Title: “Decency”

“Mr. Ball?” The voice had a curt, official crispness to it.  Definitely someone I didn’t know.

“Yes, this is he,” I responded.  Talking on a cordless phone attached to a landline suddenly made me feel 20 years younger.  Well, except the “Mr. Ball” part.

“The lab results are back and I wanted to let you know your daughter has tested positive for strep throat,” came the curt voice.

“What about my other daughter?” I asked.

“Um…yes, her too.”

This presented a tricky situation.  Outside, the blizzard continued to rage, precipitating a statewide travel ban for all of Connecticut.  That meant no one was allowed to drive.  How would I pick up the girls’ prescriptions?  Glancing out my window I could see the black and white snowy form that was my Honda.  There was no sight of my driveway.  Hmm…I’d better consult with my wife, I thought. Standing up, I padded toward the living room.

“The police are issuing $100 tickets to anyone driving on the road right now,” she informed me, speaking over the top of her iPhone.  “So, maybe we ought to call them to see what they think we should do?”  Brilliant suggestion, I thought.  I imagined the police responding with something like, “Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your daughters, sir.  Yes, there is a travel ban in effect, however I am sure an exception would be made in these circumstances.”  Or maybe they might have another suggestion for me!  The few dealings with the police in my town we had had so far were quite pleasant.  Grabbing my iPhone, I quickly Googled the phone number of our local department, not at all expecting what was about to occur.

Reaching what I assumed was a dispatcher, I politely explained my situation.  My girls needed their antibiotics.  Did she have any advisement for me?  “I can’t help you,” she snapped.  “I can’t make that decision for you. Is this an emergency?” she churlishly chiped.  Well, no, it’s strep throat I explained. And it’s not like I had called 911, for crying out loud. “Just hold on,” came the woman’s voice. Silence on the line. Somewhat stunned by the abrupt and rude demeanor of the woman, I waited.

In a moment, a male voice came on the line. After briefly explaining my situation, I was told, “It’s up to you.  Have a good day.”  And he hung up. He hung up?

I quietly laid the phone on my lap, staring straight ahead. Not what I expected.  At all. I suppose expectations have their way of playing a role in all upsets.  I had clearly expected a different flow to this conversation, and now I was a trifle upset.  But was I unreasonable to expect at least some decency from the other end of this call? Doesn’t everyone at least deserve that?

Title: “Weird”

I remember a time when ‘weird’ was one of my favorite words as a kid. “Weird, weird, weird.”  I said it all the time.  Perhaps it’s one of those words that helps define us.  Kind of like, “I’m not that, I’m this.” One of my favorite authors once wrote about how stars are only bright due to the darkness that surrounds them. Something like that.

As I turned the car on to snowy Highway 341 toward Kent, I glanced in the rearview mirror.  “You girls must be excited to spend some of your Spring Break with your friends today?” I spoke to the mirror.

“I can’t wait until Spring Break is over!” chirped my kindergartener.  Always the unexpected with this one.

“Oh yeah, why is that, honey?” I queried.

“When I get back to school we’re getting a new person in our class!” Lexi’s face was alight with joy, and I detected a marked lack of sarcasm in her voice.  These sentiments were absolutely, 100 percent sincere.

“Do you know her name?” I recalled discussing this once before and was fairly certain the new arrival in her class would be a girl.

In the mirror, I watched Lexi shake her head.  Then suddenly my second grader, Livi, piped up from Lexi’s right, “I heard there was a new girl in the school named ‘Joshi.’ Joshi! That name is so weird!” An innocent giggle escaped Livi’s lips, her eyes aglow with amusement.  Although not a trace of malice or malintent was present in Livi’s words, I frowned.  She’d struck a chord.

“Honey, there are no ‘weird’ names,” I calmly stated.  “Only names we’re not used to.” Wait, where did that line come from?  I must admit, I kind of shocked myself when I said it. Perhaps growing up with a ‘weird’ or unusual name had helped grow an internal sensitivity and defensiveness when hearing such words.  Lord knows I had heard versions of that backhanded insult of ‘weirdness’ aimed at me a few times over my lifetime.  Or maybe Livi’s comment had struck the built-in ‘raise-your-kids-to-be-kind’ mechanism that triggers my instant parental correction button.

