The “I Do” Moment

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Forty-six years ago when Mike and I were planning our wedding, one of the first things we had to do was meet with our pastor. Because we weren’t active parishioners at the time, the man didn’t know us at all. He did, however, know his job.

After the preliminary questioning was complete, he handed us a brochure with the traditional Catholic vows inside. We could choose one of them, or, if so inclined, could write our own.

At that time I had neither the time nor the inclination to write my own. Because Mike was shy and unsure of his ability to craft something original, we made what we thought was the right decision: we chose a traditional vow.

As our day neared we discussed many things. We knew we wanted to buy a house, have children and travel. The fine details of wedding planning fell entirely on my shoulders.

I visited the tuxedo rental shop. I loved the blue one as it would to go with Mike’s deep blue eyes. However, the size-ranges available wouldn’t cover his groomsmen, so I chose white with black trim. The shirt was a deep yellow with ruffles, something Mike would never have worn in a hundred years.

My mom was going to make my wedding dress as the ones I had seen were too expensive. She chose a simple pattern then embellished it with tiny fake-pearls.

I had no idea what bridesmaid’s wore, but I knew they would have to be homemade as there was no money to buy premade ones. At the fabric store my mom and I sorted through rolls of fabric. The only one that looked like a gown was a Kelly green with large white dots. There was enough of it and the price was good. My poor bridesmaids had to wear ugly gowns with cheap white hats!

As the date neared Mike and I settled on our vows. I thought I heard him say the second one, so that’s what I memorized.

Meanwhile he kept me on edge by telling me that it didn’t matter what he said or did because all eyes would be on me!

By the time the day arrived and we were alone at the front of the church, stars filled my eyes and I had difficulty breathing. All I could think of was all those eyes, those eyes of our family and friends, staring at me.

When the time came in the Mass for us to exchange vows, I was prepared. I had the words down. There was no way I was going to mess this up.

Mike went first. He held my hands in his, looked into my eyes with a confidant and reassuring gaze and said, “I, Michael Connelly, take you, Teresa Haack, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward…”

But, wait! Those weren’t the words! That was the first vow, not the second. I panic. Do I listen with a sick smile plastered on my face and recite the words I’d memorized or try to repeat what he was saying?

“for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,” he continued.

I’m collecting his words, trying to plant them in my brain.

“in sickness and health, until death do us part.” He smiled such a warm, loving smile that I braved repeating his words.

“I, Teresa Haack, take you to be my husband.”

I pause trying to recall what came next. “to have and”, I can’t remember! What do I do?

He smiles and squeezes my hands. I continue saying the words I’d learned: “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love and honor you all the days of my life.”

It was done. With the final blessing we were married. We headed down the aisle with grins and exuberance.

Later on as we were driving away I asked Mike what had happened. He thought we had chosen the first version!

Well, in the end it didn’t matter. Our marriage has been a success. We love each other as much now as we did back then.

If I had to do it all over, though, we’d practice before each other to make sure our words matched.

An “I do” moment that almost failed, didn’t.

 

He Smiled

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Imagine being able to say that OJ Simpson once smiled at me!  Guess what? It really happened. This is the story of my “brush” with the famous.

When I transferred to the University of Southern California in the fall of 1968, I knew little about college football.  At the time, I was soon to discover, USC was an athletic powerhouse, thanks to a phenomenal bunch of handpicked athletes in a variety of sports. The Trojans dominated in football, men’s and women’s basketball and swimming.  Not only that, but their track and field teams were equally strong due to multisport athletes.

Football begins the season. Banners covered surfaces all across the campus. Rallies were held every day and when the teams weren’t at home, all ears were tuned to the radio. You either followed the sports or you were an outcast. It was that simple.

The athletes, no matter what sport or how great they were, dominated the social life of the campus. Partying to celebrate their successes was a nightly affair since some team played almost every day, whether at home or away. If they weren’t off playing or pratcicing, they strutted their stuff around campus, practically oozing greatness.

