mom, you're breaking up. I can't hear...I'll call again at 6, okay? Bye Mom, bye - "

I hear the phone click shut, a deep breath, a pause, then muffled gasps. The man holds his head in his hands and cries.

I Can't Say Goodnight

My Mom and I walk down the stark hall and stop at the staff elevators. Our tired feet refuse to continue around the corner to the visitor elevators. I know my Mom must be more exhausted than I because she never breaks a rule. We've just left my Dad in his hospital room for the night after getting a pace maker. This after a three-day stay of not knowing what was wrong. He was groggy, but in pretty good spirits.

The elevator door slides open. An older Asian man leans against one wall and looks at the floor. We enter and he briefly glances at us. He wears a cap that says, "America the Beautiful" with a bald eagle graphic. His eyes are weary behind his glasses, red and a bit puffy from the evening's goodbyes, I imagine. He holds a plastic "patient's belongings" bag by its drawstring. It is full with items. One pink fuzzy sock pokes out of the hole on the top.

We reach the ground floor and the doors clank open. We three worriers walk in silence to the exit doors. It feels unnatural to leave a loved one behind in the care of strangers and that feeling tightens your chest when you reach the edge of the building.

As we go through the exit, the man's bag hits the door frame and the pink sock falls out. Its bright color in sharp contrast to the gray sidewalk and our somber mood. I snatch it up and for a split second, wonder whose foot it belongs to:

Me: "Sir, Sir! Your sock!"

Man: (Turns to me, eyes wide and startled by my voice) What? Oh. Oh. Thank you.

Me: Here you go.

Man: (He clutches the fuzzy sock in his hand) Ah. My wife. I could not say goodnight to her. I could not say it.

Me: Oh. It's alright. I'm sure she understands.

Man: She had cancer six years ago. And she survived. But the radiation burned everything up. Ahh. This is a hard life. I could not say goodnight to her...

My Mom: I'm sure you are doing your best. We do our best and we just keep going.

Man: I'm going back. I'm going back to say goodnight. I thank you.

The small old man clutching a pink fuzzy sock walks purposely through the double doors and back toward the elevators. Just before he gets to the visitor's desk, he brushes the sock against his cheek, I think to wipe a few tears away.

New Old Lovers

I'm having an early dinner by myself at a friendly coffee shop called Hoff's Hut. I'm always hopeful to eavesdrop something juicy when I'm dining alone; it's so much easier to listen and I go deep under cover with my nose in a book. I'm done with my meal and am nursing a hot tea. It seems I'm not going to hear much tonight. The waitress refills my hot water and I give it one more try, although the booths around me are empty.

I'm draining the last honey packet into my mug when the hostess walks by showing an elderly couple to the booth in front of me. She bids them a good meal and leaves while the man helps the woman sit down. She bends stiffly, slowly navigating the bench's right angle. She sits down with a sigh and says, "There we go". I hear a smile in her voice. She sits with her back to me. Her bright white hair is in a medium length ponytail tied with a black scrunchy. She pulls her ponytail into place with hands tipped with rose pink nails.

Her husband is bald with glasses and a light blue sweater vest. He holds a closed-mouth smile the entire time he browses the menu. They discuss various choices and both decide on the same thing, the meatloaf dinner. As I watch him over my reading glasses, he continuously leans forward when she speaks, nodding his head. His replies are punctuated with mild laughter. His eyes are blue and rarely leave her face. They talk about her new jewelry after they order:

Her: (Showing him her finger) Well, what do you think? I like how it turned out.

Him: (Takes his glasses off and pulls her hand closer) It's beautiful. Very nice. The greens and blues are just beautiful.

Her: Yes, I really love it. Just love it. Thank you, sweetheart.

Him: (He kisses her hand)

Her: She even commented on it, how unusual it is. She's a nice girl. She does beautiful work.

Him: Yes, she does. Can she make earrings? See if she can make you earrings to match.

Her: Oh no, it's enough.

Him: See if she can do it.

The waitress brings their beverages. The lady goes into her purse:

Her: Oh, honey, I guess we should give you this coupon now.

Waitress: Oh, it's your anniversary! Congratulations. How many years?

Him: Two years today. I never imagined I'd be twice blessed. I'm a lucky man.

Cougars at the Casino

A spontaneous trip to the Indian casino puts me at the Crazy 4 poker table between two chain smoking older men laughing too loudly at the dealer's jokes. After a hand worse than the first, I slide under the smoke cloud and off my stool, heading for the terrace with a panoramic view of the mountain vista. Fresh, cool air flushes my face as I open the glass door and step into the sunshine. This alone is worth the hour drive. About 20 others enjoy the view, sitting at little tables against the railing.

Some have cocktails and chat, others simply sit in silence gazing at the mountains. I find the perfect nook and settle into the corner chair, turning it to face the railing. Two women chatter on my left. Their conversation does not pause when I sit down. They are both blond with hair styled in the edgey cuts so fashionable these days. The one with her back to me wears a turquoise top and a thick gold chain around her neck. As she speaks she waves her left hand up and around, red nails swirling. Her right hand holds a glass of white wine.

