Essay 10

Dirt, Mother earth, soil, dust, mud.  I love the smell of fresh-turned dirt.  Of soil after a summer’s rain.  Of a freshly rototilled garden.  Children playing in the mud.  Feeling alive as I dig and dig to plant seedlings.  Dirt is what we came from.  The Bible says “for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”  Dirt is fun if you’re a little kid, not so fun if you are an adult cleaning the little kid.  But dirt is essential to life.

I had a friend whose mother was not like mine.  My mother was always worried about keeping things clean.  Wipe that up, don’t track that dirt in the house.  Disgusting.   But my friend’s mother was different.  After a morning rain, she took her children outside and encouraged them to play in the mud.  “Feel the dirt between your toes.  How does it feel?  Go ahead and get dirty, enjoy the feeling.  Your clothes will wash.”  She urged them to experience the soil.  Her family always had a big garden and they learned from their mother that dirt was not some disgusting thing to be avoided.  It has a vital purpose in this world and can be enjoyed without fear of repercussion.

Although I own numerous pairs of garden gloves, I almost never use them.  When I plant seedlings, I want to feel where I am planting them, so I use my bare hands.  I can feel the dirt and pick up the worms so they aren’t damaged by my trowel.  I love the feel of warm earth in my hands.  Earth is life.  It harbors living organisms that nourish the seeds I sow.  Dirt has nutrients that are vital to existence.

My children liked to play in the dirt.  I gave them spoons so they could dig.  Yes, they came into the house all sweaty and dirty, and of course, I didn’t want it all through the house.  But I was somewhere between my friend’s mother and my own.  I would strip the kids off and wash their clothes, but I didn’t fuss too much about the dirt they tracked in.  Dirt can be swept, washed, laundered and disposed of.  But children are only young once.  And God has given them skin that doesn’t stain permanently, fingernails that can be cleaned.  And so I let them play in the dirt.

Dirt is the foundation of this world.  It sustains life.  In the winter, plants die in the frozen ground,  but when spring comes and the earth warms under the sun, life revives.  It inspires little hands that dig for worms, construct makeshift roads, sow their first seeds.  Dirt is the essence of life.

Cause Essay II

Have you ever heard the saying, “The devil made me do it?”  If you have, you’re showing your age; if not, you’re culturally deprived.  This was a trendy catch phrase of the early ‘70’s, made popular by the comedian Flip Wilson.  Anyway, the jest of the saying was that any decision (primarily a bad one) was the responsibility of someone else.  It’s a good way to avoid accountability; to place the blame on others.  And so, without further ado, I am about to embark on some blaming for my move to Maine.  I intend to place blame on others, and a little on myself. 

Many years ago, my husband, Steve, served in the US Army.  Somewhere in the middle of his career, he permanently injured his back in the line of duty.  Whether it was from jumping out of airplanes or into foxholes, it matters not.  He injured his back.  Toward the end of his career, he faced a medical discharge and we faced a life-altering decision; where would we go.  At the time of his discharge, I was pregnant with our fifth child and more than a little worried about what would happen to our family.  No job, no home, no support.  We decided to move to Arizona; the Army would relocate us and Steve had been stationed in the area previously.  As I shared this information with my mother, she made a suggestion that would alter the course of our lives. It was because of her suggestion, my brother-in-law’s proposal and my own insecurities, that we abandon Arizona for Maine.

My mother suggested that we could come home and live with her and my father indefinitely in their big, old, four bedroom house.  This house was given to my parents by my grandfather before he died.  Well, maybe not given; he sold it to them for $25.00.  My parents had lived with my grandfather off and on through the years; the last stint being 6 years before his death.  Now, there was just my parents living in the house.  Because I hadn’t been home in 8 years and, as I  previously stated, was pregnant, I was anxious to be somewhere with familial support. 