I quickly learned the “culture,” of partying. There was a booze-filled affair the night before a game, partying during the game, and another party after the game, all in celebration of a victory won or a record broken. And if you didn’t find what you were looking for at one party, all you had to do was stroll down fraternity row to find another. This was especially important if you didn’t like the booze being served or the music thundering out onto the street.

None of the better-known athletes lived in the Greek houses and few had their own apartments. Instead they had their own dorm which was shielded from the peasants by locked doors and glazed windows.  It was rumored that their meal options weren’t the standard bland food that the rest of us got: instead legend had it that they feasted on huge, juicy steaks, fresh vegetables and a cornucopia of cheeses and desserts.

When they had nothing better to do they swaggered about campus in their lettermen jackets emblazoned with every type of recognition (except for a noticeable lack of academic awards). That’s not to say they weren’t capable, but at that time, achievements on the field or court were what kept them at college, not the grades received or classes taken.

With their rippling muscles, impossibly broad shoulders, and over-confident leers dished out to fawning fans, they stood far above the crowd. And they knew it.

Periodically small groups of “stars” strolled through my dining hall, snickering at the dismal fare splattered on institutional grade plates and trays.  I imagined that they had just dined on mounds of steak cooked to perfection, served with steaming mashed potatoes and crisp fresh greens.

Equality among students did not exist and there was no pretense of leveling the playing field, because the athletes were, literally, the bread and butter of university funding.  The stronger the athletes, the more likely the university would rack up victories, which then correlated to increased donations from alumni.

If I hadn’t been awed by their very presence, I should have despised the athletes for they were the epitome of all that I was not.  My family was low income which qualified me for a rather generous “pity” scholarship from the state of California. Without that gift I would not have been at such a prestigious college as USC.  But, like the vast majority of students, I didn’t hate the arrogant athletes, but rather worshipped the ground they walked on.

One evening, in a rather unusual move for me, I got as dressed up as I could and went downstairs where a dance was being held in the cafeteria.  I am not sure what possessed me to go as I was a horrific dancer.  I was also painfully shy and so operated solo the vast majority of the time, in classes as well as while on campus.

I did have friends, academics like me, but more extreme for their heads dwelt more in the clouds than in reality.  None of them were what I considered marriageable as they were more interested in finding a spouse to complete a given responsibility than having a relationship of equals. But, like any teenager, I yearned to have a boyfriend.  The dance “called” my name, speaking to me of an opportunity to meet, greet and date and so I went.

The dining hall had been transformed, as much as possible, into a disco dance hall.  With lights down low, revolving points of light danced across the walls, creating an eerie spectacle of glowing, gyrating bodies.  It wasn’t Halloween, but the bizarre lighting gave off the same feel.

The music was ear-shattering making it impossible to do more than look at all the beautiful people.  I meandered about the perimeter of the room with a plastic smile glued to my face, hoping that just one person would nod kindly in my direction. Once my circuit was completed with no takers found, I wanted nothing more but to leave this place of loneliness among confusion.

I headed toward the door, but just as I got within sight of the doorjamb, the crowd parted as miraculously as the Red Sea.  In walked none other than OJ Simpson, flanked by two humongous football players.

OJ was an incredibly handsome man with an earthy skin tone that spoke of roots, faithfulness, integrity, and family.  His eyes sparkled and a shy smile gave a sensuous lift to his lips.  I saw no semblance of arrogance, but warmth.

Like the rest of the crowd, I stood transfixed, enjoying simply being in the presence of greatness.  This was OJ’s year, the year he earned the Heisman Trophy, broke a number of records, and was first pick in the professional football draft.  Everyone knew that he was bound for the record halls and that his name would be spoken around the world.

As the trio neared me I was shoved back into the crowd.  I didn’t mind, for I intrinsically knew that these men were well beyond my social reach.  What I didn’t expect or count on was being seen.

As O’s greatness neared me, his eyes glanced in my direction and he smiled.  Not an I-want-to-talk-to-you smile, but one that recognized me as a fellow human being.  Since the contact was short-lived, I realized that there was the possibility that the greeting wasn’t even meant for me.  I acknowledged that OJ was simply flashing his famous smile at everyone, sort of like the priest sprinkling Holy Water over the congregation in a quick pass down the aisle.

