Archive for May, 2011
Chance Encounters
6
May is a uniquely busy month for parents with school-age children. As the school year ends, there are celebrations galore – from the athletic banquet to the spring concert, the father-daughter dance, the girl scout bridging ceremony and the end of the basketball travel team league. At a certain point, any sane adult simply starts going through the motions. My mental state was precisely there as I joined the line cascading around the corner for entry to the Spring Show, the annual song-fest where each of eight grades and kindergarten sings a couple of numbers.
Directly behind me in line stood R and her daughter M, the teenage girl burned in a home accident just weeks before. Thick white burn tape provided a necklace around her neck and her arm was tightly bandaged in the same special tape. Before I knew it, I had re-introduced myself to R and told them I too was burned as a child. As I said it, I like itching myself. It seemed to come from my stomach, which turned itself slightly at the thought. As we talked, M shared, “I itch all the time. It’s constant.” I remembered the feeling well. Insatiable itching that seemed to crawl inside with no good way to relieve it. M also said that her burns were second degree, which immediately relieved me and I told her how well she would heal. It’s the 3rd degree burns that leave the nasty scars — 2nd degree can heal with nary a reminder.
When they asked what happened to me, I told them about my burn accident, then gently rolled up my pant leg to show them a little of the scars. ”Yours seems so much worse than mine,” M said and I immediately felt bad that she focused on my injury when hers was so recent and raw, itching as it healed. Her mother R looked and me, her eyes brimming with wet and said, “See M, look at Anne. She’s successful and pretty. We can make it through this. It didn’t stop her.”
Like me, M didn’t like it when people stared at her. We talked about “to tell” or not to tell strategies, to make eye contact or not to. M seemed remarkably mature for a teenager. She had a presence.
“M, it may not feel like it right now, but your burns are a gift. Look how they help you teach other people.” I believed it as I said it. It would not have been the gift I’d chosen for myself, but I always felt right with it.
The line began to disperse as we entered the school gym for the Spring Show. R hugged me tightly whispering, “thank you” as they wandered off to their places.
As the 4th graders began “Getting to Know You,” from the Lion King, I wondered: How much more difficult are these burns for a parent? R was there when M’s leaned over the gas stove and her scarf caught fire. She choked up as she told me about it. They are replacing the stove with a smooth-topped electric model. I understand.
Freezers and Fires
10
My sister Susie sent me a short note the other day to let me know that Tom Noonan was dead. He was 71. From her perch in Green Bay, Susie sends me the local news from time to time as well as the information about the people we knew while growing up who have passed on to the great beyond. The news about Tom though was unusual. At first, my mind drew a blank and I didn’t even remember who he was. Then, slowly and with a sigh, I realized I knew quite a bit about him.
In our teenage years, dad had a rule about working, which was that his kids could and should work but said employment had to be within walking distance from our house. The eldest, Kiki, got the first job at Hardee’s (www.hardees.com), then Susie did and then I did. We took orders and flipped burgers in our brown-and-orange uniforms and more importantly, stayed within a four-block radius of home. During my tenure at Hardee’s, I was quickly promoted from order-taker to burger-cooker and that is when I ran squarely in to Tom Noonan.
Tom was the owner-operator of the Monroe Street franchise where we worked. It was ironic that we worked at a greasy fast food place with an even greasier owner. As far as we saw, Tom didn’t work much, smoked cigarettes like a fiend and more than certainly was having a torrid affair with his wife’s sister, who also worked at Hardee’s. It was scum all around.
And so it should not have been a surprise that day when I went into the stainless steel meat cooler to grab some frozen patties and I felt those greasy arms grab me from behind. I shrieked and dropped the hamburger patties to the floor. “What the…..?” came my stunned response as I recoiled to the far end of the freezer room. He laughed and exhaled a puff of cold air. “Yeah, we couldn’t have done it in here or we would have melted the patties,” he said as he walked out of the cooler. Enraged and embarrassed, I grabbed my time card, punched out and briskly walked the four blocks home.
When dad came home from work that night I told him the story. “And you won’t be going back to work at Hardee’s again,” he said calmly. Tom’s fate was sealed.
