Archive for the ‘Best Friend’ Category

Small Town-opoly

Helga recently reminded me of the day when I officially removed my token from the Community Gossip board game.  One of our monthly PTA leadership meetings had just adjourned, and the two of us were exiting the conference room to head toward the front office.  We needed to log in our volunteer hours.  Helga and I walked side-by-side as we snaked our way around multiple single-file rivers of children.  Parading streams of students were being led through the school’s main corridor by a teacher holding a clip board.  It was lunch hour, and the shuffle of classes moving to and from the cafeteria was in full swing.  A sporadic symphony of small voices sprang forth from the tributaries of children that were flowing past us.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bean.  Good morning, Mrs. Dodge.”

Southern-bred offspring are well versed in their traditional greeting etiquette.  Most of these kids knew us in our homes as “Miss Jill” and “Miss Helga,” but it appeared that there was an amendment to this constitution that required children to use a formal address of “Mrs. Last Name” when aforementioned adult is met within an official educational environment.

As a former Yankee who had spent the majority of my life in and around a large metropolitan area, most of these traditional regulations were baffling to me.  One aspect of this new environment was familiar.  The procedure by which these rules were presented was much like the method used by the family dynasty in which I was raised.  Unspoken and expected to be understood, it is commonly known as the This-Is-The-Way-We-Do-Things Policy.  It reads something like this:

“If you want to be a part of our group, then you have to do things our way.  If you refuse to comply, or if you are a slow-learner, there will be no forgiveness, and your membership will be revoked.  In this event, you will be required to relinquish any welcoming gifts that we may have initially bestowed upon you, as we do not tolerate any instances in which you may be mistakenly identified as one of us.  In addition, we reserve the right to talk about you, and whisper criticisms amongst ourselves in your presence, once you have been deemed unworthy to join our group.”  I knew the drill.

In the few years since Durwood and I had become active participants in our interrelated PTA and Little League communities, I was getting the hang of most of the expected Southern Manners and Hospitality rules.  It was regarding the Small Town Personal Information Disclosure and Privilege Game in which I appeared to be in the slow-learner category.

Who knew what about who, that was not supposed to know what they knew about another, are supposed to tell you what they think about it, but only if you did not hear it from them, so that you will keep that in mind if you talk to another, or someone who already knows about it, but is not supposed to know.  It was mind-boggling.

I was the newly elected PTA vice-president, serving on a board full of life-long residents whose families have resided here for over a hundred years.  They had been playing a sanctioned game that I did not understand.  I was thirty-some years old, but I felt like the new kid in their high school.

Thankfully, I do not remember the specific details involved with the infraction I had committed during this particular PTA meeting.  Whatever I had said, not said, did, or did not do, had ruffled enough feathers to effectively rescind my invitation to become a member of this exclusive club.

Helga may have been a life-long resident in the community, but she was also my friend.  When the two of us finally arrived at the entrance to the school’s office, she placed her hand upon my shoulder to prevent me from continuing through the door.  With a most sincere expression, Helga confirmed my assessment of the current situation.

“I’m really sorry,” she said.  She lowered her voice, leaned her head toward mine, and spoke to me through her eyebrows. “It would appear that some of us believe that we are still in high school.”

“Or kindergarten,” I thought to myself.

As is typical of my approach to most things, I lack the patience and concern for preparatory instructions.  I have always preferred the ‘jumping in’ tactic over the ‘look-before-you-leap’ philosophy.  Any time that the Bean family has acquired a new board or card game, I limit my procedural review to the fundamentals of “getting started.”  My interest lies only in initial directives.  These may include how many cards to distribute, how to set up the game board and pieces, choosing a token, where to place it, or how to determine who rolls the dice first.  I will then hand the directions to someone else (usually Natalie), and start playing until I need to ask, “Now what?” (in which case, Natalie will have read the pertinent information by then).

