Mrs. Donahoe's Pruning Tool

Mrs. Donohoe was the original Edward Scissorhands, wielding a pruning tool like an extension of her hands. She took great pride in her lawn and flowerbeds, clipping ,digging, fertilizing, and transplanting, from dawn until dusk, spring through autumn. The only time she broke from her work was to threaten trespassers with her pruning tool and a harsh, "Step on my lawn and I'll cut off your ears."

Most children feared Mrs. Donohoe, often crossing to the other side of the street to avoid her property. Some eased past her house, carefully monitoring each step to avoid accidents. A few brave ones watched for her to settle into weeding position on her knees, touched a toe or finger to her grass, and ran when she finally rose with the pruning tool to come after them.

Adults either laughed at Mrs. Donohoe, You'd think those begonias were gold, or resented her, Who does she think she is? Mr. and Mrs. Johnson took it even further; they hated Mrs. Donohue. We don't care about her pansies. Kids will be kids and she'd better leave ours alone. They taunted her. Move if you don't want our kids picking your tulips.

One summer, Mr. Johnson's brother and his family came to stay with our Johnsons, bringing the total number of Johnson kids on the block up to eight. Mrs. Donohoe wore herself out chasing the new kids with her pruning tool. She left her own yard and chased the Johnson kids off every lawn. The neighbors congregated in lawn chairs to laugh and talk about her. The crazy lady should mind her own business.

The new Johnson kids tired of picking tulips and pansies and taught the original Johnson kids new games. They flattened metal garbage cans, toilet papered trees, and egged houses and cars. Mrs. Donohoe couldn't keep up with them. When she called on the neighbors for help, they refused her because the original Mrs. Johnson always waved when she passed and the new one was expecting another baby any day. Besides, both Mr. Johnsons were loud and owned guns, so nobody wanted to cross them. They said she should really just mind her own business; the neighborhood belonged to everyone.

Daddy Johnsons came home from an auction with baseball bats, gloves, and balls, and the Johnson kids turned the street into a baseball field. A few people sided with Mrs. Donohoe when they tired of parking at the corner because they couldn't get through the game to their homes. They slipped over to her house late at night, when the Johnsons weren't looking, and asked her to expand her pruning tool chase into the street.

When the sun came up, they stayed inside and left her on her own. Some continued to shout insults at her while they waved to Mrs. Johnson.

For Sale signs went up in three yards after the owners replaced baseball-shattered windows in their cars and homes. Others tired of replacing glass and covered their windows with boards. The only prospective buyers willing to brave crossing the Johnson kids and their baseball bats were those carrying weapons bigger than the baseball bats.

Soon, the Johnsons were the only people on the block who ventured outdoors. There were two ways off the block: through the alley and selling property at half its value.

Mrs. Donohoe let her yard turn into right field. She sold her pruning tool to replace the side panel in her front door.

Everything Matters

After weeks of exchanging sighs and acknowledgment of empathy with other club members, Beth accepted the sad realization that Nice Mommy and her Obnoxious Offspring were not guests. The possibility of getting through the stack of books that she had reserved for pool reading this year looked bleak.

The Obnoxious Offspring climbed over chairs, even when people they didn’t know were sitting in those seats. They jumped in and out of the pool with no regard for the person who might already be in their landing spot or on the stairs, and they assumed permission to use towels, toys, rafts, and sunscreen no matter who owned it. Food and drinks were not safe in their presence, nor were cell phones, books, laptops, glasses, purses, clothes, or members on walkers or in strollers. The Obnoxious Offspring ran, screamed, shoved, and cried.

They cried often and loud. They cried until snot covered their faces and their snot ended up in the pool, on someone else’s towel, or sometimes on another person’s body. They cried until Beth’s nerves rattled but she refused to wear earplugs like some of the others had started doing.

This one family created chaos in the pool area, the locker room, and the fitness center. Twice a day, they disrupted the parking area while Nice Mommy chased her Obnoxious Offspring around the lot before getting them into the club or the SUV.

Nice Mommy responded to each of the Obnoxious Offspring’s hellion antics with the same message. In a syrupy tone, with an understanding smile, she said, “We don’t do that.” In the rare event only one of her offspring was guilty, she used a name. Occasionally, she established the violation, “We don’t knock old ladies out of their chairs and spit on them.” For the most part, at least a hundred times a day, the generic version sufficed.

