A man's "mow"-tivation

 I left behind me, a man on the East Coast, determined to grow grass from barren soil to encounter another man, on the West Coast, with the same maddeningly obsessive penchant. As I admired the lush but spotty green growth defying the desertous terrain like tufts of hair bravely clinging to a balding man's head, I stood, amazed, that man had not yet managed to ship sod to the moon and retrofitted the Rover with a blade deck. 

Such was my introduction to Douglas.

Not wishing to have Douglas's first impression of me scarred by my mocking of the genesis that would one day be his botanically-inspired backyard, I instead began quibbling with him about the scam surrounding surface area, volume, and capitalism pertaining to ice cubes.

"Oh my gosh, are we STILL talking about this?" Sydney groused as we embarked on a five-mile hike around the reservoir. I glanced at my daughter, who I currently HATED because she'd suggested this fun, little adventure in front of Doug and I couldn't yet reveal the depths of my sluggishness and sloth to him yet. The packed parking lot was a sign that the Lord was going to perform a divine intervention on my behalf. Our following a pair of men in pressed, pleated pants and ties who had just finished their shift of selling salvation to the sweaty to their soon-to-be available spot, proved the Lord was on Sydney's side. "Damn it," I muttered.

"It was a GIANT, rectangular ice cube that practically took up my entire glass," I argued, wishing I'd broken in my new sneakers for this little marathon.  It's only redeeming value, as far as I could see, was that it could double as a magnifying glass so I could see the microscopic prices on the menu. "They normally use those for Old Fashions," Sydney agreed comfortingly, relaying an uncomfortable familiarity with alcoholic beverages to her soon-to-be-limping mother. The fact that she has a plug-in, electric wine bottle opener on her kitchen counter was another clue that my sweet baboo may have graduated from grade school lunch pouches. 

Douglas listened attentively to this idiotic debate with good grace and helpfully tried to reassure me that the ice cube wasn't intended to cheat me out of my fair share of bacchian delight. He dropped the word "displacement" and my mind broke off of the blister forming on my heel and whipped right over to Douglas. Who did he think he was? This guy barely knows me and he's going to try to use science and reason to calm me down?!? Reading my fury as confusion, Doug hurried to clarify USING MATH...tossing a ratio-based fraction grenade into a battle didn't know he'd initiated. 

It was a LONG walk.

Doug was bravely convalescing from gum surgery ( that I had trouble taking seriously because he'd been directed, in case of an emergency, to plug Orbit gum into any gaping wounds...that is SO 2022. Back in the day, the wizened, trail-weary gunslinger would tear off a slug of tobacco with his teeth, masticate it and then mold it to the wound), Sydney's wisdom teeth were erupting out of her mouth, and I was hemorrhaging from the heel. We returned, tired, to our miraculous parking spot...constructed an triangular altar (we refrained from calling it a tepee after a passionate political correction debate) of thanksgiving out of recyclable materials and went home. 

Hungry, we stood in the kitchen while Doug considered his limited options. Man, after all, cannot subside on Orbit gum alone. Sydney had religiously researched compatible food for him and handed him an applesauce pouch. I watched Doug from the corner of my eye as he dubiously accepted this kind offering. This was a man who could direct reluctant vegetation to grow in inhospitable places. This man wielded words like "surface area" and "displacement" with confident authority. This man wanted to drive HIMSELF home after painful gum surgery. But was he man enough to eat an applesauce pouch?

With grim determination and a steady grip, Doug tore the top off and consumed his soft food. Pleased, Sydney resumed changing out the garbage from the tall kitchen receptacle. Wrestling with the bag that refused to fit snugly over the top, Sydney began to grow frustrated. With a strong arm, Doug gently nudged her away from the villainous vat. "Here," he said heroically, "hold my applesauce pouch."

Friendly people get pushed around: A "perverted" one-act play

There are few sides of Brad Mosiman that I haven't seen or don't enjoy. I mean, c'mon, look at him. Me-ow. But today? Today was a shocker. I have to admit...I didn't recognize the man I married. Judge for yourself based on this morning's phone conversation:

Amy:  I had a perv come on to me yesterday.

Brad:  (Obviously distracted by something unimportant...like navigating Boston's busy city streets) Uh-huh.

