So I believe in angels.

Not the white-winged, golden-haloed, Christmas pageant kind, although I don't rule out much of anything when it comes to what they might look like. Ghosts, maybe. But I believe in some kind of being, a power that lives on in the people who love us. Protectors, influencers, maybe even trouble-makers who live on in some way after they die.

I don't question the scientific validity of it very much. I can't because I would lose that argument. Sure we need to believe it, that our loved ones live on. It keeps us sane. But it goes beyond that. So many beautiful, unexplainable things happen in the boredom of everyday life that simply can't be brushed off as coincidence. I believe it because I feel it. And I'm okay with that.

And today I'm trying to imagine what kind of angel my uncle Dick will be. Before cancer, he wasn't someone that I'd describe as a fighter, but he lost a noble battle last week. I guess everyone becomes a fighter when it comes to cancer. His focus became more about fighting to raise the spirits of the family he knew he was leaving behind. And Dick is good at raising spirits.

Dick was a lot of good things in his life--he raised a beautiful family, he was a good friend, he loved to golf--but when I think of his what his angelic influence will be, I imagine it will be that ability to raise the spirits of others. He's the guy who tells you what you think is a serious story, until he delivers the line at the end. He's the one who will make himself look silly to make you laugh. He'll even help you laugh at yourself, and make you feel like you are in on the joke too.

So I'm thinking instead of wings and a halo, maybe he'll be wearing a kilt like the one he wore to his daughter's wedding--the Italian guy having a little fun with the Irish side of the family. Or maybe one of his old Halloween costumes--I'm thinking God might get a kick out of his nun get-up from the 70's, back when his moustache and a cigar really completed the look. If there's a dress-code, though, he'll still rock it. He'll talk God into a game of cards and a glass of wine and have him laughing in no time. Because we know that God has a sense of humor.

Me? I'm going to think of him when I need my own spirits lifted, when I need to laugh at myself. I get myself far too worked up about things that I can do nothing about, and Heaven knows I need to relax. And now Heaven's got one more angel to help with that.

We will miss you, Dick.

Road Trip

Outside
each road dances

trees shifting in their sleep

a vacant trailer sags on a ridge

peeling poster flutters from a flaking billboard

washed woods point dated directions

a river curls cautiously around a lost clump of weeds

spent stalks collapse under snow

countless whites and grays flash by

as shuffled card faces of buildings

brick, metal, cinder block, metal

noiseless movement past tinted windows

Inside
my hand in yours
you and I are still

We Met

We met
Tuesday night shopping

you were screaming at your screaming child

her long hoarse vowels
seeping through packages of chinese noodles
and ricocheting off tin cans of green beans

tired muscles of my eyes
resisting rolling

because she seems to know
you won't really slap her into next week

Leaving room for you and your frustration
I skipped your aisle
And didn't buy cranberries

So, how was it?

I’ve been away for awhile

Rocked by the waves of an unpredictable river

Relaxed sometimes in my inflatable black tube

Surprised sometimes by a thrilling section of rapids

Disappointed sometimes by entrapment in a patch of reeds

Melting in the humid sun

But not missing the demands of rowing

I am too busy examining a rare water plants

Discovering exotic, brightly-colored fish,

Gathering glossy, spotted rocks from the river bed

Feeling their weight in my pockets

Far away I spot rowboats anchored on the shore

I’m so glad I am not their captain

There are many streams and forks,

Miles and waves

Eventually though

they become confusing

Not sure where I am,

the rocking makes me dizzy

Sunburned and windblown,

I return home

Glad to return my hand to the tiller of my own

Fighters

"Fight like a girl!"

That's the slogan on the back of one of the T-shirts that will be at the Make Strides Against Breast Cancer Walk here in Binghamton today. So as I get ready to leave for the walk, I'm wondering about that phrase means.

In my house full of boys it's traditionally been an insult. Don't get caught crying like a girl, punching like a girl, running like a girl, or, heaven forbid, playing baseball like a girl--it just won't do. So fighting like a girl, hasn't traditionally been a compliment 'round here.

But I know that my young sons are starting to grow up to learn what it really means to fight like a girl. As they learn what women have fought for in history, as they benefit from the quiet strength of the women that I hope will remain in their lives, as they meet women who fight like no man they've ever met before, they'll learn. It takes a little longer to see because we women don't fight with punches and guns and bombs, we fight with an inner strength that few men have, and that many women don't know that they have.

And that is what I want my sons to know, and two of them will be walking with me today. It is what I want my middle school students to know, the strong women I know who fight like girls.

I want them to know about my friend Debbie, who waited to tell her daughters about her diagnosis and upcoming surgery, until her granddaughter was born. Erin had already lost one child to miscarriage, and Debbie wanted to be support for her daughter, not more stress.

Or my friend Lauren, Deb's other daughter, who celebrated her daughter's first birthday, lost her job, and then received her own diagnosis. And the fight she faces is a long one, but she has already started admirably, with optimism and strength that her daughter can be proud of.