If the Obnoxious Offspring heard a word she said, they never let on.

But Beth heard her, as did her sighing, teeth gritting, lip biting, eye rolling partners in misery. She knew, as long as Nice Mommy and the monsters were around, they would never be able to swim laps in the morning, read a book in peace, carry on conversations as they had every year before. They would be lucky to think about anything other than controlling their anger.

When the oldest Obnoxious Offspring shoved an unsuspecting, unprepared, never-obnoxious child into the water, causing her to skin her back on the side of the pool and come up choking and frightened, Beth grabbed the sides of her chair to keep from jumping out of it and smacking the smirk off an obnoxious face.

“We don’t push,” Nice Mommy reminded her apparently deaf brat. She smiled at the traumatized child’s mother, and then turned to look at Beth. Still wearing her plastic smile, Nice Mommy shrugged, as though she couldn’t understand why the other child’s mother was upset.

Beth counted to ten in her head, tried to visualize herself in a hammock, alone on a deserted beach. Youngest Obnoxious Offspring charged into the space between Beth’s chair and the one next to it, caught her foot in the strap of a pool bag, tripped, and landed with her elbow in Beth’s stomach.

“We don’t run,” Nice mommy said.

Beth ignored the pain in her gut and the stars that flashed before her eyes. “Maybe you don’t run, but your children do,” she said to the delusional Nice Mommy. “Why do you ignore what they do?”

Nice Mommy’s smile did not falter. “I do not ignore my children.” The sugar in her tone thickened. “Maybe you should stay home when you’re grouchy. This pool doesn’t belong only to you.”

“Correction,” Beth said. “You don’t ignore your children. You excuse their behavior by repeatedly telling them they don’t do what they know you see them doing.”

Nice Mommy said she would pray for Grouchy Beth to mind her own business and called her obnoxious offspring to her side. “Mommy is going to the ladies’ room. Stay out of the water until I get back.”

Once Nice Mommy was out of hearing range, other members cheered Beth. “I’ve wanted to say that for days,” one of them said.

“She needs to open her eyes,” another added. “One of them is going to get hurt, or seriously hurt someone else.”

Beth appreciated the input but left her chair to mind Nice Mommy’s business once again. Oldest Obnoxious Offspring had knocked Youngest in the deep end and the child was struggling. Beth jumped in and pulled the child out.

Nice Mommy returned. With a smile, she snatched her crying Obnoxious Offspring from Beth and marched inside to complain about the grouchy woman.

“From all we’ve seen, Nice Mommy is always nice and she watches her children,” the manager explained to Beth. “You cannot be rude to another guest.”

“I just fished her youngest out of the deep end of the pool,” Beth said. “She watches them annoy everyone else. She watches them help themselves to our drinks and take toys from other children. She watched one of them throw my book in the water a few days ago.”

“No one else has complained,” the manager said. “Maybe you should be more tolerant.”

Beth returned to the pool area and shared the conversation with her friends, all of whom agreed. “I can’t complain because she is always nice to me,” one said. A few nodded, a few registered their complaints with management, and most did nothing.

Management posted new pool rules the following week – no personal items allowed in the pool area and children under the age of ten would be required to wear life jackets.

“My kids can swim,” one of the people who did nothing complained to Beth. “This is not fair and I am not joining next year.”

“She’s always nice,” Beth said. “Next year, the pool will belong to nice people.

To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men.
Abraham Lincoln

I Love You and Hope You Die

A friend used this title on her domestic abuse article. It worked well. I have remembered it and thought of other uses for it over the years. After watching the Republican Party try to dismantle every safety net we have, I think this title’s time has come again.

You say you love me and don’t want to fight with me yet you do everything in your power to protect your greed over my ability to live. You ignore a thousand kind, informative words to find one of mine that you can twist into a slur, and you criticize and obstruct everything I do to deliver my love to the world – which includes you. You can say you love me but it means little without actions to support the claim.