Durwood, on the other hand, will insist on reading all of the directions before any participating family member is allowed to touch tokens, cards, or any other accompanying provisions that are included in a newly acquired game.  Once the appropriate set-up has been completed (according to the instructions that Durwood has read first to himself, and then out loud for the rest of us at least a dozen times), he will not validate any attempts at score-keeping until we have played at least one or two practice rounds.   Official play will be allowed to commence after we have exhibited some level of competence and understanding of the game that we are playing.

Had I followed Durwood’s procedure before officially placing my token on the Small Town PTA board game, I may have avoided many of the uncomfortable and confusing situations that I found myself to be in during those first few years of attempting to become an active member in our new community.

Helga, who remains a genuine friend of mine to this day, recalls this one particular PTA meeting as the dawning of her acute awareness of the ongoing game being played among the life-long members of our small town.  Her position on the game board has fluctuated over the years, as she has managed to control the nature of her contributed moves.  She is still looking for a way to get off the board completely, but short of moving out of town, this option remains unavailable to her.

Unlike Helga, I have had the option to remove my token from the Small Town Gossip game board and still remain a productive resident of my community.  My experience has provided me with a comprehensive and insightful education on how to enjoy my environment, enhance the lives of my children (who technically, are considered life-long residents!), and remain active WITHOUT having to participate in any silly games.

This particular region of the United States has experienced incredible growth since Durwood and I first moved here over twenty years ago.  Although we have moved in and out of several residences throughout those twenty years, we have remained in and around the Small Town that we call home.  Resistance to change and ‘newcomers’ appears to have relaxed considerably, but some traditional Small Town behavior remains intact.

“Looking out for your neighbor” is a valuable asset to living in any community.  Life-long residents of Small Town practice this time-honored tradition through various forms of communication.   When someone asks you “how things are going?” it is always advisable to consider the nature of the inquirer.  After twenty years of trial and error, it becomes easier to ascertain the difference between one who has genuine interest in your situation, or one who requires useful information to hold in trust (should the occasion arise when they will need to re-establish their ranking among the social network by disclosing your information to someone else).

When information extraction techniques are unavailable through direct communication, there is the time-honored practice of driving through town until you ’see’ useful information to gather.  Since Durwood and I have lived in what is considered the ‘outskirts’ of town for the past 4 years, I witness the execution of this particular method on a daily basis.  Every time that I end up traveling behind a camouflage adorned pick-up truck being driven by a baseball-capped driver, I can expect to drive at least five to ten miles under the speed limit.  This seems to be the appropriate speed necessary in order to give the driver enough time to turn their head and assess the current status of every residential property that we pass.  In the event that some poorly placed trees, bushes, or front gates might obstruct the comprehensive inventory of said property, I can expect to slow down another ten miles or so (if not come to a complete stop) in order for the driver in front of me to obtain a clearer view.  It is a tedious job, but thank the gods that someone is still doing it.

I love where I live.  I love our house and I love our property.  The schools are outstanding and the opportunities are plentiful.  There are good people here ( like Helga!) and our children enjoy a bounty of friends and experiences.  Now that my little sister Evie lives here with her family, life in Small Town is even more rewarding and fun.  Since Helga reminded me of the way things were when Durwood and I first arrived here, I realize that there are many things that will never change.  What a comfort to know that we can.

Coffee and Comfort

I love people.  It seems most natural for me to strike up a conversation with a cashier, another shopper, someone behind me in line at the bank, or even a woman in the ladies room washing her hands in the sink next to mine.  I do not engage in lengthy conversations with everyone that I meet.  Most of the time, a simple nod or a friendly smile is sufficient.  However, if I am waiting in the check-out line at the store, I am more comfortable passing the time with friendly banter than in silence.  I realize that there are some people who are not comfortable with this type of behavior.  I recognize and respect a leave-me-alone signal.  I actually possess one of those signals, too, only mine is rarely (if ever) activated in public.