But there were little things that made me uncomfortable.  My parents were pretty set in their ways.  For one, my father was tight with a dime; I half expected that he could squeeze it so tight, he could make two.  I knew that if the light bill was a nickel more than usual, or we used too much water, he would throw a fit.  My mother, on the other hand, often made assurances that she later regretted.  For example, my sister moved home with her family before we returned to Maine.  At first, my mother was all excited about having her grandchildren home, but as reality set in and a change to her routine developed, she began to look for ways to rid herself of them.  Eventually, she gave them a week to leave.  Luckily, my sister had supportive in-laws who had a house that they could rent.  Unlucky for me, I didn’t find out about my mother kicking my sister out until mom kicked my family out.  But my mother reassured me that everything would work out fine and I was persuaded that my parents had changed since I last saw them 8 years ago.   I convinced my husband that maybe it would be better to move back to Maine.

When my brother-in-law, Jere, found out we would be returning to the east coast, he became excited and offered to help my husband get a job with the State of Massachusetts.  My brother-in-law held a high-ranking position with MassHealth and just knew with his connections, and Steve’s military experience, he could get Steve a job in a matter of weeks.  One more reason to move back to Maine.  The kids and I could stay with my parents until Steve got a job and then relocate.  See all the support we had?  Why wouldn’t this be an ideal situation? 

Unfortunately, things didn’t work out as planned or promised.  My primary reason for moving home, familial support, started to ebb away.  Whereas initially, my mother poo-pooed my concerns about being a burden, she began to grumble about how much electricity we were using and how high the water bill was becoming.  Securing a job for Steve was much more difficult than Jere thought.  Veteran’s credentials are not as valued in the civilian community and the several jobs Steve might have acquired were filled by other candidates.  And he had that bad back thing.  I had my baby, but his presence didn’t help ease the tensions at home.  My father barely spoke to us and my mother was angry all the time.  I tried to make sure the kids were quiet and kept up mom’s housework, but she wanted her life back and set the wheels in motion.  By Labor Day weekend, she told us we had to be out of the house by “cold weather”. 

I was devastated.  The main reason we moved back to Maine were the promises made by my mother.  Before we moved back, it was she that said we would probably get tired of her, not the other way around, as I had alluded to her during the fateful telephone call.  And Jere started to get discouraged that he was unable to help Steve get a job and he began to back off from his offer.   And, of course, I began to panic.  What had I done, putting my little family in this position?  All because I was homesick?  We moved, ironically, into a house owned by my sister’s in-laws.  The house had been for sale for 15 years, we should be okay there, right?  The next month, the house sold.

Well, here I am, living in Maine for the last 17 years.  I still wonder what it would have been like to move to Arizona.  Would I be happier?  Richer?  Is the grass really greener on the other side?  I may never know.  But in the end, I blame myself because the warning signs were there.  But since my mother assured me that we would be no burden and could stay as long as we wanted, I jumped.  My brother-in-law’s confidence in helping Steve get a job added to the reasons to move.   But in the end, it was my own desire to be with family I hadn’t seen in years that was my downfall.  I hope I have learned a lesson:  that only I (and my husband) have our best interests at heart.

Process Essay II

As an introduction, when I first wrote this, I thought the directions said to write on one of the two topics or one of my own.  Then I went back and discovered that I was to write on roads or tools.  So I did, but I liked this one so well and so did my coworkers, that I decided to post it anyway.  Maybe I'll be able to use it somewhere else, but if not, oh well, I had fun writing it.

"Woke up, fell out of bed..."  Ow!  Who left their shoes by my bed?!  I stumble in the dark to the bathroom, picking up the scale on the way.  After fulfilling my morning ritual, I go back to the bedroom, deposit the scale  and make my way downstairs.  The dog is dancing around in circles, anxious to go outside.  I grumble as I pull my coat and shoes on, "alright, alright, give me a minute, will ya?"  I grab a doggie bag and clip the leash on PJ's collar and we trudge outside.  PJ sniffs delicately as she picks just the right spot to make her deposit.  "Come on, it's cold out here!  What difference does it make where you go?"  Finally satisfied, we make our way back into the house.