Her friend is also heavily necklaced with gold chains that drop down an impressive cleavage revealing an orange tan underneath her tight white sweater. She sports large black sunglasses with the Channel logo on the side, which I see when she steals glances of the vista as her friend drones on.

The face I can see is tight, but both pairs of hands and little cracks in the voices suggest late 40s, early 50s. The one in white holds a drink in one hand and a cig in the other. She nods in agreement as her friend rants:

Turquoise: I mean, I just told him, I said, "Just tell me right now. Is this how it's gonna be? Grilling me every time I don't call back right away?".

White: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Turquoise: Right? Who needs that? I don't need that.

White: Who needs it?

Turquoise: I told him. I'm not your wife, hell I'm not your girlfriend -

White: Hahaha! Exactly. Oh these guys, these poor guys just don't know what to do with us.

Turquoise: TELL me. I mean, tell me about it. The insecurity, the checking up, the checking in. I don't need that.

White: No, no. Me neither.

Turquoise: He's acting like a little girl. Haha! He's acting like one of his little girlfriends he complains to me about!

White: Ha! Isn't that just precious. Well, here, girl (she holds her drink to toast). We've come full circle.

Turquoise: Cheers to that! Come on. Let's go find some young and dumbs at the bar.

The two pop compacts, relipstick and strut inside. I finish jotting down some notes of this conversation and look to the blue sky, about to commit the scenario to memory. A hawk circles high above, looking for prey.

Santa's Health

I am in the refrigerated section of Ralph's grocery store on my way to the cottage cheese but linger in front of the cookie dough with particular interest in the mini cinnamon rolls. Shoppers whiz by with carts loaded to the brim for holiday feasts. A little girl steps up to the cold case and puts her nose within inches of a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough. She is white and wears a pink jacket with a "Dora the Explorer" graphic. She jumps a little in place and claps her hands twice, smiling. A man follows close behind:

Girl: Daddy! Here! Cookies for Santa.

Dad: Okay, okay, honey. Let's see. Here, these are good. Santa likes chocolate chip.

Girl: Is it no sugar? I want to get no sugar.

Dad: Why? These are fine. Regular cookies are fine.

Girl: No! Dad! What if Santa has diabetic like me? It's dangerous!

Dad: (laughs) No, honey. Santa is not diabetic. Don't worry about it. These are fine.

Girl: Daddy! We can't do that! It HAS to be no sugar.

(The man keeps the tube of dough originally chosen and begins to walk away with his daughter pulling on his arm. A few more protests, but soon they are out of sight.)

Moments later, I cave in to the mini cinni's and am wheeling my cart away when the little girl returns holding a woman's hand. The lady carries the tube of cookie dough. The two approach the cold case, put the tube back and take another. They leave with Pillsbury sugar-free chocolate chip dough, sweetened with Splenda.

Child Channels Alicia Keys

In between eavesdropping, I'll occasionally post about the wonders of creativity. I so appreciate it in so many forms - writing, singing, drawing, web design, a new medical treatment from creative research...and on. Creativity in a child can move me to tears sometimes. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because children are such reflections of their parents' love that when I see a confident, creative, vibrant child I feel the life force that lifts them up. This morning I saw creative talent I'm just compelled to share. Gabi Wilson is 10 years old. She plays her own instruments and sings her soul free. Please watch the video and be amazed by this young one's voice and spirit. Goodness is all around us.

You will need to tolerate a short ad before each clip -

Singing Alicia Keys

On Bass Guitar

Giving Before Receiving

Yesterday was Thanksgiving in my country. I try to be mindful of my blessings, but easily get caught up in the rush of life during the year. That's why I spend at least a few hours at a local food bank handing out free turkeys and trimmings. It makes me feel good and also reminds me that life is hard for many. I hear a lot of interesting comments at these events, but I see far more in the body language and expressions of those who come for help.

I was there quite early in the morning and so were at least 200 people lined up around the block. The surge of people was a bit scary when the doors opened, and staff reminded visitors to wait their turn. Any aggression was promised to be dealt with by two rather imposing security guards. Still, the hungry people pushed a little, anxious to get their share. It's this behavior from perhaps normally mild-mannered women and men that shows what desperation can do. One person after another held out there arms to receive the single or family meal boxes and quickly rushed out of the store. Some said thanks, others merely snatched the boxes and left.

About 30 minutes into my stay, I turned from the pantry to see an older Asian woman next in my line. She was so slight and so very dwarfed by those waiting behind her. She did not immediately approach the counter, instead looking at me while leaning slightly forward. A white woman bumped her shoulder from behind and said, 'Go!'. I motioned for her to step up and only then did she approach the counter. She walked quickly toward me and kept her eyes downward:

Me: Hi, happy Thanksgiving.

(The woman does not hold out her hands, instead she bows her head several times and clasps her hands together.)

Woman: I am saying to you thank you first. I am saying thank you for my family, very much. My husband is not coming here. He is ashame.