My oldest sister, on the other hand, prefers that her ‘don’t-talk-to-me’ signal be activated and fully functioning amid the public arena.  During a long-ago shopping trip to a warehouse store with Mary Jo, she clearly expressed her preferred method of social contact.  As we concluded our joint venture to procure enough toilet paper and other household items to meet our needs for at least the next few years, I exited the store first.  When I glanced behind me to locate Mary Jo’s progress, I noticed that she seemed to be coming up fast.  On my heels in no time, she swerved her shopping cart around and rolled up right next to me as we crossed the parking lot on our way to the truck.  She looked a bit perturbed.  Turning her head toward mine and holding her gaze straight ahead, my big sister scolded me through her clenched teeth.  “I am CONVINCED that you will talk to ANYONE,” she hissed.

Jeez.

Apparently, Mary Jo did not approve of my recent exchange with our cashier.  When I asked our cashier how she was doing, she proceeded to fill me in on the details regarding all of the unpleasant circumstances surrounding her current divorce.  She seemed to have a lot to tell us while she scanned our items.  I suspect that this woman just needed to vent, and I was happy to listen and offer some comforting remarks.  Mary Jo does not go for this kind of thing.  I respect that.  I am still going to inquire about a person’s day.  Choosing to share their private circumstances with me is a chance I will always be willing to take.

Myself, I prefer to limit my personal disclosures to a select few humans of my choosing, but I am always open to new encounters.  All physical beings have a connection to All-That-Is, and this awareness will continue to fuel my desire for human interaction.

A personal relationship with Divine Source includes the intricate complexities by which each of us can distinguish ourselves as a truly unique being.  Our ability to access this common Source connects us.  We are sovereign beings who are not alone.  It is this unique property which defines our individual being and allows us to draw strength and comfort from each other.

Elegant and rich in substance, there are many forms of human interaction that can provide us with immediate access to a feeling of Well-Being.  Our openness to a connection with others is often the mother of all unexplored avenues to our own Divine and All-Knowing Self.

I am grateful.  The invitation to join an old friend and fellow witch on her back porch for coffee, a judgment-free cigarette, shared reflection, and personal exchange reminds me that I am not alone.  An unexpected text message that offers words of encouragement to renew a sense of hope reminds me that I am part of a sisterhood, and I am not alone.  And most assuredly, I am grateful for the warm and prolonged hug that is offered by an intuitive daughter, who at the tender age of 15 years, can whisper genuine words of comfort and joy to a tearful mother.

It is this beautiful expression of human nature that reminds me that I am not alone.  Neither are you, my friend.

Choice Words

Most of us are familiar with the phrase, “Choose your words wisely.”  This advice customarily pertains to a speaker who seeks to enlist confirmation, participation, or assistance from another person or a group.  Choosing words that are pleasing over ones that are adverse will create a favorable atmosphere and increase the likelihood that you will get what you want.  The same wisdom holds true when you are speaking to yourself, and ultimately presenting your requests to the Universe.

Now, we have all heard this at least a million times.  Most of us understand the concept that you “catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” particularly when the ‘flies’ are other people.  Using words that convey a sense of respectfulness sets a vibrational tone for cooperation, whether you are speaking to another adult or a child.  For me, it has always been easier to be more mindful of the words that are coming out of my mouth while speaking to others than it has been when ‘talking to myself.’

Choosing affirmative language is elemental when seeking to enlighten and expand your perspective.  Replacing habitual self-talk that perpetuates a mundane view of your own reality is a good place to start.

Almost ten years ago, I was given the most powerful set of words that I continue to use today.  I was in the midst of designing and constructing props and scenery for yet another one of our local middle school musical productions.  I had done this type of volunteer work for years.  I recall this particular production because this was when I developed a burgeoning aversion to gratuitous work.