You say you have what you want and that should be enough for me, but you don’t offer what you have – even cry that you will not stand for anyone trying to “redistribute” life or love from you to me. You wish me well, but never ask if I am well and you turn your back on people who don’t look well.

You say you would never insult me while you lie about my life’s work and tell me I am a fool to seek the truth or repeat the facts. And you say you will pray for me when, in fact, you prey on me and steal the truth that is rightfully mine.

You ask me to trust you and then admit that you don’t seek or speak the truth. You say I should hear your words of love but you base your love on nothing and think you don’t have to live that love.

You say you treasure your right to lie, cheat, ignore history, spit in the face of education, defy facts, practice your faith, and ignore the needs of your world. And when I dedicate my life to fighting to protect your freedom to do everything that I find disgusting, you criticize me for wanting to offer the same rights to people you don’t like. Not only do you criticize me for doing what you are too lazy or selfish to do, you ask me to honor people who volunteered to kill innocent people in my name -   instead of standing by my side to bring to justice the administration that threatened your freedom and their lives. You dishonor my service to your community.

You say your faith comforts you and I must respect that. But you show no respect for my faith in things I can prove. In fact, you are angry with me for having proof. Nor do you consider my faith that no respectable god would appreciate your duplicity. You see, you say you love everyone but are tired of people who hold a hand out for help. Yet, your response to everything is to hold your hand out to your god rather than helping the people or the world that you insist he created. Your duplicity makes my head spin.

You say you value your freedom yet make a mockery of it by living as a victim of subliminal messages. You soak them up from the people you have given control of your mind, and you spit them back in language you don’t recognize. When you tell me you are dealing well with radishes on your plate, I know that means you don’t like radishes. And when you tell me you are afraid of radishes but refuse to give a reason, I know the reason is that someone else told you radishes are bad things and you are either too fearful to try them or too lazy to study them. Until you decide to take control of what goes into your mind, you can’t control what comes out. That’s one freedom you have to fight for on your own since I have no control over your mind.

You ask my opinion and then insult me for being able to express and defend it. What you really wanted was for me to agree that it is okay for you to be too lazy and self-absorbed to seek an informed opinion.You say you are pro life while you cast millions to their deaths by your refusal to look for truth or share what you have. You say you love unconditionally while you list ‘agreement with or silence about’ your ill formed opinions and lies as a condition for communication with you.

You say you love me while you tighten your fingers around the neck of my ability to live. You are not going to provide my health care, my food, my shelter, my education, or my happiness. You are going to watch me die rather than give up stuff that you believe your god created.

The next time you want to tell me how much you love me, please complete the sentence.

(One day, I hope to use this title for a positive article about assisted suicide.)

Originally published to the internet around 2010

Debriefing Compliments

It’s hard to imagine anything looking more painfully wrong. The gown, while still dangling from a hanger in a doorway, reflected the impeccable skill and attention to detail that brought people in need of a special occasion seamstress to my mother’s door. The near paralyzing shock was not related to the garment.

My job that day was to assist with the hemming fitting. Jo changed into the gown and a pair of pumps, clunked across the room, and nearly broke her neck climbing up to stand on a chair. Mom measured and turned fabric – yards of fabric around the bottom of the full-length, gathered skirt of the gown. I held the red felt tomato cushion and supplied Mom with pins. I had done this many times before with no problem other than wondering why she placed the pins I handed her between her lips before using them on the dress. Was I too slow? Did it enable her to position the pin the way she wanted before using it? Did it replace the cigarette that was usually between her lips? What should I do if she swallowed a pin?

This time, seeking an explanation for the shocking wrongness replaced the usual boredom-evading questions. The soft, frilly, bubble-gum-pink bride’s maid gown looked ridiculous on Jo, who could easily have passed for a male in the cloths she had worn in. A quick, self-conscious meeting of the eyes told me she knew this as well as I did and couldn’t wait to change back into her trousers, plaid shirt, and Chuck Taylors.

Guilt almost destroyed me a few pins into the job. I was disappointed in me for not wanting to tell Jo she looked pretty in her new dress. And I hated myself for hoping Mom would swallow a pin since that was obviously the only thing that might stop her continuous stream of mumbled-around-pins, ridiculously unbelievable compliments. Couldn’t she see that Jo looked more miserable with each word?