I want them to fight like my friend Sara, who struggled for months making a decision to leave a difficult marriage, only to be diagnosed shortly afterward. Her decision to stay with her husband and fight for her health was as much for her children as herself.

I want them to remember people like my friend Tina, whose death was followed 3 weeks later, by that of her husband, who couldn't see living his life without her. And to know strong people like Tina's daughter now raising her teenage brother.

I'm walking because I've been inspired by a lot of strong women who fight like girls, with the hope that someday they won't have to anymore.

Those back-to-school lists

This was passed along to me via email by my mother-in-law, and I wish I wrote it. Which is funny, because the kid's name is Ben.
Tina

For all who have been shopping for back to school supplies with "THE LIST". Enjoy!

Dear Mrs. X:

In just over a week, you will be my son’s Grade 1 teacher. He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage. Since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about. He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”

And I have to admit, I, too, was excited. I'm a school supplies geek from way back. And so, in early August, I set out to buy the items you'd listed.

It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.

You are a crafty bitch, aren't you?

This list was a thinly disguised test. Could I find the items, exactly as you'd described? Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, The Mother Who CAN'T Follow Directions.

For example, the glue sticks you requested. In the 40 gram size. Three of the little buggers. (What kind of massive, sticky project you've got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.) But the 40 gram size doesn't come in a convenient 3-pack. The 30 gram size does. But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate. So I got the individually priced 40’s, as per your instructions.

Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors). The 24 packs, with their 24 different colors, sat there, on sale. I could have purchased three of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs. (Clearly, you'll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.) Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma'am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons. But that’s what the list said. And I was committed to following the list.

But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn't you? “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for. Simple enough. Except the standard size is seven millimeters. One. Millimeter. Difference. Do you realize, Mrs. X., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is? Pretty small, I assure you. The thickness of a fingernail, approximately. But that millimeter, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty August hours. And when I finally, finally found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory. I merely shifted my focus. To you, Mrs. X.

You wanna dance, lady? Let’s dance.

Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games. And, in turn, come up with some of my own.

On show and tell day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth. It will be labeled, “Ben’s First Puppy.” Enjoy!

He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean. Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-semite”, and “skank”. Good luck with those.

At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics. And I'm quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”. And he will-----through interpretive dance.

Because that is who you've chosen to tangle with, toots. A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands. But is, most certainly, A Mother Who CAN Follow Directions.

Sincerely,

Ben's Mom

Boy Meets Car--A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a happy, handsome young prince named Teenager. He knew that he was young, and he definitely knew that he was handsome, but he did not know that he was happy, for verily, he did not have a chariot.

"Woe is me!" He cried out in great agony, "For I have no chariot. And my mother, the Evil Queen, refuses to purchase one for me."

Alas, it was true! His mother was evil and she was the queen, and she would not purchase the said chariot.

"Hah, hah, ha," she cackled. "Half! Thou shalt not purchase an automobile until thou bringeth me half of the gold! Hah, ha ha!"

Indeed Teenager was very, very sad for he knew not how he would accomplish such a deed.

"Oh, the agony!” cried Teenager, for he was indeed in great pain. "She who holds half the gold makes a full pain in my butt!"

"A job!" cackled the Evil Queen again. "Get thyself a JOB!" Bwah, ha, ha!"

With the weariest of sighs and eyerolling, the teenager set off to find himself a job. He journeyed far beyond the kingdom to Pizza Palace where he learned to make magic pies.

There he worked with fire and gold and even learned to wield a magical tool called a "mop." Soon he found that he had finally gathered enough gold to purchase his fine chariot.

Valiantly, the teenager searched every corner of the kingdom for his perfect chariot, until one day, he found it! Princess Jetta! She was small and quick, and of the darkest green, and got great gas mileage! And when Prince Teenager tried the key, it fit!

"You have done well, fine Prince," proclaimed the Evil Queen, "But you are warned, be certain to hoard closely a portion of your gold, for chariot repairs may be needed."

But like most Princes of his kind, teenager did not heed the warning of the wise queen. Instead, he squandered his gold on such frivolities as X-Box and trips to Fast Food Land.

And one day, the Prince fell prey to his own folly.

“Ma!” cried the voice on the other end of the tiny magic phone, “I’m broke down on the side of route 88.”

“Fear not, Prince! Check thine supplies carefully! Is the cauldron completely full with Magic Elixir?”

"Well, Duh, Ma--I mean--Verily fine queen, I have done as you nag! My chariot has indeed been bewitched!"

It took all the supremacy of the Evil Queen’s powers to suppress the ferocity of the imprisoned monster, Itoldyouso, but she had years of experience in preventing his escape, so she sent Sir Tow Truck to rescue poor teenager.

As the Evil Queen relinquished much gold to the wise Wizard at Ye Olde Repair Shop, she asked for his magical diagnosis of Princess Jetta’s recent demise.

Wise Wizard struggled to suppress his laughter, ”Actually Ma’am, it was out of gas.”