Later that night, dad pulled out his electric typewriter and typed off the first of many missives to the President of Hardee’s Food Systems, Inc., complaining about Tom Noonan in general and being sure to make mention of time when there was garbage outside the facility or a light was missing from the bright orange Hardee’s marquee sign. The letters didn’t stop until Tom either found employment elsewhere or was told to seek other employ. Dad’s letter-writing campaign lasted about two years but I imagine he would have continued for 10 or more if that’s what it would have required to get results.
What’s interesting to me in thinking about Tom Noonan’s death is how dad went to bat for me. In all the years he lived, dad never once talked about my burn accident or injury. Yet I always knew he was on my side. When I think about resolution, I’ve come to understand that people do the best they can. With people we love, we accept what they are able to give us. In my case, I wish he would have been more forthcoming during life because it would have helped me decode my own mysteries.
What do you think?
On the topic of Tom Noonan, my sense is he died of lung cancer although the obituary didn’t give a cause of death. There was a picture accompanying the obit and Tom looked greasy as ever.
Authors and Numbers
2
Image via Wikipedia
Yesterday, I went to an discussion-and-book-signing event at Summit Executive Centre (www.summitchicago.com) for author Norb Vonnegut (www.norbvonnegut.com), who is releasing his second financial thriller, The Gods of Greenwich. I’d finished my business meetings early and headed over to the event, which gave me some uninterrupted time to talk with Norb, who had been a stock broker in New York with several name-brand companies before starting his second act as a full-time author. His is an inspiring transition, especially his ability to use the “characters” from his business life as fodder for his novels.
After a pleasant chat with Norb and a sincere agreement to keep in touch on writing matters, I spotted Ginger across the room. Of all the people who read my blog, Ginger is seemingly one of the most supportive via “liking” and posting comments. ”One of my favorite things about your blog is how you write about the spiritual journey you are on,” she commented to my utter relief (since you never really know what people might say about your inner thoughts and public posts). Then Ginger told me about numbers — she sees the same numbers all the time. She grew up in a house number 212 and finds that she sees 212 all the time. ”What do you think it means?” she asked, after sharing that her father had passed away some time before.
I wanted to say that it means whatever you wish it to mean, when out popped, “I think it is your father’s way of saying, keep going, keep the faith. I don’t think every sign is a watershed, maybe just a little encouragement so you know someone is out there and on your side.” Ginger agreed and it was nice to see eye to eye and for the time we talked, soul to soul.
It me think about the numbers I see — 519 and 601. My address growing up was 519. The number 601 is the first three numbers in my talent agent‘s phone number. Maybe like Ginger, the numbers I see are my own encouragement — that my parents who’ve passed are giving me subtle encouragement to keep telling my story (519) by using my talents (601). I’m not sure if that’s the right interpretation but it feels that way. It’s a lot like finding pennies.
What numbers are in your life?
Making Sense of Stories
7
Image via Wikipedia
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Maya Angelou. www.mayaangelou.com
If you’ve ever read any of Maya Angelou’s books, you gain an incredible perspective into the courage of telling a life story. ”A bird doesn’t tell a story because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song,” she wrote in I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, the first of her autobiographical series. Her books captivate with their beautiful prose and at the same time made me squirm with the honesty in which she recounts her life, particularly her days as a prostitute. I’ve heard her speak live and it’s amazing — she brings her books to life with her spoken voice.
I thought of her courage this week as I heard two burn stories. My friend Renee’s aunt, on an oxygen machine, lit a cigarette and suffered second degree burns over her face. Within days, I heard the story of a teenager from the kid’s school, who bent over a stove and her scarf caught fire torching her chest and neck. Both are in the hospital.
It’s hard not to think of their searing pain. It’s harder not to think about how they and their families handle both the emotions and the re-telling of the stories. I know from my own experiences that until I can put the emotional framework in place, I can’t tell a story. It always takes time for the “shock factor” to process and events to become clear before a story unfolds. I wonder if it was the same for Maya Angelou — that the time that passed before she told her stories gave her the perspective to truly see the context of the events.
Maybe this is just the way we tell stories. Even this week we saw a glimpse of it with the Osama bin Laden storyline. Quickly we learn the news – bin Laden is dead. Then, the next day we receive a new update, a revision as the true facts become clearer – yes dead, but he had no human shield as previously reported. Then, each of the next days of the week, we find out a little bit more – he has been hiding in plain sight, there are the makings of another terror plot, this time using the US rail road system.
Life comes at us in pieces and parcels. It’s our job to make sense of it all. It’s a big job. Story telling might just bring it all together.