By the time it was over, I felt as sorry for me as I did for Jo. Not only was I forced to witness the wrongness of Jo in her pink gown and pumps, and her misery in being complimented for looking a way I’m sure she never wanted to look, I was also forced to realize how little my mother’s compliments actually meant. Mom wasn’t blind or stupid so she couldn’t possibly have thought miserable and wrong was attractive on Jo. How many times had she complimented me because she thought it was the right thing to say and not because the compliment was sincere?

If I could relive that day, I would give Jo the honest compliment she deserved: You are a wonderful friend for agreeing to buy and wear this dress in your friend’s wedding since it isn’t your style and you will probably never wear it again.

I would like to believe that I learned a great lesson that day and, since I am older than dirt, that it was a different time and saying the wrong right thing got lost along the way. The truth is I’ve been slammed with that lesson repeatedly, as recently as last week.

I was present the day my daughters experienced this realization together, as adults. A friend, who had praised them from birth and whose compliments they had taken to heart, commented on the beautiful character of a group of people that neither of my daughters would ever have wanted to be compared to. I felt their eyes on me and hated to look because I knew immediately what each was feeling. How could they treasure the compliments she had paid them if her judgment was so different from theirs, or her honesty so questionable? We discussed it later and I shared my Jo story.

I might have learned to tailor compliments so they will honestly fit, and to withhold insincere praise. But, the fact that I can still feel the sting of false compliments, whether sent in my direction or aimed at someone else, or allow a lifetime of compliments to be negated when I hear someone whose opinion I appreciated lavish false compliments on someone else tells me I haven’t mastered this lesson yet.

The big question for me today falls in the chicken/egg category. I do believe that everything that happens, and every person who passes through my life, contributes to who I am today. If I had not had high self-esteem to begin with, how would insincere or undeserved compliments have affected me? Would I have blown them off and not believed them, or might they have boosted my esteem?

Whiskey, Cheese, Fine Wine, Kris Kristofferson, and Muhammad Ali

Some things keep getting better with age.

I’ve lost count of the times I have seen Kris Kristofferson perform. I wasn’t a groupie but I never missed an opportunity when he came to town. The first time I had the pleasure, forty-something years ago, there were about ten of us present, sitting around a campfire with a couple of guitars for an unplanned evening of stories and music. Through the years, I saw him in large venues and small, stadiums and intimate club settings, indoors and out, with a band and alone. Last night, it was in an outdoor amphitheater, just Kris with his guitar, harmonica, love, and wisdom - and it was a huge slice of perfection.

I remarked the day before how odd it was to think a cold front had set in when the temperature dropped to the high eighties, and that I hoped the cool weather would stick around for the concert. The friend I was to go with informed me that this might not be such a good thing since the weatherman predicted severe thunderstorms with hail would accompany the cooler temperatures and hit about when the show started. That wasn’t going to stop us, though. We packed rain ponchos, towels, and changes of clothes, put our cameras in plastic bags, and headed out. Turned out the temperature was perfect and not a drop of rain fell.

• 

Every time I see Kris Kristofferson, I say the same things - I think he sounds better than before, I can’t believe he can sing for hours and still not have time to sing all of the songs he has written, he is brilliant, no one can reach inside my body and squeeze my heart the way he does, and he has to be the most loveable, honest person alive. I said all of those things again this time, and more.

There was an extra special bonus this time. Kris was choked up and teary through the first couple of songs. Finally, he apologized and explained that it might take him a little while to overcome the excitement of just meeting one of his heroes. Muhammad Ali had come backstage to meet him before he came out, and he was overwhelmed with emotion. He choked up again explaining this.

At the time, I was excited for Kris and hoped Ali might peek out and wave. That hope didn’t last long because when I remembered what I know about The Champ, I knew seeking attention wasn’t his style. The years of boasting was part of the boxing show. The real man and hero is humble and gentle, with some wisdom of his own. “The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.” -Muhammad Ali

Later, the impact of sharing this little sliver of their lives hit me and melted my heart. It was such a thrill to know that these two men-- both of whom have enjoyed international fame and long lines of people waiting for an opportunity to meet, touch, and photograph them--still, in the later stages of their lives, have heroes who excite them. I feel totally honored to have witnessed anything so strikingly touching.