Whatever the reason for my response, my mind suddenly flashed back to the classrooms in which I used to teach.  I superimposed the sentiment I had just voiced aloud on some of the behaviors I witnessed in my classrooms many years ago…what if those behaviors weren’t ‘weird,’ but just ones I just wasn’t used to?

Reflecting back on this little slice of my life yesterday, I believe my message to my children had been to remain open.  Be accepting.  We are all different.  And being ‘different’ doesn’t make us ‘weird.’ It makes us human.

Eternal Winter

by Lanny Ball

Storm warning

Again

Eugene approaches

White blankets will fall

Winter roaring its terrible roar

Gnashing its terrible teeth

Chilling breath bearing down

Not to be denied

Rudely shoving June

Further into summer’s courtyard

Accumulation out my front window 7:15 a.m. on March 14th. Notice the top of the planter on the bottom left…just getting started.

* To all in the Northeast and everywhere, stay warm and safe!

 

Title: “Don’t lose the joy”

“Let’s do it one more time.” The voice came loud and clear through the monitor speakers.  It was Frank, our lead guitarist.  We had just finished our second take of his original tune, “Diggin’ Mr. Fox,” a funky blues tune with a killer unison riff at the top.  It had been a productive day so far, with one tune already ‘in the can’ (as they say in the music industry).

My bandmates and I were now about to lay down the tracks for a third take of “Mr. Fox,” and I felt the nerves fluttering down into my fingers, as they hovered over the keyboard. Within the interior of my stomach, a bevy of butterflies had suddenly taken circular flight.  Although I had practiced my solo for this song about 37 times the night before, trying to play it live with everybody- not to mention with the Record button depressed- was completely different than jamming it alone in my basement.  I took a huge breath and exhaled. “Don’t mess this up,” I told myself.

Suddenly I heard the click of the drumsticks. Okay, it’s go time.  I leaned over the keys and prepared to play.

And it was then that I remembered- wait a minute… this is fun.  This. Is. Fun!

Yes, all the hours of practice and lessons, rehearsals and performances, arpeggios and scales – all of these had led me to this recording studio moment not so that it could be ‘perfect,’ but so it could be fun.  Many of us, perhaps, forget… when we focus so much on getting it ‘right,’ we sometimes allow all the joy to trickle out.

As the song progressed and my solo approached, I felt myself connect with the spirit of this music.  And gradually, the recording became more about delighting in this experience and allowing a creative spirit to flow than nailing a flawless musical execution.  Here came the hits into the break- it was my turn…and you know what? I let that spirit flow.

 

Title: “Fruit roll-ups”

“I don’t want to go in, I don’t want to go in…” the chorus of dissent was growing in the back seat. Pulling the car up near the front door of the walk-in clinic, I looked at my wife. This was one of those moments when we both understood what was happening, but that still didn’t make it any easier.  Appropriate decorum for this moment would have been that we all escort my wife into the waiting room of the clinic.  In doing so, we would all be conveying our sympathy and caring support for a member of our family who was currently suffering from a mysterious sore throat, congestion, and general misery.  Instead, it was a barrage of complaints and requests about not wanting to leave the car nor go in with Mama.

But we understood…they are five and seven.  And we were suspicious as to the fullness of their health, anyway.  I peeked over the snow-dusted, tree-topped horizon and could see the sun was preparing to set.  “I could take them to the store?” I offered.  “We could use a few things for dinner tonight.”

“That’s fine,” my wife responded, “I shouldn’t be long.”  This had not been the plan, but we went with it. She hopped out, I drove off.

Once in the supermarket, I resolved to make the most of this adjustment– buy some healthy snacks and any medicine my wife might request via text, and then head back to the clinic to pick her up.  Positioning the baby in the shopping cart, I immediately I noticed my other two girls wandering toward another aisle…away from the produce.  “Girls, let’s stay together,” I reminded them.

“But Papa, we want to show you something!”

“After we get the fruits and vegetables, okay?” I negotiated.

It turned out what they wanted to “show me” was something they had learned about at school- fruit roll-ups.  “Please, please!” they begged.  For the second time in just fifteen minutes, I found myself choosing another battle.  At the clinic it had been, “Do I force them to go inside? ” Here- do I tell them, “No, those are probably filled with high-fructose corn syrup and other ingredients that are not good for you!” Or do I cave? Again?

Driving home that night through the cold New England air, my wife asked, “Did you get them organic kind, at least?”  I shook my head.  I had caved.  Again.