CATCHING SHINGLES

This is one of the many stories I wrote about a memorable service trip in 2007

“I have never seen a female so dirty.”    The woman speaking was in awe at the revised state of my formerly pale complexion.  We were two of the brave feminine volunteers at SWAP in Kentucky and I was on my way to the “shower” (…and trust me, I am using that term loosely). 

Reminiscent of an owl, I sported white circles around my eyes from sunglasses.  My burnt skin was precisely the color of slate, having spent a blazing hot day removing an ancient splintering roof.  My morning had begun on the ground.  Naively wearing my fancy new nail belt and uncomfortable boots, I occupied myself by re-positioning old roofing material as it was flung willy-nilly from the roof of a tiny dilapidated house.  The ‘flingers’ were my church friends.  They were male, bursting with testosterone, and pleased with their Spiderman-like ability to walk vertically and swiftly on a slanted roof without appearing the least bit concerned about gravity.  Serious show-offs...  After backbreaking hours of shoveling heavy fractured shingles onto my wheelbarrow, I’d had enough.  So I bravely ascended the ladder to join the shingle-throwers. 

I spent a good hour on top of the house (otherwise known as the surface of the sun.)  My concerned husband checked on me regularly, certain I would return prudently to the ground.  But I was determined.  To the delight of the "He-Men" with whom I shared the roof, I never did manage to stand fully erect.  I preferred instead to travel like a handicapped crab, getting pretty efficient at yanking old nails with the back of my hammer.  Who knew those hammer "horns" had a use other than providing Feng Shui balance to the tool?  Flinging shingles was a little more exhilarating than it appeared from below.  But roof rubble packs considerably more weight than imagined. On several occasions I nearly flung myself off the roof with my cargo. 

 And so it was, I learned the art of roofing and volunteer service.  Lying in my musty bunk that week, my aching muscles told an emerging story.  The tale of a fragile Mennonite woman venturing out of her safe cocoon and into a place where filthy sunburned skin translated wonderfully into a more inhabitable home for some new-found friends.   

DANCE FEVER

Susceptible to motion sickness I had opted against joining Jim and Aubrey on the Baltimore Harbor paddleboats. 

Something was about to happen in the courtyard.  A square of what looked like worn brown linoleum was unrolled against the concrete pavement.  Oversized concrete stairs surrounded the courtyard in a bleacher-like seating arrangement for the two thousand or so people who would soon encircle the staging area.  People had begun arriving in anticipation of the street performance to take place around the newly placed brown theater floor.  The driving beat of the boom box and the warming up of the dancers was attracting attention.  Though it was several hundred feet before the previously arranged meeting spot, I decided to stake out a space on the concrete to watch what was going to happen.  Jim was wearing a salmon-colored polo shirt so I was certain I could watch the show and still glimpse the paddleboat pair when they walked by.  

Just as things were getting underway, I spotted the two of them making their way to the edge of the crowd.  They were trying to see what display was drawing all the spectators.  Soon flagging them down, together we watched the agile break-dancers and their super-sized announcer.  

After several songs-worth of painful-looking stunts and dance moves; it became obvious that they were about to seek audience participation.  Since none of us enjoy the limelight, we began to make a hasty retreat.  Sneaking between clapping members of the audience, I led the charge up the jumbo concrete steps.  Aubrey was right on my heels. 

Just reaching the top of the steps, I heard my daughter begin to shriek with great alarm.  Her voice was in a panic.  You would have thought aliens had abducted my husband.  “Mom!  They’ve got Dad!”  Not fully understanding her announcement, I asked her to repeat herself.  “They have him Mom!  They pulled him down!”  Squeezing myself through the crowd, I was shocked to see my very private husband standing in great discomfort at the edge of the brown linoleum mat.  The dancers had placed a nerdy-looking tourist to Jim’s left, and two middle-aged

African American gentlemen facing inward at the other side of the square.  It was the battle of the dance.  Two unsuspecting white guys were supposed to out-dance two less-than enthused black guys.  After over 25 years together I am pretty proficient at reading my husband’s mind and what I was reading was a heap of distress.  Should he try to make an escape?  The crowd was pressed in on every side.  Hoping for an effective out-of-body experience and with no viable alternative, he bravely stood rooted to the spot. 

