Slice of Life Day # 11: Sal Army Days

Eight hours a day of rocking her. Eight hours a day of encouraging her to drink her formula, of carefully diapering her. Eight hours a day of carefully slathering lotion onto her, putting a thick white coating onto her peeling, tissue-papery skin.

What brings back a memory, decades-old? What brings back an ancient vision, making it seem like it flashed before my eyes only yesterday? This time, it was a foster child. My son and daughter-in-law just got a foster baby, and as soon as I saw a texted picture, I was immediately transported to the days when I worked in the infant room of the Salvation Army residential facility (on Marine Avenue) for abused and neglected kids. 

Marie and her father had fallen asleep in the same bed, along with her father's cigarette. Almost 30 years later, I still remember her pink skin which was covered by pieces of peeling-off dead skin. Like a birch.

  

Along with her pink burns--from her scalp to her toes--she sported another color that caught everyone's attention: blazing blue eyes that could shoot arrows when she was pissed off. Which was all the time. It was uncomfortable for her to stand up--when she got old enough for that--because of her fragile skin. It didn't feel good to have us rubbing thick globs of skin cream all over her body... but it had to be done. Her hair was like a scarecrow's--if the scarecrow had survived a three-alarm fire. Several times a day we'd take a fine-toothed comb and try to keep the straw-like hair free of the dead skin that seemed in endless supply. If looks could kill? I would have been dead hundreds of times over because of that little girl's spirit.

Marie was one of the few success stories. She got adopted by a wonderful family. She was loved and doted on. Most of the other kids drifted into a foster home or back to their birth parents... which meant that some of them would continue to endure the abuse and neglect... more burned buttocks or strings tied around a boy's body part to help with toilet training... more molestation... more time left alone in a crib without anyone to bond to...

I hope this new foster baby is like Marie. I hope that wherever he goes to next (next month? Later this year? Next year?) is either to a loving adoptive home or back to his mended and caring birth family. 

What survivor or underdog still remains in your memory? Inquiring minds want to know...

Slice of Life Day # 10: Click Clack

Short ones. Long ones. Fat ones. Skinny ones. All I can knit is scarves...

Some evenings I'm Madame Defarge. As my knitting click and clack together, I chronicle my day (in my head). For me, it's relaxing. I can do something constructive while I watch a television show or a movie.

The left needle is anchored between my arm and my side. The right needle weaves in and out, the yarn looping around the dull point of the needle.

Tightlooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooselooseloosetight

The scarf I'm working on currently is 21 stitches across. At the end of each row I pull the yarn taut. At the beginning of each row I pull it tight. Otherwise, it's loose.

How do you keep loose?

Slice of Life Day # 9: John, Richie, Cat and Harry

Next week I'm going to see John Mellencamp in concert. I enjoy his music, and once made a trip to Indianapolis, a solo car trip, and listened to nothing but him the whole way. Anything else seemed sacrilegious. 

However, concerts and me don't always mix well. I get antsy--sitting for that long--and they never seem to measure up.

I've been spoiled, I guess, by the best. 

My first concert was John Sebastian and Richie Havens. It was in Washington U's Quadrangle. Under the stars, surrounded by the stone buildings as John asked if we believed in magic... as Richie begged over and over for freedom... Well, it was the perfect first.

My second one was Cat Stevens. I admit: I had a serious teenage crush on him... and I was in great company. He had a string of famous, gorgeous girlfriends. Patti D'Arbanville. Carly Simon wrote "Anticipation" about him.

His once-glossy black curly hair is now short and gray. Now he is Yusuf, but he can still sing...

However, it was Harry Chapin who ruined all concerts--forever--for me. An incredible songwriter with a not-so-incredible voice, he made the evening we spent together into an intimate experience. That night he spoke to us of his hopes and dreams--through his music--and joked with the audience and his band in a sometimes-bawdy manner. He was humble and self-deprecating. He was delightful.

What's a memorable concert you've been to, and why was it so unforgettable?

Slice of Life Day # 8: Hairy Noon and Night

The inspiration for this post came to me when I was watching something new on TV. (No How to Get Away With Murder. A bit ticked off.) This actress had a gorgeous uneven cascade of curls... and I thought of my love and hate relationship with my own hair.

In an instant, I traveled back to when I six. I wore a pixie cut. (That was my coiffure choice until I was 12. I went through a Joan of Arc phase. Seriously.) As a teen, I wore it straight, long and parted down the middle. I've had short perms (and since I dyed my hair red--even then--I looked like Corky the Clown), and long ones. My uncooperative and naturally-the-color-of-rat-fur hair has been French-braided, shagged, and pulled up with a clip over the years. Although my hair's rarely even slightly stylish, I've resigned myself to it. It covers my head-wrinkles and prevents my scalp from getting sunburned.

... And yet I still have hair envy when I pass by someone on the street whose hair is so spectacular, I drool.

My trip down memory lane made me think of the musical Hair. One line from the title song came to mind:

I'm hairy noon and night, hair that's a fright.

Yes, even though my hair is short, it's a hot mess in the morning after I've tossed and turned and repeatedly cork-screwed my head into my pillow, but that's not what I want to end with.

Fellow women: You're thirty something. Forty something. Your hair is gorgeous. You love it. But I promise--it'll turn on you. Sometime around the time you cross the 50-year mark, you'll get to the "hairy noon and night" phase of your life. You'll grow a mustache that likes nothing better than showing itself... until you get the Nair out. Then the hairs go into hiding. Your eyebrows will grow as bushy (and white) as Andy Rooney's. And sometimes that mustache gets so brazen, hairs start sprouting out of your chin.

Yeah. I can't get both sides of my hair to lay right, but I do have my mustache relatively tamed... most of the time. 

Slice of Life Day # 7: The Hiss I Love

I was a child of records. Then 8-track tapes. Then cassette. Then finally CDs. I thought I was happy with the music that was "digitally remastered" on the CDs. I never even imagined I'd be looking back.

But then my husband got me a record player a few years ago. I dragged the box of records up from the basement. Probably they were all ruined, I figured. I slipped one of the discs of vinyl out of its cardboard cocoon. Placing it onto the turntable, I switched it on and lifted the needle up, then dropped it into place.

Hissss. 

It was a sound I'd completely forgotten, didn't know I'd been missing it for decades but was immediately grateful for.

Then the piano notes came bashing through, setting up a fast-paced rhythm. 

"I feel the earth, move, under my feet. 
I feel the sky tumbling down.
I feel my heart start to trembling,
Whenever you're around..."

Carole King's Tapestry album was the first record I bought for myself, after being weaned off the soundtrack to Mary Poppins, along with Glenn Campbell LPs, my parents' records. 

What was the first vinyl record you ever bought? Or, have you never bought a vinyl record?

The Grass is Greener Right Here: Slice of Life Day # 6

Hands that are almost permanently clenched. They're ineffectual. All they're good for--mostly--is swiping at his chin when he knows there's a bit of food there.

Legs that shake until the medicine wears off. The medicine that helps the Parkinson's causes dyskinesia. His head bobs. Over and over and over. His body sways.

His legs. They're extended way out in front of his wheelchair, his feet splayed. The longer he sits, the more he slides toward the floor.

He used to be the breadwinner. The family cook. The shopper. The chauffeur. 

Now he's dependent on his wife. Every day, in every way.

My yard, although it's riddled with weeds, looks pretty green right now...