I had only myself to blame.  Before I became a full-time stay-at-home mom, I had spent a few years designing and painting murals for residential clients.  By the time that our youngest child, Natalie, was born, motherhood and child care had taken precedence and I eventually eased out of the mural business completely.  Since our older children, Katarina and James, were involved in their school’s musical productions, it seemed natural and fitting that I would lend my artistic experience.

Being that I am a former member of the all-or-nothing crowd (coupled with the fact that I was a neurotic perfectionist when it came to my artwork), one season of painting a background set for Natalie’s kindergarten program escalated into five years of comprehensive set design for every full-length production from Cinderella to Peter Pan and beyond.  These were some kick-ass sets.  And I had become an overworked lunatic.

By the time that “Pajama Game” was in production, I knew that this would be my last season of volunteer madness.  For the first time in years, I was beginning to acclimate myself to a new perspective on imperfection.  It was just a middle school play.  There were no theatre critics in the audience who were going to offer me a job on Broadway.  Awe and admiration from teachers and kids were no longer compensating for my frazzled state.  Kat had moved on to high school already, and Jim was not even in the play.  I had to ask myself why in the hell I was subjecting myself to this thankless job.  My answer was that I had committed to lending my assistance to this production, so I would see the project through to its completion and learn how to say “No, thanks” the next time.

At this point, I just wanted to “get it over with.”  The feeling of  indifference to my artwork was foreign to me, but it seemed a welcome alternative to the standards of perfection that I held myself to in the past.  This is when I met Jean.

Jean’s eighth grade son had a role in “The Pajama Game” production.  She had kindly volunteered her time to help me finish painting the remaining windows on the background for the factory scene, as well as any other final work with the props and scenery.  Jean owned her own interior design firm and was well equipped to provide the experience necessary to hasten the process of project completion.

Perfectionism was not on our agenda.  I welcomed this new volunteer work ethic with more enthusiasm than I would care to admit back then.  Had Jean shown up prior to this particular time in my life, I know that I would not have been as receptive (and appreciative) of her attitude.  This was not a paying gig.  We both had plenty of experience in delivering client satisfaction on projects in which an artist is compensated for their time and attention to detail.  This project was not one of them.

As we worked side-by-side that afternoon, there were several occasions when one, or both of us, would step back to assess our progress.  This is when Jean gave me the infamous words that I still use today.  With a smile and a tone of certainty she would say, “It’s exactly what we needed.”

When we ran out of paint for one of the walls, mixed a new batch from what was available, and noticed that it did not quite match the original tone, she squinted her eyes, turned her head toward mine and said, “It is exactly what we needed.”  I had to smile.  When we realized that the shading we had just painted on one window pane did not quite match the light source on an adjacent window, we spent a brief moment glancing back and forth between them.  Knowing full well that it was not quite right, Jean proclaimed, “But it is exactly what we needed!”

This became our favorite expression for the rest of the day.  We finished the set.  It was not even close to my previous kick-ass standards, but it was far from shoddy.  The kids liked it, and it was definitely above-average for a middle school production.  More importantly to me, it was done.  It was exactly what we needed.

These powerful words have remained among my repertoire of productive self-talk ever since that day when I first heard them from Jean.  It is still amazing to me how this simple phrase can effectively shift my perspective regarding minor circumstances that occur throughout daily life.  Former tendencies to focus on inconvenient details only served to lead me away to a perpetual state of discontent.  Using the words, “this is exactly what I needed” has essentially allowed me the freedom to appreciate the perfection of imperfections.  Any notable inconveniences are insignificant to what is ultimately the ‘big picture’ of my life.  It is the overall big picture of my life that requires my full attention, and not so much the imperfect pieces that comprise it.

If you are a detail-oriented personality with perfectionist tendencies, I salute you.  You are forever honored as one of my ‘kind’.  If your skills are required as part of your job,  I hope that you are handsomely compensated.  You deserve it.

However, if you should find that these choice words serve to improve your perspective within the circumstances of your personal life, then you can thank Jean.