There were murmurs of disapproval in the crowd.  The contest did not look fair!  At the crowd’s prompting, the men were reshuffled, leaving the teams with a more even distribution of pigment.  I could see Jim trying to convince the performers that he could not dance.  It was of no use.  The game went on.  One of the other men attempted to flee and was recaptured at his family’s bench and returned to the dance floor.  The other white guy did not appear to contain an ounce of dignity and gave himself fully to the challenge.  He looked perfectly and predictably ridiculous. 

And so early in the competition, my shy hubby became a crowd favorite.  He won the first round with his carefully executed Steve Martin pointing dance.  Being

rhythmically gifted, he successfully set himself apart to the cheers of the crowd.  A regrettable detail was the large puddle of harbor water which was staining the entire buttocks region of Jim’s jeans.  It was an unfortunate side effect from his recent paddleboat adventure.  He was blissfully unaware of this moisture until I was indelicate enough to tell him about it after his departure from the stage. 

Anyway, the two black men were dismissed, leaving Jim and his nemesis Mr. Whitey Yahoo to dance to the finish.  The professionals were brought out to coach the two remaining men.  Rubbing Jim’s shoulders and trying to get him to loosen up, the ‘trainer’ popped a gangster hat on Jim’s head and tried to teach him a suggestive hip-thrusting movement.  Jim wisely declined to imitate the motion and opted instead to look as though he wanted to evaporate into thin air.   

Returning to the edge of the mat, this time in hats, the other guy went first.  He gave it his best effort with only minimal encouragement from the crowd.  And then there was Jim.  With a slight revision to the “Martin Point” and his own rendition of the infamous Sprinkler, he won the adoration of the crowd and a $5.00 bill which was donated immediately to a young member of the audience. Jim would have paid a much larger sum just to be set free from the thousands of people now

watching his response.  And I would have placed money myself- on the bet that my husband would never have danced for thousands at the Baltimore Inner Harbor. 

But having no way to escape the inevitable, he was an outrageously good sport.  Walking gratefully away from the exhibition, his skin tone began returning to normal and he asked with residual nausea that Aubrey and I ‘never speak of this again.’  It is a hard request with which to comply, as the images of dance fever keep playing through my head and causing the corners of my mouth to turn upwards into full fledged grin-age, if not unrestrained laughter. 

I attempted later that evening to reiterate how impressed I had been with his ability to rise to the occasion and wow us all with his dance moves.  He spoke quietly and with the great control for which he is usually known. “The mere thought of it is like fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind.” 

And so I stopped talking.  And started writing. 

THINGS THAT GO BUMP

I lay down and slept.  I woke up in safety, for the Lord was watching over me.  Psalm 3:5

The persistent knocking in my dream seemed so real. Because it was. Where's Isaac? (my first thought) I reassured myself that he was back at school in Virginia. Did Aubrey sleepwalk and get locked outside? (my next thought which prompted me to stumble half-awake to her closed door...) Then I heard a motor running.

Looking out Isaac's bedroom window I saw a tow truck. And police cars. And flashlights. "JIM!" As I said these words I had my third thought (someone would have phoned if it were an emergency involving us...) And then the phone rang. So much for sleep.

Apparently at about 2:30 this morning a small car was speeding along on our road (down the wrong side of the street) and hit our parked jeep head-on. The bad news is that the impact was enough to result in the driver's airbag deployment and a 4-5 foot long, deep gouge in the road. The worse news for the driver is that when Jim asked if anyone was injured, the only forthcoming information was that 'the driver was taken into custody...' The good news, if there can be any good news, is that the

jeep was already involved in an accident earlier this summer. It was sitting in front of our house de-tagged, having been totaled by the insurance company. The

paperwork was filed and it was awaiting its extradition to the nearest junk yard. And now it has been towed away and I don't have to look at it. Aubrey (who has a room immediately next to the crash scene) had only one thing to say upon waking from her night of sleep. "WHY were they doing construction on our road in the middle of the night?!"