Even though I knew that the encounter meant nothing to OJ, I stood a little taller and felt a tad more important than I had before.  It was a moment that I will never forget.

Georgia Peach

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Georgia, a peachy little girl

One fine day wandered far from her home.

With mammoth twist and a single twirl,

Lost the dirt path on which she did roam.

 

No worries, though, for this saucy child

Did spot a cottage deep in the wood.

The sun shone down on roses gone wild,

Made Georgia forget to be good.

 

She knocked upon the ancient door,

Then flounced her golden, curly hair:

Listened for footsteps soft on the floor,

Thought of whom might live in tiny lair.

 

When no one came to see her inside,

She turned the small knob with trembling hand,

Opened the door wearing a smile wide.

Alas, no one there to take a stand.

 

Georgia stepped into kitchen small,

Noticed three platters brimming full,

And glasses barely two fingers tall,

In which was liquid brown and dull.

 

She took a taste from the biggest one.

Georgia gagged: fought to keep it down.

“This stuff stinks,” she burbled. “I am done.”

Her face now covered with ugly frown.

 

Next she spied the family’s stuffed chairs

Crimson and gold, with tassels of blue.

Nestled under the circular stairs.

Georgia sat, fell.  “This was not new!”

 

With achy bones, she climbed the first step,

Heard nary a sound from man nor beast.

Up she went; where the family slept.

Miniature beds spaced most to least.

 

Exhausted from her explorations,

Georgia moved them all together.

Soon she forgot all aspirations

And dreamt of sunny, pleasant weather.

 

While adrift on misty isle of cloud,

Georgia snored and tossed all about.

She didn’t hear voices clear and loud.

“Someone’s here,” said Dad, “there is no doubt.”

 

The family of three, with startled eyes,

Noticed empty glass and broken chair.

“Who’s in the house?” said the mother wise.

“I’ll find out,” Father said.  “I’ll take great care.”

 

Father first, Mother and then the Son

Crept up the stairs and looked all around.

“There she is,” said Father. “That’s the one!”

“She must have thought she wouldn’t be found.”

 

“Let the child sleep,” said Mother dear.

“She seems to be sweet and innocent.”

“But Mom,” said young son, “I do but fear

my bed’s broke.  For this she must repent.”

 

Father smiled, “She’s but a girl, no harm done.”

“Now come, let’s go and let her dream on.”

After they ate, outside they did run

And played the silly game, Name That Pun.

 

Georgia awoke, stretched, and then stood,

Fluffed her gold hair and straightened her dress.

Down she walked, and into the big wood.

Thought, I’ll remember this fine address.

 

Found the dirt path on which she did roam.

With a single twist and mammoth twirl,

She luckily found her way home.

Georgia, a peachy little girl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is a Friend?

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A true friend is a gift from God.

No more, no less.

 

Ears, eyes, heart

finely tuned

to every thought

action

need

 

A friend seeks balance,

craving only that which

is offered

and not one drop more

 

Giving, sharing

even the smallest things.

A warm hug,

kiss, smile

 

A friend knows when

to step up

and when to step down.

Never pushing or demanding

 

Reaching fingers

with open palm.

Electric energy pulsing

across the gap,

joining two strangers

into one compact unit.

 

A friend asks for nothing,

but is grateful

when something

drips into the heart,

warming the soul’s

ties.

 

Prayers offered

and heard.

Thanks given

for the smallest

of gestures

 

A friend is all

and more.

Give me Relief

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I’m tired, so tired of:

Persistent whiners,

Constant complainers,

Naysayers and

Ne’er-do-wells

Who get their jollies

By belittling others

As playground bullies.

 

I’m tired, so tired of:

Lazy non performers,

Excuse finders,

Procrastinators and

Incompetents

Who destroy the efforts

Of hard-working people

Through gross manipulation.

 

I’m tired, so tired of:

Jealous intellects,

Devilish reviewers,

Self-protective chumps,

And feeling-bashers

Who denigrate works

To bolster their own

Feelings of competence.

 

Instead of finding fault,

Look for joy.

Instead of shining,

Seek peace.