• 

Kris is wearing his hair shorter and his face shows lines of wisdom, smiles, and some of the stories he sings but he is still gorgeous and his voice as strong and sexy as ever. He reined in his emotions after a few songs and delivered – as always – straight from his heart to ours. I was happy to see that that most of the people jumping out of their seats with uncontrollable adoration this time were young men. It was an enjoyable, emotional evening for everyone.

(I’ll forgive him for not singing my favorite of his songs (imbedded below) since it’s over eight minutes long, and this audience seemed too commercial to have anticipated it.)

 

Everyone Has a Twin

We pulled the pop-out camper across the state line, past the hog farms, around the country church, through the crumbling cemetery, and down the winding road to arrive at Starve Hollow Lake, as we had done many times before. This campground attracted each of us for a different reason: Daddy liked the solitude, Mom appreciated the trees and paved path to the showers, my brother enjoyed the fishing, and I looked forward to the jukebox and beach. We had been there in good weather and storms, on holiday weekends as well as off-season, on every day of the week, but had never seen a crowd anything like this one.

Tanning bodies covered the beach on a crazy quilt of multi-colored towels and blankets, their Coppertone adding a twist to the lake and concession stand aromas. While the friends who had come with me fished with my brother, I watched the new crowd from my standing-to-tan-both-sides position near the jukebox, wishing more of the new people were closer to my age. It looked like the hippies who lived in a converted school bus at the far end of the campground might be the only people around who shared my interests, and none of them were out.

He came along and shattered the monotony. I noticed the reactions of the crowd before I spotted him. Divers stood still on the wooden island located outside the safety markers. Castle building and body-burying ceased. Frisbees and beach balls came to abrupt halts, and burning bodies popped into sitting positions on the quilt pieces. Every head turned to follow as he strutted from one end of the beach to the other, confident but seemingly indifferent to the attention.

When we gathered back at the camper for our Coleman-stove dinner, he monopolized the conversation. Mom said she had never seen anything like it off screen. Daddy teased about her drooling. The fishing crew reported they had noticed from the middle of the lake, and stopped to see what had brought beach activity to a stand still. I was glad to know I hadn't imagined him.

Loathing the open-air shower room as much as the enclosed sink area where strangers spat in sinks and crowded around a single mirror, I rushed through my shower that evening and told my friends I would wait for them outside. While they did hair and make-up, I sat on a picnic table near the now deserted beach and watched the sun set. He returned for an encore, and I was the only one left to see.

I pinched myself when he broke stride and walked toward me. My heart stopped again when he asked if I was going to be there a few minutes and I discovered his voice was even more attractive than his appearance. I managed a nod. He gifted me with an explanation about how he had decided not to swim earlier because of the crowd, and now that he had the lake to himself, he was afraid to leave his watch and wallet unattended and go in.

Lulled by the music in his voice, I held out my hand to collect his valuables. He promised he wouldn't be long and followed his words with a grin that could have melted Antarctica.

My friends joined me in time to watch the last rays of sun highlight his body as he bobbed in and out of the water. Despite their urging, I refused to peek inside the wallet and put a name to this perfect specimen of masculinity. Later, when my friends had wandered off and he introduced himself, I wished I had. The name he had given sounded as fake as John Doe, undeserving of its holder.

Envious of each drop that trickled into tanned, muscular dreamland, I returned his personal items and made room for him to sit at the table while he air-dried. His name remained the only thing ordinary about him. On a short break from years of seeing the world which he described mostly in people he had met, he had stopped to visit an aunt who owned a nearby farm. A friend awaited him there. He would love to join the campfire and music my family had planned, if we (my friends had joined us by then) would ride back with him to pick up the friend and his guitar.

The four of us crowded into his aunt's truck and rode to the farm. A small plane parked beside a dinner bell in the side lawn seemed out of place with the wrap-around porch on the house and the barn in the background. My curiosity about it kept me from reacting to the smell of hogs in the distance.