BONKERS

It is better to live alone in the corner of an attic than with a contentious wife in a lovely home.    Proverbs 25:24

I love having a nearly teenage daughter.  It was a hectic morning and I was having an unfortunate hormonal rant in the car on the way to school.  Though I was inwardly cringing at my tone, I could not quite manage to stop myself.  My dear daughter has been growing into quite the young lady, and on occasion has succumbed to outbursts of her own.  This morning she was showing impressive restraint as she listened patiently to my tirade.  The light of unwavering truth suddenly gleamed in her eye.  As soon as she could get a word in edgewise, she redirected my mood from tension to hilarity with the following calmly spoken statement.  "Mom - You and I hold the power to drive each other bonkers."  Truer words were never spoken.

DRAWERS OF BLESSINGS

There is an excellent reason our Heavenly Father suggests that we do not attempt to lean on our own understanding. 

At times I think my mind is a sieve.  Other days I blame the recurrent ‘lapses’ on the six hundred things that are flying through my brain at any given moment.  But truth be told, sometimes I’m just not paying attention. 

I was sitting at my desk today doing something I can do in my sleep.  I was printing height and weight graphs for my patients when my printer predictably ran out of paper.  Walking like a zombie to the closet I extracted a stack of new white sheets.  Tapping the stacked edges into submission I carefully opened the drawer and attempted to replenish my printer supply. 

For some reason the paper was not fitting nicely into the drawer.  I set the paper down and rearranged things so that the stack could be more easily put into place.  I

tried again and failed.  Frustration mounting, I backed up from the drawer and wondered aloud what the problem could possibly be.  

It was then that I realized I had opened my top desk drawer instead of the printer drawer just above.  One would think I would have noticed immediately that I was in completely the wrong place, but no.  In my robotic routine I had effectively dismissed my brain as I attempted the allegedly mindless task.  All manner of desk drawer paraphernalia had been moved aside in my attempt to stuff the unsuspecting drawer with a wad of paper.

I wonder how many wonderful things I miss every day because I am operating on autopilot instead of stopping to notice the nuances of my surroundings.  I should really slow down and pay attention.  There are drawers of blessings waiting to be opened. 

WAVES

There is something healing in the crashing of the ocean.  When my last nerve is frayed, I get an overwhelming longing to go to the beach.  All I want is to be standing ankle deep in water, watching my cares wash out to sea with every swell and fall of the salty waves.   When faced with the vast ocean, the cumbersome loads I carry are swiftly diminished to something more realistic.  A bulky package of anxiety is suddenly recognizable as a tiny parcel of slight inconvenience.  Life lens focus gets readjusted, and the big picture is so overwhelming it becomes clear that my worries are just a tiny speck of sand.  The waves are my witness.  I breathe in deeply and with each breath out, I am lighter.  My feet sink into the wet sand and the baggage of stress just melts away.  There is nothing like it.

My memory of that therapeutic water was the driving force behind a last minute decision to head to the shore.  Jim and Isaac were working so Aubrey and I decided to go it alone.  I had been a passenger on countless beach excursions during my 45 years.  It was only a two hour trip.  How hard could it be?  I looked for a New Jersey map and despite the fact that I KNOW we own at least three and have a box of other maps large enough to wallpaper our entire house, I could not find one.  We left with only a Pennsylvania map in hand. 

We were less than a mile from the house when we met with the first nuisance.  We’ve all seen baggies.  I’ve got boxes and boxes of them in my kitchen.  All sizes.  I was not-so-recently introduced to some unbelievably large clear sacks for blankets, or really any household item you might want to store.  There is actually a plug by which you suck out all the air.  Very tricky.  It’s a game just seeing how much you can stuff inside.  But NEVER have I seen a plastic bag like the one that tried to swallow the rental car I was driving on the morning of the beach trip.  It arrived on a southwesterly wind and attempted to wrap itself around the entire front portion of our fat white Buick Lucerne.  I can only imagine what sorts of things one could preserve in a baggie the size of that floating menace.  Gymnasium bleachers, adolescent elephants, dining rooms, or sectional sofas….  I was at once acutely aware of what it must be like to be vacuum packed.  About the time I started to shriek, the front right tire got the best of Mr. Plastic, and we were free.  In the rearview mirror I saw the synthetic ghost rising up behind us, preparing its tendrils for the next victim. 