Neither A Borrower Nor A Lender Be

Does anyone ever return a borrowed book?  Chances are that the only time most people fulfill an obligation to return a book is when they have borrowed it from the library; and even then, accountability is often viewed in a rather casual manner.  Unless you are a college student who cannot afford the escalating overdue fines, the majority of the population does not live in fear of due dates imposed by their local library.

Most of us are familiar with the phenomenon that occurs when books are shared between friends and acquaintances.  The traditional definition of the word “borrow” seldom applies to these exchanges.  Any time that I have allowed someone to “borrow” a book, I have resigned myself to the possibility that I may never see it again.  On the rare occasions that I have actually had someone return a book to me, it is always, without exception, from a friend who is a devout follower of the same book religion that I practice.

I am always willing to share a good read, particularly since I have abandoned the unrealistic notion that I will read a novel a second time.  If I already know how the story turns out, what is the point?  The only reason to keep a book that I will never read again is to add it to a shelf full of other books I have read, while still clinging to the illusion that my collection serves to impress others (and myself) with the number of books that I have read.  In any case, I have become more relaxed when offering to pass along a good book that I am certain I will never want to look through again.

On the other hand, I have plenty of other books that I would have some difficulty parting with.  These include books that are of sentimental value, classics that I do intend to read more than once, or several others that I continue to use for reference.  My books are important to me.  I grant requests to lend them if the borrower meets one of two requirements: either they are a trusted friend who understands that I reserve the right to conduct an annoying and relentless campaign to have the book returned to me when they are finished using it, or they agree to hand over their first-born child after signing their name to a contract written in their own blood.  This second requirement is no longer necessary since I have learned that it is much easier to just say “no.”

Perhaps it is old age, but I no longer feel compelled to justify my reasons for declining to share certain personal possessions that I simply choose not to.  Books are one thing.  I think that we all have personal items, tangible and otherwise, that we assign varying levels of value to.  These values may very well be as individual as we are.

My cousin Candace once reminded me that “you don’t have to respond to every single request and inquiry that is made of you.”  Candace is wise.  We are also not required to make excuses when we choose not to respond to certain requests, either.  Although I value the energy that generosity cultivates within my spirit, I do not feel the love in being expected to share certain things with others that I have not offered to give.

Writing the above statement has stirred faint murmurs within that whisper judgmental words that I have heard over time, like “greedy” and “selfish.”  If I am still sorting out these concepts as an adult, I can realize the challenge that parents and care-givers face when guiding young minds in the virtue of generosity, while emphasizing the value in preservation of self.  When we force our children to share everything that they have with their siblings and playmates, we are essentially removing their innate ability to experience the joy in giving.

When Kat was young, we participated in a playgroup that was sponsored through our local church.  The group met once a week.  Since the church was not equipped to meet the needs of the large group of mothers and children, we decided to take turns hosting the meetings in our own homes.  Like most of my experience in volunteer organizations, it ended up being the same four moms who would offer their homes to a group of at least a dozen other moms,  including at least twice as many kids.  If you can imagine  over twenty children under the age of five years descending upon one household, you can grasp the toy-sharing issues that inevitably ensued.

Being the church group that we were, the concept of sharing was encouraged.  Little tempers often flared and less assertive hosts stood by to watch their possessions used, strewn about, or worse, become ‘accidentally’ broken.  I am describing a scenario that seems more chaotic than it actually was, but my most vivid recollection is that of those ‘crushed’ expressions on little faces that were told that they had to share their prized possessions with others.  Maybe they did not want to have someone else scribble in their favorite coloring book, undress their doll, or take down the duplo tower they spent time building.