Next, I pull out our pill bottles.  PJ and I may get our meds from different sources, but our ailments are much the same.  Arthritis, thyroid and other unmentionables that afflict the aged.  With our medical needs attended to, it is time for my shower.  The warm water courses over me and I take a brief respite before the chaos of the day sets in.  I dry off and go upstairs and "dragged a comb across my head."

I come back downstairs and the cat is whining.  "For pete's sake, there's food in your dish, what else do you want?"  For some reason, she forsakes her usual spot on top of the loveseat for the stuffed chair in the dining room.  As I get closer, I see why.  She's thrown up on the back of the loveseat again.  I grab some paper towels and clean off the blanket on the back of the loveseat and throw the blanket in the wash.

I finally sit down to read the paper and eat breakfast.  I keep one eye on the clock, because of the unexpected disruption to my routine (i.e., the cat).  This has put me behind.  I have some fruit and a bagel and get lost in the funnies.  "And looking up, I noticed I was late."

I rush upstairs to complete my toiletries, but the door is shut.  "Come on, I'm running late.  Get out, it's the only room with good lighting and a mirror."  He finally comes out.  "Oh, come on, you could have done that downstairs!  Next time, open a window!"  I straighten my hair, but as usual, one section sticks straight out.  I don't have time for this.  I need to get going.  I enter the bedroom, look in the closet and find the clothes that need the least amount of ironing.  After dressing, I run downstairs to get my lunch ready.  "Found my coat, grabbed my hat."  Ran out the door in seconds flat.  Used the auto key to open the door,  Argh, set the alarm off again!" Finally get the alarm under control and pull out of the drive. 

I arrive at work, sign in on the computer and make my rounds to my coworker for one last visit before settling down to work.  I sit down at my computer and begin the mind-numbing business of data entry.  "And somebody spoke and I went into a dream."  And so it goes.

I wrote this in a half and hour on my lunch break.  Too bad I could work the road in somehow, but it is the process of how I get ready for work each morning.

Process Essay

To paraphrase an old Dick Curliss song, there’s a stretch of “road” up north in Maine…but it’s not the Haynesville woods.  It’s Route 15, Charleston Hill, to be exact.  My earliest memories of that hill were when my family would drive to Bangor from Dover-Foxcroft.  There was an Air Force base at the top of the hill, that is now a correctional facility.  I remember looking out the window, watching the scenery go by.  It’s a whole different experience watching out the window, without a care in the world.  That’s because someone else is driving.  But for the last 15 years, I have been the one driving.  I drive back and forth to work every day; through rain and snow and gloom of night.  And it’s not always fun.  Sometimes I am lost in thought as I make the same tedious trip.  Some days I pray that I will make it home in one piece.  And some days I’m just irritated at the condition of the road.  But always the road stretches before me and takes me where I must go.

When I had cancer, I rode back and forth to work by myself.  It was a peaceful ride and I had a chance to reflect and think about how I would get through another day.  I liked to listen to music on my commute and because of my condition, not just any song would do.  For example, I couldn’t listen to Mike and the Mechanics’ “Living Years”.  It was too melancholy and I would cry when the leader singer sang “I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away.”  Too close to my situation.  But for some reason, I loved Soundgarden’s “Black-hole Sun”.  I belted that out at the top of my lungs, “Black-hole Sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain?”  That ride down Charleston hill was cathartic as I sped up and down the hill each day.

Some days weren’t so serene. When the Governor would finally decide to close the government offices in a snowstorm, I had a long drive ahead.  And Charleston hill was the worst of it.  As I would approach the pinnacle, I would say a silent prayer that God would help me reach the bottom alive.  I began my ascent, feeling all the world like the jaws of hell were waiting for me at the bottom.  The snow would swirl with blinding fury as I tried to keep from hurtling down the hill.  I could only use the breaks so much before I would begin to skid, so it was a delicate dance of break, let off, break, let off.  Finally I reached the bottom of the hill, shaky, but alive. 