Well, that was weird, but we were not disheartened.  We traveled on to the bank, where I had an inordinate amount of trouble with simple tasks like remembering my checking account number, filling out banking slips, and keeping my wallet from dropping repeatedly onto the floor.  Aubrey was amused by my lack of dexterity and smug as she located a bubble gum flavored lollipop and deposited almost as much money as I was withdrawing.  Little miser. 

We decided on the Lansdale entrance to the turnpike, and we were on our way.  Aubrey, now 12, was riding shotgun.  Holding the internet directions, she was in charge of navigation.  An important lesson was learned.  When the directions tell you to “head to route 476 toward 276,” they are not telling you to proceed to 276.  When your daughter reads you that particular sentence as you happen to be passing the turnoffs for route 276, you should not, as if by reflex, twitch suddenly to the right causing the rental car to head in completely the wrong direction as you follow 276 instead of 476.  Before realizing the full error of my overreaction to the spoken directions, I saw that I could go left toward Harrisburg or right toward New Jersey.  Well of course I chose New Jersey – I was going to the beach, after all…. It took very little time to realize that I had made a very wrong turn on an expressway.  I was now traveling toward the Fort Washington exit of the turnpike.  If you know

where I live, then you know that this is the exit which ends up practically in my back yard….  “But oh!  Look there!”  A sign for the northeast extension!  I could go back the way I’d come and just begin again.  With another sudden jerking motion, I foolishly opted to send us back in the direction of Lansdale instead of shortening the trip like a rational person. 

Well, I was disgusted with this unfortunate turn of events, but Aubrey remained cheerful.  Indeed, it was her cheer that convinced me (at first) that this was no big deal.  However, when we passed the sign touting 2 miles to Lansdale, I asked my navigator to read for me the ‘toll amount due’ on the turnpike card.   She expertly informed me that there was no toll amount due on the Lansdale line….Only two little dots….   I became a bit nervous.  What would happen when we arrived at the toll booth?  I suggested, “Well, maybe they’ll have pity on us.”  And without missing a beat, my dear daughter responded with certainty and not a little disgust.  “I would….” 

It was then I began hysterically laughing.  I know it wasn’t funny at all, but it struck a chord in me, resulting in some pretty snorty guffaws.  But along with my

amusement was the rising apprehension about the approaching tollbooth.  I did what I always do when I am feeling uncertain.  I phoned my husband. 

Poor Jim was standing outside the conference room trying to go into a meeting when he got my call.  Upon hearing his voice and attempting to share my tale of misdirection while choking on my frantic laughter, I began to cry.  It was a pitiful display, one which rendered me completely unintelligible.  I was obviously more upset about the navigational error than I had realized. I sobbed and laughed my story into the cell phone as the tears rolled down my face and I tried to steer the rental car while visually impaired by the moisture accumulating on my face.  Jim listened attentively and when I paused long enough to let him get a word in edgewise, he calmly responded, “Brenda, I didn’t understand a single word you just said.”  I tried again, with barely more success, and had to hang up because the tollbooth was by this time imminent.  Blowing my nose and applying my largest sunglasses, I waited in line for my turn.  The gentleman put out his hand for my card and payment.  I handed him my card, an apologetic $20.00 bill, and I tried to explain that I had just wasted 30 minutes.  He looked at my card, and he looked back at me.  He was incredulous.  “HOW did you do this?”  I told him I had followed signs for 276 though I should have followed signs for 476, and he stared

at me in disbelief.  Finally, not knowing what on earth to do with me, he dismissed me with “I believe you, just GO.”  And then because I wasn’t moving away fast enough for him, he added, “It’s free.”  I am quite sure he just wanted to be rid of my puffy eyes and my sorry tale.  I have no doubt that the dinner table discussion at Mr. Tollbooth’s house included the stupid redhead in the Buick. 