Me: That's okay, ma'am. You don't need to feel ashamed.

(Others in line become impatient and a few try to rush her on.)

Woman: (she turns to the others) Please, one moment. Please. You must not receive so easy. (Back to me) I want thank you and I want thank this country. I appreciate so much this country help us.

Me: You are very welcome and I hope you enjoy your dinner. You and your family.

Woman: Thank you, thank you young lady. I want give you this. I have pray on it for you.

The woman, so small, struggles with the large box for a moment, gets her bearings and walks away. Some watch her leave with curious looks. On the counter is a tiny white Buddha she left for me. Another person has already stepped up for his box.

Queen of Hearts

I am in the emergency room with a family member today. It's warm and the air is a bit foul. People of all varieties pack the waiting area. Some look miserable, others worried, a few bored. The automatic doors whoosh open and closed again and again. A health care worker cups her hands and calls names above the din, there's no microphone. My relative is called. We go through vital signs and more questions in a tiny room. Then we are ushered further to an area with gurneys separated by blue curtains. The nurse settles us in and we wait for the doctor. After more questions, some pokes, prods and measures, another patient arrives on the other side of our curtain. Besides the nurse, there are two voices, an older woman's and a man's cracked with age and frequent, raspy coughs.

I would never disclose someone's private medical conversation, but I'll share with you tender talk that I hope I will speak myself someday, or more dearly, hear from my own husband:

Nurse: Okay folks, let's see what we can do here. You know the drill...

Man: I sure do, honey. I'm your best customer!

Nurse: (laughs) You sure are and we love you.

Man: Watch out, my wife's right here...

Woman: Come on now, stop joking honey. Rest your lungs.

Nurse: Alright, let's start the questions. (After many routine questions and answers, and nearly as many coughs and hard breathing - ) Have you fallen recently?

Man: Yes. In love.

Woman: Oh yeah? With who?

Man: Next week is our 61st anniversary.

Nurse: Wow! That's something to celebrate.

Man: We're going to have burgers from "In and Out". I took her to a burger joint for our first date. She stole my heart over a cheeseburger. She's my queen of hearts.

His voice cracks, but it's not from coughing.

Secret Weapons

I am at my salon for a color and trim. After my wash, I wait for my stylist to finish another client. Next to me sits an older lady getting her roots done. Foils cover her crown. She is white with blond hair on the shorter side. She wears pink lipstick and nail polish. A rather imposing diamond gleams on her left ring finger. A large Coach purse rests on the counter. She chats with her stylist, who continues painting her roots:

Client: Well, that Pavarotti's dead. Did you see that, honey?

Stylist: Who? Uh uh.

Client: Pavarotti, you know, the opera singer.

Stylist: Oh. Was he old?

Client: No he was not. Barely 70. But he had a young gal he left his wife for. Married 30 years and then poof! Off with a young one.

Stylist: No way! Was he handsome?

Client: No he was not. I'll tell you what, honey, a girl's gotta keep things up. Gotta keep our stuff in working order.

Stylist: Hahaha!

Client: I'm serious. These gals lettin' themselves go, carrying these giant butts around, no make-up, plain hair. Whoooo. You're playin' with fire right there.

Stylist: Well,

Client: Trust me, honey. I been married 54 years and ornery as my husband is, he's a happy little boy when a tight young waitress comes around. We're swimmin' with the sharks, honey. You get yourself a secret weapon.

Under the edge of a foil, she winks at her stylist in the mirror.

Encircled

I'm at the beach today (again) and it's Labor Day crowded. I'm gazing at the waves when a family bustles by, spraying sand. They settle in front of me and unpack. The couple is white and 40-something. There are two young blond girls, a blond teenaged boy and two black boys, one toddler and one perhaps five or six. These two boys stand back while the girls raid the sand toys, grabbing pales and shovels. The teen tucks a boogie board under his arm and jogs to the sea.

After shouting warnings not to drift to the teen, the Dad kneels beside the older boy, puts his hand on his head and whispers something in his ear. The boy nods his head, takes his hand and the two start toward the water. The toddler screams and wails something incomprehensible. The older boy goes to him and tries to pull him toward the water, too. He cries louder and digs his heels into the sand. The Mother kneels down beside the two and takes both their hands in hers:

Mom: He's afraid, honey. He's just afraid. You go ahead and then you come right back and you let him touch you. Let him touch your wet hands and see that you're okay.

The older boy doesn't say a word. He pats the younger one on his chest and goes off with the father. Sure enough, he comes running back, breathless, laughing, dripping arms outstretched to his brother. All is calm once more. Still, the toddler stays on the sand with the mother.

Hours later, I'm packing up to go. I take in one more look at the sea, now choppy with frothy waves. I notice that this family sits all together on the sand now. The parents and older children encircle the two young black boys; the younger sits in the older's lap. The others have joined hands around them and sit with bowed heads. I hear murmuring, but I cannot understand. Even if I'd heard, I wouldn't post it.