When it was our turn to host the playgroup, I spent the day before letting Kat decide what she wanted to share with her guests.  I let her know that it was okay to choose toys that she preferred not to share.  We put those items away in her brother’s room (a stack of books among them….where does she get that from?) and decided that it was acceptable to inform her guests that the baby’s room was off-limits.  When our guests arrived the next day, parents and kids were respectful of our decision to keep Jim’s room private.  There were some who appeared more than happy to enforce the new rule with others among us who exhibited nosy tendencies or assumed their own air of privilege.  Private rooms that contained items that children chose not to share became the standard practice after that.

Kat was thrilled to share her toys, her room, and her home because she had the power to decide what she offered to others.  She discovered that her magna-doodle was broken once everyone had left, and I remember how easily she accepted it as a consequence of the choice that she had made in deciding to share it.  It was a four-year-old “shit happens” shoulder shrug, just a minor glitch compared to the joy she experienced in sharing the parts of her world that she wanted to.

I can see when Caroline is becoming overwhelmed with her little brother.  As babies tend to do,  Anson gets close enough to start grabbing everything within Cara’s current space of the playroom.   I tell Cara to choose what she is willing to share with him, and I let her know that it is perfectly acceptable to put anything else out of his reach.  Anson is seven months old, so it makes absolutely no difference to him whether he is biting and drooling all over Ariel or Cinderella’s head.  It is Caroline who beams with joy as she watches Anson “borrow” the doll that SHE decided to offer him.

Of course, there remains that one friend you may know who helps themselves to everything in your home, bullying their way through your DVD collection, your make-up basket, or perhaps even your books (gasp!).  Whether you have offered these things or not is of no consequence to them, since they would welcome you to help yourself to any of their things that you don’t want.

You could resort to hiding the items that you are not ready to loan, but what a pain that is.  This is when it is okay to just say “no.”  Whether they think that you are being stingy, or not, is none of your business.  Then again, there’s always the option of offering them a contract signed with their own blood…

What’s So Damn Funny?

The wisdom that there is strength in numbers can very often refer to a party of two.

One person alone is capable of creating enough focus on a specific intention to achieve a desired outcome, whether it’s a resolution to a problem or perhaps something as simple as maintaining a calm mood when in an uncomfortable situation.  Enlist the assistance of another trusted and like-minded individual, and the combined effort may not only produce amazing results but provide the unique satisfaction of a shared accomplishment.

We may have many acquaintances, but it seems that there are a mere handful of individuals that we meet, or have known for years, who offer the depth and ‘like-energy’ required to experience a genuine connection between souls.  Those are the beings with whom you feel that instant spark, that sense of ‘knowing’ that you recognize immediately.   Shared energy takes on its own unique properties and often can become powerful enough to do things you may not have found possible to achieve on your own.

My cousin Candace is one of those genuine souls.  We arrived on the planet in the same year, and although we were raised over 600 miles apart in our respective immediate families, we possess a potent connection that has enabled us to manifest many inner desires.

Candace is one of few members in our large extended family who immediately recognized the truth of some secrets that I revealed.  These secrets were some of  the not-so-pretty truths that had been well hidden underneath all of the elephants roaming around in our living rooms.  They had been lurking within the carefully constructed walls of our dynasty for decades.

As a threat to the empire, I was treated as such.  Candace offered strength and comfort throughout the many years that followed in the aftermath of my disclosure.  She’s been the champion of my voice, she has applauded every victory, consoled me in times of despair, defended my honor with courage, and helped to heal my deepest wounds.  In the process we have crumbled a few of the walls surrounding the powerful empire that remains our heritage.

When one or both of us spend time among family members who still choose to remain enclosed within unhealthy realms, Candace and I are ultimately connected in spiritual strength and positive energy.  This ’soul sister’ of mine has truly put the fun back in the term dysfunction.

Comments and behavior that continue to thrive within the dynasty walls used to have such a maddening effect.  Accusing remarks and mannerisms that once caused so much pain and anger are powerless and now rather amusing.  Out of respect, as well as being mindful of our loved one’s comfort level, Candace and I contain our laughter within.  I can feel her beaming presence within me, whether she’s standing right next to me or a thousand miles away.  It’s the best private joke two people could share.