We circled back and almost effortlessly made it all the way across the Ben Franklin Bridge before the next navigational uncertainty sent us deep into the heart of Camden.  There was construction everywhere and cement barricades which inhospitably prevented lost females from pulling off to the side of the road to reconnoiter.  We finally spotted a gas station and stopped to buy ourselves a New Jersey map so we could figure out where in the world we had gone wrong.   Walking into the ‘store’, we saw nothing but an empty countertop and a lot of dust.  There were a few warm soda bottles and a couple of empty racks too.  Thinking we had arrived on moving day, we were heading back to the car when the barely understandable gas station attendant started following me to ask what I was doing.  I told him I was searching for a map of New Jersey.  With a thick accent he declared, “I have map. Five dollar.”  He reached into his magical dusty rack and

somehow came up with exactly what I was looking for.  I gave him five dollar and didn’t ask any questions.

Map in hand, we soon figured out that if we stayed the course on our current road, we would eventually connect with the Atlantic City Expressway; and we were very happy to see the sign when we found it.  Traveling along on the expressway, we were pleased as punch.  At this point, there was no way to go wrong.  As long as we followed that very straight road until it stopped, we’d be at the coast and could figure out our beachcombing plan from there. 

But then we started to notice that all of the exits from the expressway had an annoying common trait.  After detailing the location, the signs said EXACT CHANGE.  Oh dear.  Do we HAVE any change?  We scrambled to assemble all of the change in our purses and glove box and came up with exactly 35 cents between us.  By the time we discovered this coin problem, the passing tolls had already climbed to 50 cents.  We had dollars, but no change.  Again anxiety reared its annoying head.  (Neither of us flies very well by the seat of our pants.)  We started trying to think of alternative plans.  Aubrey was all for the idea of scrunching a dollar bill into the machine, but I had a sinking suspicion that dollar-scrunching

was not a plausible scheme.   We determined that we would stop at the nearest rest stop and purchase whatever we had to purchase in order to come up with enough change to make our pockets jingle.

We were ever so proud of ourselves when we bought chicken strips at one shop and asked for a dollar in change; and then as icing on the cake, bought chocolate covered raisins at another shop and asked for a second dollar in change.  We were JINGLING and feeling self-satisfied in our brilliance.  It was only a mile or two after our clever rest stop when we exited the expressway.  The toll amount charged was $2.00.  Exact change at our exit was not required.

Once the ocean was in sight, our traveling trauma paid off.  It was a beautiful day.  The water temperature was perfect and the waves performed their magic on my frazzled nerves.   We walked on the beach for hours and then de-sanded with baby powder and walked on the boardwalk for several more hours.  We gorged ourselves on all our favorite seaside treats.  Salt water taffy, boardwalk fries, polish water ice, Mack and Manco pizza, Johnson’s caramel popcorn, and chocolate covered macaroons. 

Aubrey the animal lover was dismayed by the signs suggesting that we not feed the wildlife.  She intentionally ‘dropped’ some potato chips on the beach and was soon a sea gull magnet, just as she had planned.  When we exited one of the boardwalk shops, there were lots of seagulls circling overhead.  One of us commented on the danger of being south of a seagull, and not two seconds later I was screaming, “I’m hit!”  Sure enough, a dim seagull emptied itself on my poor sun-freckled arm and hand.  Thank heaven I come equipped with cleaning wipes.  The incident with the

winged rat did, however, manage to curb my boardwalk snacking as I deemed myself unsanitary.  Aubrey found the bird calamity to be quite entertaining, but apparently her glee was nothing compared to the enjoyment my husband and son experienced when she relayed the story to each of them via telephone.

We were not directionally challenged on the way home.  We opted to use the Fort Washington exit of the turnpike.  I didn’t think I could face seeing the Lansdale tollbooth one more time and  I was admittedly a little afraid the same guy would be working and would find it necessary to point me out to his fellow toll takers. 

You’d think by now I would realize that the world doesn’t actually revolve around me, and the guy may not have even recognized me without my giant sunglasses and blotchy face.  There are bigger issues in the world than crazy women in rental cars.

It was, after all, a perfect day at the beach.  Even the sea gull didn’t manage to ruin my newly acquired relaxation.  I got to stand in the sand.  And the restorative sea has carried away all of my superfluous paraphernalia.  At least for today. 

CARPET DOG

 This story is many years old.  The dog in this tale was affectionately labeled "carpet dog" and is still thought of quite fondly by Aubrey and her mother.

My daughter has wanted a dog for as long as I can remember.  Years ago I signed an agreement, written in child’s scrawl, basically agreeing that if I am ever retired and don’t have anything else to do, I’ll help Aubrey take care of a dog. 