Amy:  (Repeating herself because the love of her life and indignant defender of all women must not have heard her):  I said, "I had a perv come on to me yesterday."

Brad: I heard you (mumbles as he misses his turn).

Amy:  Aren't you upset?

Brad:  (honks heard in background) You were at Joan's, your mom's, and bookclub...(yells something indistinguishable out his window...more honking is heard)

Amy:  (huffing)

Brad:  (sighing) Alright. Tell me about this lurid incident.

Amy:  Well...I was at the assisted living center...

Brad:  Oh boy.

Amy: (defensively) What?

Brad:  You and Sydney are the exact same. 

Amy:  You haven't even heard the story yet and you are victim-shaming me?

Brad:  Hold on (More yelling. The words "double-park" and "Mass-hole" can be heard). Okay. I'm back. I am NOT victim-shaming you. I am just saying that you tend to be overly-friendly and send out signals...INADVERTENTLY...(He added as Amy began to sputter)...and you don't pick up on cues that you've...inadvertently...invited attention. You and Sydney tend to be perv magnets.

Long silence as Amy was stunned by this gross mischaracterization of her friendly nature and Brad was deftly avoiding a 3-car pile-up.

Brad: (sighing) Tell me what happened.

Amy: (punishing Brad by not talking to him, remains silent)

Brad:  (sighing again) Alright, maybe we can talk about this later when I get out of traffic...

Amy:  There was that old guy on the 2nd floor in a wheelchair...

Brad:  You are going to have to be more specific than that...

Amy: (huffs) Do you want to hear this or not?

Brad:  More than anything.

Amy: Anyway...I breezed by, saying hello as usual...

Brad:  In your super-energetic happy voice?

Amy: (frowning) No...in my usual voice.

Brad: (nodding) Uh-huh. Go on...

Amy:  He was wearing a patriotic fedora.

Brad:  A fedora?

Amy:  Think "Godfather."

Brad:  Okay...a hat from the 50s. You really paint a picture.

Amy:  Oh! And, sidebar, they installed the new carpet in that part of the corridor!

Brad:  Great!

Amy:  I know!

Brad:  How is it?

Amy:  Well...it's kind of a weird yet subtle animal print but REALLY spongy.

Brad:  Does this somehow tie in to how you were victimized?

Amy:  Well...kind of. I mentioned the sponginess of the carpet to the guy.

Brad:  In the fedora? Oh no...did you bounce when you mentioned the sponginess of the carpet?

Amy: (loathe to admit it) Yes.

Brad:  Okay. Go on.

Amy:  Well...in the midst of my visit with Mom, I passed him three times. On the last time, he was positioned next to the stairs.

Brad: (nodding) Your exit point.

Amy: EXACTLY! He waved me over and extended his hand. Naturally, I took it.

Brad:  Naturally.

Amy: Instead of a handshake, he did that weird, creepy thing that some men do.

Brad:  The flip.

Amy:  Yes! The flip. And then...(she shudders)

Brad:  What?

Amy:  He took two fingers and tickled the inside of my palm!

Brad: The monster! (Stops teasing for a second) You're right...that was gross and inappropriate. What did you do?

Amy: I removed my hand firmly and told him to be good before flouncing dramatically down the stairs.

Brad:  That showed him!

Amy:  See? I am NO WAY to blame for that?

Brad:  Remember when I was out on deployment and you would go to dinner and a movie with the manager of the pet store?

Amy:  Why do you ALWAYS bring that up?

Brad:  Because you didn't realize that you were dating him while being married to me.

Amy: For goodness sake...that was over thirty years ago! I suppose now you're going to bring up the guy that asked me to keep him company outside at a wedding reception until you intervened.

Brad:  No...I was going to bring up the bus driver on the Whale Watch trip that asked you for drinks after you'd gotten all the 6th graders put to bed.

Amy:  This was NOT my fault!

Brad:  What about when you almost accepted acid from a stranger in the porta potty line at a Grateful Dead concert because it looked like a cute sticker?

Amy:  That could have happened to ANYONE!

Brad:  You were seven months pregnant at the time!

Amy:  (repeating) This was NOT my fault!