While he changed into dry clothes, the aunt served cookies and lemonade and explained that the plane belonged to him. After refreshments and pleasant conversation with the family, we headed back to camp. The aunt walked us out, hugged each of us as though we were family, and handed me a folded copy of the local paper. A souvenir, she called it, and I was happy to have something to remember her with.

His friend and one of mine rode in the back of the truck with the guitar. I kept the souvenir with me until we were back and I tossed it in the camper.

The music and stories outlasted me that night. Neighboring campers had brought lawn chairs and blankets to our site. Many of them were still present, as was my mother's smile, when the fire died, the sun came up, and I dozed off in my chaise lounge.

I didn't think of the newspaper again until we were packing to leave two days later and my dad asked if I wanted to keep it. For the first time, I opened the paper and saw his picture on the front page, with a different, more deserving name attached. He had been in town to headline the concert line-up at the Jackson County fair, billed as one of the largest fairs in the world, and held the day before.

I'll never know for sure that he is the same man I've seen in concerts and movies since, or if he just looked exactly like that man and the aunt found that amusing. When I've had the opportunity to ask, several times through the years, he just flashed that same melting grin in response.

Mark O’Mara: Face of All That Is Wrong With Our Legal System

My father said if I looked carefully at every person who came into my life, I would discover something good about each of them and I would uncover the reason they had come into my life. Sometimes, he warned, the only reason they would be there would be to show me what I didn’t want to be. I took his words to heart and made a game of it.

A month into the active part of the game with Mark O’Mara, I’ve identified his purpose in my life but am not finding a single moral fiber, example, action, or even physical characteristic that warrants the label good. I believe his purpose is to be the face of all that is wrong with our legal system.

Mr. O’Mara volunteered to take this case, knowing that his client murdered an innocent child and blamed his victim, and that the client’s first attorneys quit because he was uncooperative. This was not a case of O’Mara being a public defender and it was his turn, or even of being called to take the case. He volunteered, which makes me believe he enjoys helping murderers get away with their crimes or he wanted publicity. Neither makes him a good guy in my eyes. In the end, it’s also easy for me to believe he knew it would be a profitable endeavor, also. Add disgusting to the not good things I already think of him. There is nothing more disgusting than wanting to profit from the murder of an innocent child.

Mr. O’Mara made it perfectly clear that he prides himself on being devious, dishonest, and disgustingly cruel as he badgered witnesses. Public conversation indicates there are many in our society who believe murderers are entitled to have devious liars as defense attorneys. I’m not one of them. Why are witnesses required to swear to tell the truth while defense attorneys badger them with lies and attempt to deceptively coerce them into accidentally using a word that can be twisted and used against them later? The defense in the Zimmerman case did this repeatedly and shamefully with Rachel Jeantel. I hope this is another conversation we will take up as a result of this trial since it makes people not want to come forward and serve as witnesses.

Now, there is evidence of jury tampering. Only the murderer can appeal? Double jeopardy laws protect them from society appealing on behalf of the victim? Another conversation I’d like to have.

Mr. O’Mara claims his client will never be safe because there are a percentage of the population who are angry and may take their anger out on him. The truth is, Mr. O’Mara’s client will never be safe because of choices that he and his client made. The client chose to stalk and murder an innocent child based on prejudice and Mr. O’Mara chose to make a mockery of our system so he could walk free.

Mr. O’Mara compounds the ugliness and inflames the anger many of us feel by asking us to sympathize with his client, who did plenty wrong and showed no remorse for any of it, while ignoring the fact that his victim, Trayvon Martin, was not safe simply because O’Mara’s client acted on flawed prejudgment of the victim. By ignoring the reality of the millions of others who are more unsafe because he helped a prejudiced killer get away with murder, Mr. O’Mara becomes the fool he obviously hopes we are when he whines about his client feeling unsafe now. (I say the self-defense classes and paranoid belief that he needed to carry a gun to Target shows his client felt unsafe before any of this happened. We should wonder what this man has done to make so many enemies.)

If Mr. O’Mara’s client had taken the stand in his own defense, told his story, and begged for mercy and forgiveness, I might have been able to find one good thing to say about both of them. But that didn’t happen.

Turns out Mr. O’Mara came into my life for two reasons: he will remain the face of everything wrong with our legal system in my mind, as well as a reminder of what I don’t want to be. 

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