There are days when the weather is clear and the sun is bright, but Charleston Hill maddens me.  A couple years ago, the road crew spread new pavement over the hill and almost into Corinth.  But that didn’t last long.  With the old heave-ho, Jack Frost lifted the asphalt into something resembling a washboard.  As I climb the hill and proceed down the other side, I am jarred by the ripples that make up the road.  Hope my shocks hold out, because there is no way to avoid them.  I can’t drive in the breakdown lane, well I could but the swells are still there. 

But Charleston Hill is the way I go to work.  It’s my road home.  It’s my solace when I need privacy, it’s my highway to hell.  It plays a big part in my life and will continue for as long as I travel.  I’ve begun to see Charleston Hill as an essential part of my day, when I can reflect and re-energize as I go to work and come back home.

Effect essay

Hooky.  Truancy.  Absenteeism.  Malingering.  All different names for the same activity; skipping school.  Ever play hooky?  My two oldest did, and boy, did they regret it!  Especially my oldest son, Jeremy.  When he found out his punishment wasn't commutable, was he mad!  He cried, cajoled and basically embarrassed himself, but to no avail.  He skipped school and had to pay the piper when caught.

After calling Foxcroft Academy one day to relay a message to Jeremy, my husband, Steve, was dismayed to learn that Jeremy, along with his older sister, Rhiannon, had missed thirty-two days that semester.  When they arrived home, Steve asked them where they'd been.  Luckily, guilt is a trait we instilled in them from an early age and they confessed that they and some friends had been going to my brother-in-law's camp in Ripley.  Rhiannon accepted her penalty of restricted driving for a month with resigned acquiescence.  But Jeremy was another matter.

Jeremy was a big "Pearl Jam" fan and had saved his paper delivery money for tickets to attend a concert in Boston that weekend.  As I began to pronounce his punishment, I could see the look of "Oh, no, not that!" cross his face.  "Mom, if you let me go to the concert, you can give me any punishment you want, just don't let me miss the concert!"  Tears flowed as he desperately tried to reason. "This is a once in a lifetime concert, please, please, I'll do anything if you let me go!"  I tried not to look too amused as I explained; "Jeremy, it wouldn't be a punishment if I let you choose the terms."

Next, self-righteous anger set in.  "It's not fair!  I spent all my hard-earned cash on these tickets and you're not going to let me go?!"  Do you want these tickets to go to waste?"  "Well, you can give them to a friend"  I reasoned.  "Other kids do worse things than me and their parents would let them go."  "You're not other kids and I'm not other parents.  You chose to skip school and now you have to accept the consequences."  More emotions, vacillating from remorse to anger to wheedling, but I was immovable as stone.  No luck, buster.  You wanted to skip school, now you get to stay home.

Finally, resignation.  Sniffling and hiccupping, Jeremy wiped his eyes and skulked off to his room.  Later, he stole downstairs; grumbling under his breath as he fixed himself a sandwich.  He heaved himself dramatically onto the couch and watched TV with the rest of the family.  As the rest of us chuckled at whatever antics were on the screen, I glimpsed Jeremy out of the corner of my eye; an involuntary smile crept across his face.  Even the worst punishment eventually fades.

Jeremy is now grown, married last year.  He served two years as a missionary in Australia for our church.  He was an airman in the Air Force for six years, making Staff Sergeant earlier than most.  Last weekend he ran a marathon as a Huntsman Hometown Hero for cancer research.  It was his second time running for the charity, raising over $500 each time.  In short, Jeremy is a fine, upstanding citizen.  And I like to think that the way the hooky incident was handled may have contributed not a small part to his character.