For those of you with similar struggles and like-minded desires to heal family heartache,  I offer you the courage and comradery of a warrior spirit as you venture forth in your expansion.  Candace and I have often asked the question, “what were we thinking?!”  The answer is that anything is possible when we’re together.

The Saving Grace of Suzanne Case

Not long ago there was a time when I came dangerously close to ‘death by PTA’.  There were a few deciding factors that had delivered me from this fate, but it is the friendship of Suzie Case that I recall most fondly.

I spent several years participating in volunteer opportunities that were related to our kids’ education and extra-curricular activities.  My motivation grew from a desire to enrich the experience of my own children and that of their peers.  I sought to demonstrate the absolute value of community service.

As a former member of the all-or-nothing club, I went full-scale with PTA.  By the time that the youngest of our three children had entered kindergarten, I had been on the PTA board of our elementary school for 6 years, serving as committee chair, secretary, vice president and president.

As is typical in any organization, I developed many ongoing relationships with other grown-ups.  The bulk of these relationships remained mostly superficial out of pure necessity.  The process of working efficiently in any environment that includes a sizable number of adults requires mindful leadership.  In order to complete the tasks at hand I found myself stroking egos, listening to complaints, squelching gossip, repairing trysts, and generally employing every available tactic at my disposal to keep people motivated.

We got a lot done.  We initiated several new programs and improved upon existing ones to enhance the experience of our kids’ public school education.  Teachers were happy, parents felt proud of their accomplishments, administration loved us, and the kids were enjoying their school.  I was tired.

It was a Sunday evening.  I was standing on a ladder trying to finish painting the few remaining clouds on the ceiling of the school cafeteria.  As part of an ongoing beautification project, a group of us had dedicated several nights and weekends to redecorating the interior of the dining hall to reflect a castle courtyard theme, complete with faux stone walls, a huge friendly dragon, and expansive blue sky.  There were a handful of parents and one teacher who had been there with me since early afternoon.  We were trying to complete  the project before school started Monday.  I had brought my son James along with me while Mr. Bean stayed home with the girls.  I looked down from my marathon perch atop the ladder to notice that James was standing with one foot on the bottom rung.  “Mom,” he spoke softly.  “When can we go home?”  I looked around and could see through the windows that it had already gotten dark outside.  I had been so intent on getting those clouds done that I had barely noticed how late it was.  Exhaustion blended with a fair amount of frustration swept over me ever so gently and I felt myself begin to cry.  I was overcome with a heavy-heartedness.  I have no idea how long I was weeping up there on top of that ladder with my head firmly planted in the crook of my arm until I felt Suzie Case reach up and take the paint brush out of my hand.  She had situated James and her daughter Kate at a nearby table where they were sharing some fudge bars that Suzie had obviously procured from the school’s kitchen freezer.  “Let’s go outside,” she stated plainly.

Suzie and I sat on the stoop just outside of the cafeteria door long enough for me to always remember how peaceful and comforting that moment was.  We didn’t talk much.  She displayed no reaction when I lit a cigarette that I had dug from a well-hidden location in my purse, there was no judgment in her voice when I expressed my revelations on volunteer excess, and she didn’t flinch when I started to sob more.  She just sat there with me, guarding my solitude for as long as I needed her to be there.

I still run into Suzie on occasion.  Her youngest daughter and mine remained the best of friends throughout elementary school and Suzie and I spent many of those years involved in their school related events.  As our girls gradually grew apart in middle school, it seemed that Suzie and I gradually eased out of the parent volunteer scene.  Younger and more exuberant parents have taken the helm and I am thankful.  On the rare occasions that I do see or talk with Suzie now, it is always a genuine and heartfelt encounter.  I’ll always treasure that time we had together on the stoop that one Sunday evening when Suzie Case had delivered me from PTA hell.

We did finish that damn cafeteria, too.