Brad:  Being friendly is not a fault. Not picking up on how that friendliness is being interpreted is a fault. 

Amy: Why am I being held responsible for someone else's warped interpretation of my overture of friendliness? 

Brad:  Because I love you and want you to be safe.

Amy:  (stewing) Don't you have to work?

Brad:  Trust me...I've been working.

The Lord God goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:8)

With the good weather, my mother enjoys sitting in front of her building watching the comings and goings of the day. A couple was unloading over-flowing boxes of blankets and linens stacked on dresser drawers full of clothes. A rolled up pair of white athletic socks wobbled away, landing in the parking lot. "Someone's moving in," my mother observed, as an elderly man, steel braces surrounding his calves, fought for balance on his teetering crutches as he solemnly oversaw the operation. My mom was quiet for a minute and then added, with a sigh, "At least it's easier in the summer."                                                                                             Standing in the reception area later, preparing to leave, I noticed one of Mom's shoelaces had come unraveled. Kneeling, I quickly tied it. "Don't back up," she warned me and, glancing behind me, I realized that the man had approached us. I hugged and kissed my mother good-bye and turned to go, shifting to go around him. "Is that your mother?" he asked gruffly. I quelled my natural-born instinct to be sarcastic. It doesn't go over well in this environment. I nodded. Frowning, he squinted at me. "How can you just leave her here?"                                                                                                                                                                                                Wow. I finally had the voice narration for the agonizing drama that kept me up every night, wracked with guilt. Funny, I had imagined it would sound more like Samuel L. Jackson. I have that same exact sentence on stereo-sound repeat in my head every night and every time I drive away from her new "home." Are you familiar with the word Samuel L. Jackson is famous for uttering? That is the adjective that I would, in my remorse, regret, and shame, would ascribe (unfairly) to the word "home."

The only explanation for my not immediately snapping defensively at this individual was God...pure and simple. I am not a "pause and consider" type of person. I am not reflective, empathetic, or instinctively compassionate. Those things kick in later sometimes but, in the moment, I am a quick-to-anger, snap-judgement, trigger-happy impulsive idiot. But God quieted me. 

"It's hard," I admitted, glancing back to where my mother had disappeared into the dining room. "I live about an hour away but I try to visit as often as I can." (Not enough, Guilt whispered to my heart.)

He nodded. "We're moving my wife in," he told me, swaying a bit on his crutches as I realized he was more in danger of an emotional free-fall. "She's in the hospital. They say I can't care for her at home anymore." It was his turn to glance over his shoulder and I wondered who was whispering to his hurting heart. I nodded sadly. "She can be violent sometimes." I inched closer to him as he softly said, "Sometimes she doesn't know me."

He went on to tell me that he lived right up the road which was a good thing. That they'd been married 56 years. I refrained, heroically, from telling him that my parents had been married 68 years...This was his story. Not mine.

"She doesn't know she's coming here," he said, glaring at the building that served as both sentence and sanctuary. "How can I do this to her?" 

We stared, helplessly at one another.

"What is your wife's name?" I asked.

"Ruth."

Oh dear Lord. You ARE here.

I am loathe to share too deeply of my faith because I fear not representing Jesus well with my tongue-tied words as well as my lack of knowledge and recall of scripture. But, oh, Ruth.

Ruth. Who left the comfort of a familiar place...left her people...to go live among strangers.

I may not be well-versed in religious theology but I had taken a crash course in the hard lessons this man was currently drowning in.

"I had to make a choice," I told him, "between my mother's interpretation of happiness which was rooted in her independence and her safety." He and I stared at one another. I gripped his arm as he stood there, shaking. "Sometimes you can't have both."His tears broke my heart as I recognized a kindred soul. "Ruth will be safe here."

From there, I drove to my friend Sarah's house for a book club meeting. She had adamantly refused to tell me the name of the book. I'd burned her once, under similar circumstances, and I think she was seeking revenge.  The nearly twenty women sat together to begin the discussion about adult friendships and I laughed when I finally discovered the book's title:  Find Your People. 

Thank you, Lord for your still, small voice. Please be with Ruth.

Ruth 1:16

I will live where you live; Your people will be my people; Your God will be my God.