The want of a dog has evolved into a question which is posed at nearly regular intervals, testing the receptivity of dog ownership.  It has become something of a joke in our house.  “Mom, what if we were driving along and we saw a little tiny dog by the side of the road?  What if he was shivering and hungry and was the kind of dog who doesn’t chew on furniture or pee in the house? Would we take him home?”  The scenario changes to fit the mood of the questioner, but usually contains some component of shivering, pitiful, and well-behaved dog. 

Driving down a local highway this afternoon, dear Aubrey suddenly shrieked.  “Mom!” I jumped and began scanning the highway for the threat.  And then with more distress, she cried, “A dog!”  After that she couldn’t immediately speak at all because the huge tears began rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin as she tried to catch her breath.

Over the next half mile or so, I gleaned enough information to know that she had seen a dog and that the dog was in distress.  My daughter loves animals.  Sometimes I think she prefers them to people.  “He was stretched out and I think his eyes were closed and some car must have hit him.” 

Trying to understand where the poor creature had been stricken, I asked her for the third or fourth time to give me details.  “Where exactly was the dog?”  Still on the road?  Dragged to the shoulder?  To the best of her recollection, the dog was laying in what looked like an empty lot.  Despondent.  Alone.  No doubt suffering intolerably.

There was no way to do a U-turn since the double lane of oncoming traffic was sitting still for over a mile.  I continued toward home and then when I could make the first right-hand turn, I did so and started back toward the scene of the crime.

Aubrey’s worried tears became a little more rational when she realized her mother had launched into rescue mode.  “I think it was a dog.”  And then, “I guess it could have been a rolled up piece of rug or something.”  Great.  I was driving for miles out of my way to rescue a discarded carpet remnant. 

But let’s assume it is a dog and suppose he is still alive, but injured.  The questions were continual and her worry was lovable.  “What are we going to do Mom?”  Well I was clearly not driving out of my way just to gape at the dog….or carpet…or whatever….   I tried to reassure her.  “Honey, we’ll stop and try to help him if he needs help.” 

Satisfied, she began to imagine aloud how we’d intervene.  Soon remembering the soft twin-size comforter in the trunk of the car, she pictured herself wrapping the wounded dog in the blanket and positioning him on her lap for the drive to the veterinarian.  “I will stroke his head.”  And the unspoken part, and if he survives and isn’t wearing a collar, I will convince my mother to let me keep him. 

I drove a little faster than necessary because my nurse Brenda adrenalin was at full capacity by this time.  We once again entered the traffic on the side of the highway we’d just traveled.  “Keep your eyes open Aubrey.”  I positioned the car in the left lane this time so she could get a better view of the casualty.  

It didn’t take long before she spotted the sight.  “I see him!  It’s a dog Mom and he is just laying there not moving.”  Oh my.  I didn’t want to have to find a dead dog.  We turned left at the next intersection and weaved our way through a gas station to put us on the same side of the road as the afflicted animal. 

It became clear that the dog was not strewn upon the road; rather it was lying still as stone on a driveway connected to the highway. 

Timing our exit perfectly so that we could drive slowly toward the creature, we held our collective breath and prepared to shout, whistle, and scream to get a reaction from the poor brown dog that was not a carpet after all.

Slowing carefully, we shouted and whistled out the window with great gusto.  It was about that time I noted that the driveway was next to a house, and from the cozy house extended a perfectly visible chain attached to the injured party’s collar. 

The boxer dog was enjoying a lovely afternoon nap on the sun warmed driveway of his home residence. 

Isn’t that just like a human being?  Panic first and imagine the worst.  And just as you’ve tied your entire body into a lovely knot of distress, the reality of the situation becomes suddenly crystal clear.  You find out that your suppositions were erroneous, your tears of worry were wasted fluid, and you’ve just spent twenty minutes driving around town to be back where you started.

I’m glad we went back to rescue the carpet dog.  I’m thrilled we didn’t find him deceased.  And I’m even happier we haven’t adopted a stray to chew on the furniture.  Because even on my most resolved days I wouldn’t have been able to say no to a wounded dog and a heroic daughter all at the same time.