Instead of creating havoc,

Settle the inner voice.

 

Instead of destroying dreams,

Offer solace through

Kind words,

Constructive criticism

Designed to improve

Rather than ruin.

 

For everyone thrives

When voices of hope

Fill the earth.

And then I’ll no longer

Be tired.000000

 

      Radiant Vision

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The sun arose and filled my eyes

With heavenly glory personified

 

Tears down my face did solemnly pour

I stood transfixed, and begged for more

 

Golden rays lit up the new morn sky

With brilliant spectacle for the eye

 

With mouth agape I did profoundly stare

And wonder what God’s doing up there

 

To me He gave such wondrous gift

That my poor spirit felt tremendous lift

 

To my knees I should have promptly fallen

But I did not: though I heard Him callin’

 

Frozen in place with feet on the soil

I praised the Lord’s amazing toil

 

For humankind: to free our souls

From worries: to give us lofty goals

 

Reaching deeply into my empty purse

I feared God’s wrath, or maybe worse

 

Instead my heart did nearly burst

With joy: I knew I was not cursed

 

The sun arose and filled my eyes

With heavenly glory personified

 

 

Night Terrors

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            The large dun horse runs full tilt down a rock-strewn hill, its hooves sliding, slipping, searching for purchase which it finds, then loses then finds again as it runs harder, faster, its eyes huge, lather forming on its withers, its sides and foam dripping from its mouth, its tongue dangling to one side as its sides heave and heave. The headlong descent to the swiftly moving river below doesn’t slow its run, doesn’t ease its fears but rather amplifies them for the roar is deafening as the current bangs against tree limbs hanging so low their branches dip into the melee.

            She tries to stop, but her forward momentum is so strong, so impulsive, so rushed that her hooves slide through the muddy banks and into the river she jumps with a mighty splash. The water is too deep and she flails, legs trying valiantly to swim, to coordinate, to come up with a rhythm that will keep her afloat, but its all in vain as she is swept downriver along with branches and other debris.

            Her head is barely above water and her breathing is ragged but still she fights, her hooves hoping to touch bottom despite knowing that they will not, they cannot for the river is deep and the current keeps sucking her under. Downriver she goes, crashing against huge boulders that suck her breath away, that hurt her legs, her ribs, her neck.

            Kicking and kicking she never gives us, never succumbs to despair that would pull her under even when her mighty head dips below the surface and all she sees is a muddy swirl. Sides heaving she fights the fight of her life, not giving in for a minute, a second.

            In front of her, all around her a roar begins. Quiet at first if a roar could be called quiet but as she fights, it intensifies as she nears a bend in the river, a turn she hopes will allow her weary legs to strike mud, sand, gravel anything.

            No more boulders ahead. She has hope. Her spirits life, until she notices that the roar is so loud that she hears no bird, no insect, no bubble or quiet gurgle. Roar and more roar. Growing louder as the current pulls her forward toward an end. A drop-off. A precipice inot which she knows she will fall.

            And so she gives up. Her exhausted legs stop churning. Her head slumps. Her heart stills. She is prepared to die and million deaths for she knows what comes next. She’s seen if before. Heard it before. Lost companions before. But with one last burst of energy she screams signaling her acceptance of death as she plunges over the edge.

            Down and down she falls carried by the torrent, deep into the mist, the swirl, tossed over and under until she does not know which way is up or down or sideways. So deep that there is no sun, no light, no joy until there is peace. She quits fighting knowing that her life is no more.

            A sudden overwhelming peace fills her. A lightness of spirit. She has come to her afterlife. She will run with her ancestors. Romp across stubbly fields in joyous rapture.

            Until she opens her massive eyes and realizes the she is being carried along with a mild current, heading toward a sandy shore. She fights just enough to get her head out of the water, just enough to be able to breathe, to see a blue sky. To feel the sun on her shoulders, to hear birds singing softly overhead. In and out she breathes. In and out.

            With effort she struggles to her feet and stands for fear of collapse. She raises her weary head and sees grasses just a few steps ahead. She knows she must eat. Must restore energy lost and so she makes her way to the first patch and nibbles gingerly as if it might not be real. Nibbles more and more as she moves away from the river.

            Natural instincts take over and she grazes calmly, naturally as she’s done all her life. As her ancestors have done. Ripping out one nourishing morsel after another as the roar of the terrifying falls slowly recedes into the distance.

            Satisfied, she shakes her head removing the last of the water and she neighs calling for her kind. Nothing at first so she heads toward a sand dune, a tiny hill and makes her way to the top being careful, ever so careful where each hoof goes.

            At the crest a beam of light falls across her back and it warms her inside and out. With a sigh she plods forward, one step after another. She nibbles the choicest bits now that her hunger is satisfied. She neighs again and waits for something. She knows what it is, but will an answering call come?

            Far to the west she hears a faint call. With the sun going with her she heads toward what she hopes will be a welcome. Serenity fills her for she has survived. The tragedy will soon move to the recesses of her mind, but will never be forgotten. Not entirely. Not for many years.

The Storyteller

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Tell me a story, please,

Of a princess with long black hair

Wearing a gown spun from silver spider’s threads.

Her voice croons soothing words

To still children’s anxious minds.

Maybe there’s a prince

Stuck in a troll’s dank cellar

Begging for rescue

as his red hair grows longer by the day.

His once handsome face is gaunt

And his arms bear bites from rats and mice

The princess, never interested in balls and gowns

Mounts her armored horse and rides through the gates

In search of the prince, her childhood friend.

Flowers bloom in the meadows and birds sing overhead

Rivers gurgle happy tunes and springs bubble forth

Night falls just as she reaches the edge of the forest.

Hagg’s Forest, a dark and gloomy place

Filled with all kinds of frightening beasts

But she’s not scared for she carries a magic sword.

In the morning she dons her armor and enters

Ready for whatever comes.

Instead of monsters, little fairies dance

Around her head, whispering soothing words

As she rides through the gloom.

A bridge appears. Wooden rails.

Granite chunks of rock neatly arranged.

A muddy debris-filled stream underneath.

The princess readies herself

For this is the home of Grammie, the troll

Known far and wide for her love of men.

Fearing danger, the fickle fairies fly away.

The princess unsheaths her sword and calls

In her loudest voice, “Grammie, come forth.”

Much gravelly groaning ensues as the troll comes forth

Dressed in leather britches, boots and apron.

Her golden hair streams down her back

Arms thick as columns wave in salute.

“Hail, Princess Edme. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Edme dismounts and wraps Grammie in a hug.

“I’ve been busy,” Edme says with court nonsense.

“But I hear you’ve got a friend of mine.”

Grammie shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Ah, game-playing, are we?

Like when we were kids.”

“Tell me his name first,” Grammie says

As she settles herself in a muddy patch.

“Oscar.”

“Well, he doesn’t call himself that.

Try again.”

Edme thought and thought.

What name could he have given?

“Montrose.”

“Seleen.”

“Jasper.”

Grammie laughed, “You’ll never guess,

So I’ll ask another question. What’s he wearing?”

“Jodhpurs, tunic and boots.”

Grammie slapped her thighs

Triggering a tiny avalanche on a nearby hill.

“Okay, okay. You can have him.

But only on one condition.”

Edme knew about conditions.

Marry the counselor or banishment.

Dress the chicken or starve.

Scrub the pots until your fingers rot.

She’d escaped them all with a smile.

So she smiled as she slid off her horse.

“Grammie, here’s the condition I offer:

Set the prince free or I ride away.”

The resounding chuckle rattled trees.

“Funny. Clever, funny Edme.

You tricked me. I give you the prince

Or you ride away?”

Edme mounts her horse and

Sheaths her runic sword.

“Well, you win the game.

See you next time.

Only choose your princes better.”

“Better? He’s a handsomer one.

Or he was. Now he’s a bit beaten up.

You can have him if you bring me a new one.”

Edme turned her horse around

And rode toward the forest.

“Stop,” Grammie begs. “I’ll give him to you.”

She trundles down the bank, under the bridge

While Edme watches a flock of blue birds

Soaring overhead.

“Edme,” a ragged man whispers

As he is drug up the bank by the troll.

“You came for me.”

Edme looks at his gaunt cheeks,

Bitten arms

Torn tunic and chewed-up leggings.

He stunk so bad that the thought

Of him riding behind her

Makes her gag.

“This isn’t the prince.

I don’t know this man.

You can keep him.”

She whirls about and begins whistling

A jaunty tune to the jingle of the reins.

Grammie’s cackles barely

Cover the screams of the man,

But Edme rides on.

“That’s a terrible story,”

The little girl says.

“What did you think would happen?”

Her auntie asked as she cuddled the girl closer.

“The prince gets rescued.

Everyone gets rescued.

Edme can’t leave him with the troll.

That’s not right.”

Auntie laughed as she ran a brush

Through the girl’s hair.

She kisses the tiny forehead and

Tucks the covers around her shoulders.

“Tell me another story.”

Commitment

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the story of a marriage

is one of

trials

and

tribulations

forgiveness

and

letting go

of errors made

love

and

anger

compromise

and

patience

walking together

through life

sharing times

good

and

bad

most of all

reveling

in each other’s

company

until death

do us part

Research Junkie

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When I finally learned to read I discovered that libraries are an endless source of information. I trolled the nonfiction section looking for anything that caught my interest. The first that I explored was my Native American heritage. Because my mom didn’t know what tribe we claimed, I read every book on the shelves.

I became an “expert” on all things related to the first people. I knew what foods they ate, the clothes they wore, how they traveled, what their homes looked like, all depending upon where they lived. Little did I know that those old books contained limited knowledge recorded as fact.

What was important, however, was the development of an interest in research that would last a lifetime.

I reveled in projects assigned by teachers. Write a paper on a famous person? It might take several trips to the library before I could settle on one.

Trace Hannibal’s journeys? No problem. Research Greek architecture? The same.

When I was at college I discovered the wealth of information in the stacks. I might have a broad idea for a paper which exploded once I got to reading journal after journal. I would sit on the cold floor and pull down one compilation, then another. I’d move to another row and resume researching.

The problem was that I loved the process of discovery so much that I couldn’t stop. It became a compulsion that I still fight to this very day.

For example, I needed to find out the names of countries during medieval times. That was easy. One click and a detailed map popped up. But then I needed an island in Europe, maybe off the coast of Spain. There are islands but I didn’t recognize the names.

I typed in an old name and research appeared! How wondrous! How clever! How enchanting.

But that wasn’t getting me any further than where I currently am.

I moved on to sample names of cities. That was an endless source of information.

What about names of rivers? Mountains?

What was the weather like? How did that influence clothes worn? What kinds of shoes did people wear back then? What did they ate and drink? How did they entertain themselves?

I got stuck in this cycle of discovery that lead me from one topic to another.

When my eyes got tired, I forced myself to stop research.

But then I moved on to another project: fining a recent photo of my daughter. That meant opening folder after folder hoping to find something good enough to print. I didn’t find one, but I did discover images that were ten years old that I would never use for any purpose. They are now gone.

I sometimes wonder why I love research so much. I’ve analyze whether or not it’s a form of procrastination. Do I delve into these projects in order to avoid that which I should be doing? Or am I really engaging in productive work? It’s usually a little of both.

On the other hand I am a curious person. I love meeting new people so that I can learn what their life is like. Part of this is to weigh how my life measures up, the other is to expand my knowledge base. The more information you have stored away, the more conversant you can be.

When I catch myself researching I now force myself to pause and reflect. Do I really need that information in order to write the story I am working on? If yes, then I give myself permission to continue. If the answer is no, then I quit even though it’s painful to do so.

It’s also an addiction. It’s not harmful the way drugs and alcohol can be, but it does prevent me from engaging in those activities that are most meaningful, that bring the most joy.

As with any addiction you need a rope to hang on: something to grab ahold of while an outside force moves you away. For me it can be a phone call or going for a walk with my husband. It could be a news program or a book that I can’t put down.

When the lifeline arises, I have to tear myself away. That’s why I consider myself a research junkie. When I fall into the allure, I need help to get out of the mire otherwise I will spiral out of control.